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First published 2018

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Contents

Foreword by Jake Jackson

Publisher’s Note

Celtic Mythology: Introduction

The Invasions Cycle

Introduction

The Quest of the Children of Tuirenn

The Tragedy of the Children of Lir

The Wooing of Étain

The Ulster Cycle

Introduction

The Birth of Cúchulainn

How Setanta Won the Name of Cúchulainn

The Tragedy of Cúchulainn and Connla

The Combat of Ferdia and Cúchulainn

The Story of Deirdre

The Fenian Cycle

Introduction

The Coming of Finn mac Cumaill

The Rise of Finn to Leadership of the Fianna

The Pursuit of Diarmuid and Gráinne

Oisín in Tír na N-Óg (The Land of Youth)

The Mabinogion

Introduction

The First Branch of the Mabinogi: Pwyll Prince of Dyved

The Second Branch of the Mabinogi: Branwen the Daughter of Llyr

The Third Branch of the Mabinogi: Manawyddan the Son of Llyr

The Fourth Branch of the Mabinogi: Math the Son of Mathonwy

Peredur the Son of Evrawc

The Dream of Maxen Wledig

The Story of Lludd and Llevelys

The Lady of the Fountain

Geraint the Son of Erbin

Kilhwch and Olwen

The Dream of Rhonabwy

The Tale of Taliesin

Tales of Witchcraft and Magic

Introduction

The Brownie

The Three Knots

The Daughter of Duart

The Cauldron

The Horned Women

The Story-Teller At Fault

Paddy O’Kelly and the Weasel

Morraha

The Greek Princess and the Young Gardener

Smallhead and the King’s Sons

The Wisdom of the King

The Curse of the Fires and of the Shadows

Tales of Giants

Introduction

Conall Yellowclaw

The Battle of the Birds

The Lad with the Goat-Skin

The Shee An Gannon and the Gruagach Gaire

A Legend of Knockmany

The Leeching of Kayn’s Leg

How Fin Went to the Kingdom of the Big Men

The Ridere of Riddles

Tales of Fairies and Sea-Folk

Introduction

MacCodrum’s Seal Wife

The Fairies and the Blacksmith

The Fairy Changeling

The Thirsty Ploughman

Wee Johnnie in the Cradle

The Fairy Dancers

A Dead Wife Among the Fairies

The Shepherd of Myddvai

Brewery of Eggshells

Guleesh

The Field of Boliauns

Connla and the Fairy Maiden

The Sea-Maiden

The Black Horse

The Legend of Knockgrafton

Elidore

How Cormac Mac Art Went to Faery

Tales of Ghosts

Introduction

The Fiddler of Gord

MacPhail of Uisinnis

Tarbh Na Leòid

The Sprightly Tailor

Andrew Coffey

Origin and Didactic Legends

Introduction

Dubh a’ Ghiubhais

The Pabbay Mother’s Ghost

Luran

The Hugboy

The Three Questions of King James

King O’Toole and His Goose

The Tale of Ivan

Hudden and Dudden and Donald O’Neary

Beth Gellert

The Vision of MacConglinney

The Story of the McAndrew Family

The Farmer of Liddesdale

Legends and Fables for Children

Introduction

The Little Bird

The Fox, The Wolf and The Butter

The Ainsel

Gold-Tree and Silver-Tree

Munachar and Manachar

Jack and His Comrades

Fair, Brown, and Trembling

Jack and His Master

The Russet Dog

Jack the Cunning Thief

Dream of Owen O’Mulready

Biographies & Sources

Foreword

WE REACH FOR THE CELTS through the parchments of Christian monks, and Roman historians but still we grasp at phantoms of truth. The mythic invasions, cycles of life and death, war and famine, the tales are the history of a people spread across Europe, trying to understand their world, and take command of it.

Unlike the Greeks, with their great epics, or the Norse with their Eddas the Celtic tradition remained oral so we see their beliefs through the writings of others, stripped of their religious meaning and reduced to animalistic wonder, so it is often difficult to see the form of Celtic belief, as they would have understood it themselves.

Originating in Europe, they were probably the Keltoi, just north of the Ancient Greeks, and their artifacts have been found further East in what was then known as Anatolia, now modern Turkey, before mass migration through Europe brought them to Gaul. At their height they had spread across the continent of Europe, and sacked Rome in 390 bc, but by 84 ad The Romans empire had pushed them back, subjugating them in Gaul, destroying their culture, forcing them further West, into Spain then up to Ireland.

Although the disparate nature of the Celts creates some difficulty it is clear that many legends and deities were common to all tribes. In various guises gods were closely associated with the functions of the world, usually representing cycles of life. Amongst the many, Dagda appears to be the god of life and death, approximating the head of the pantheon, such as an Odin or a Zeus. Lugh, or Lug, was a sun god with skills in the arts, war and healing. Morrigan was essential to the harvest, but a terrifying trio of deities in the heart of war.

The Celts indeed were war-like but also great lovers of music, with many ballads to tell of their great deeds of conquest. They were united by their language, and broad beliefs, without focusing on an earthly nation, or nation-state, or a city. This drives significant differences between their mythologies and those of the Greco-Romans, or further back to the Egyptians and the Babylonians whose own supernatural beliefs were bound into their monolithic settlements.

The Celts were farmers and soldiers, they build forts and traded extensively, but at their core were sophisticated, knowledgeable spiritual forces, the druids. These teachers, lawmakers and gurus, were said to possess magical powers, offering a connection back to the mythical invasions, cities and treasures of the past.

The supernatural, as magic, played a powerful role in Celtic thought. The battle between the light and the dark, the day and the night, life and death, preoccupied them. Their mythic invasions of ancient Ireland brought the Tuatha de Danaan, whose magical powers, while no match for their successors, the Milesians, heralded a vision of the otherworld in the mounds and the hidden castles of Ireland, into which the people, at their death, would drift. The de Danaan, the worshipers of the fertility Goddess Dana are the origin of the fairy folk, and thus the fairy stories of the Victorian era, which combined with the Teutonic tales of the Northern Europe to become a powerful source of inspiration in modern literature.

For the Irish Celts, with their four mythic cycles of gods, kings and warriors – the Mythological, Ulster, Historical and Fenian Cycles – their tales are full of heroism, romance, courage and fearlessness. But the Mabinogion, with its interpretations of the Welsh canon, and tales from Brittany in France, The Isle of Man and Cornwall have their own variants. The Mabinogion has a particular interest though because it teases us with the origins for the Tales of the King Arthur, with its sorcery, love-torn feuds and places beyond (The Isle of Avalon), an otherworld common throughout Celtic mythology. This is not an underworld as such, but lives alongside, as the de Danaan did, in the rivers and the trees, the bogs and the mists, in castles and isles that ghost through the light, disappearing with the morning dew. This is the other world, the Land of the Forever Young, Tir na Nog, with its four magical cities, and their talismanic treasures.

Another theme is worth highlighting: the intimate sanctity of the land and the people, manifested in the sacred marriage between the mythic kings and Queens, the renewal of the land by the harvest, and the harvest of slaughter in battle by Morrigan; here the land and the people are bound in the imperative of destiny, and the dire consequences of betrayal.

The lure of the otherworld, the totemic significance of marriage and harvest, these powerful Celtic themes influenced the Tales of Arthur and were adapted by Christianity in the late Middle Ages into the notions of chivalry, the godliness of royal marriage, and the just cause of war, influencing much of western thought during a crucial period in history.

For all the disputes about their origin, the confusion of the names, the tortuous translation by conquering Romans, and Christian monks, appropriation by Victorian fairy storytellers, the fugitive ghosts of Celtic mythology remain vital and thrilling today, as you’ll see in the pages this new selection of Celtic myths and tales..

Jake Jackson,

London, 2017

Publisher’s Note

Celtic mythology is an enigma, handed down to us through the tradition of oral storytelling, reported through the lens of Classical Greek and Roman commentators and written down originally by Christian scribes. This collection aims to present a body of Celtic tales to be enjoyed bearing this in mind – the stories may vary from version to version in their length and choice of words and some details, but they retain the essential narratives, characters and potency that have cautioned and entertained the Celtic peoples for centuries.

Here we gather together texts drawn from a variety of sources, from versions of the original Irish mythological cycles to Lady Charlotte Guest’s influential translation of the Welsh Mabinogion, to fairytales collected and adapted by folklorist Joseph Jacobs (1854 –1916) and a couple of stories from the Irish poet who lived and breathed the Celtic spirit, W.B. Yeats (1865–1939). We want you to enjoy the texts uncluttered, to appreciate their inherent masterful storytelling, but occasionally where deemed useful you will find notes to explain some elements. A general introduction to Celtic mythology precedes the stories, which, should you choose to read it, will give you a better understanding of the history and religion of the Celts and thus set the scene for the stories.

CELTIC MYTHOLOGY

Introduction

THE CELTS LEFT A RICH LEGACY of myths, legends, customs and folklore, which are among the oldest and most enduring in Europe, though they did not form an empire and their kingdoms comprised a wide variety of countries and cultures. Perhaps because of this their identity remains controversial, and our image of them is reworked by each new generation of Celtic scholars. The mystery of the Celts arises from the fact that they left no written accounts of themselves. Consequently, our knowledge of them is based on indirect evidence provided by archaeology, linguistics and Classical commentaries.

The Mystery of the Celts

Celtic material culture emerged in Central and Western Europe in the first millennium bc. It is first encountered in the artefacts of the Halstatt period (700–400 bc), so-named after an important archaeological site in upper Austria. The origins of the culture are much earlier, however, in the later Bronze Age settlements of non-Mediterranean Europe and probably even earlier still in the first Neolithic farming communities c. 4000 bc. The La Tène period (fifth century bc to the Roman occupation c. ad 45), which is named after a site on the shores of Lake Neuchâtel in Switzerland, represents the full-flowering of the culture. Finds have been made over much of Europe from northern France to Romania and from Poland to the Po Valley. This evidence portrays a heroic and hierarchical society in which war, feasting and bodily adornment were important. In many respects this confirms the picture of the Celts painted by Classical writers from the sixth century bc onwards.

Hecataeus of Miletus and Herotodus, writing in the sixth and fifth centuries bc, recognized a group of peoples to the north of the Greek port of Massalia (Marseilles) as having sufficient cultural features in common to justify a collective name, ‘Keltoi’. By the fourth century bc commentators had accepted the Celts as being among the great Barbarian peoples of the world, along with the Scythians, and Libyans; they were said to occupy a large swathe of Western Europe from Iberia to the Upper Danube. Later, Mediterranean writers such as Livy and Polybius report that in the fourth and third centuries bc Celtic tribes spread south into Italy and east to Greece and Asia Minor, where they settled as the Galatians. The same writers record heavy defeats for the Celts by the Romans towards the end of the third century bc and the subsequent occupation of their heartlands in Gaul by the mid-first century bc. Nowhere do the ancients refer to Britain as a Celtic land and debate continues over the precision with which the label ‘Celt’ was applied by Classical writers.

Without their own accounts it is impossible to say whether the Iron Age tribes of Europe, including Britain, saw themselves as collectively ‘Celtic’. It is true to say, however, that Caesar recognized similarities between Britain and Gaul, and there is ample evidence of the La Tène culture in the British Isles. In the absence of archaeological evidence to show a migration of peoples from Gaul to Britain, it seems likely that it was the culture which spread; the indigenous peoples simply became Celtic through social contact and trade. Thus, when we refer to ‘the Celts’ we are not referring to an ethnic group but a culture adopted across non-Mediterranean Europe between the sixth century bc and the fifth century ad. It is ironic that the Irish and Welsh literature to which we owe so much of our understanding of Celtic mythology originated among peoples who may not have seen themselves as Celts.

Gods and Heroes

The Celts were polytheistic. The names of over 200 gods have been recorded. It is likely that individual deities went under several titles, so there were probably fewer than this. The scene remains complex, however, and attempts to reduce the Celtic pantheon to a coherent system have met with varying degrees of success.

The Celts had gods for all of the important aspects of their lives: warfare, hunting, fertility, healing, good harvests and so on. Much of the difficulty in classifying them arises from the fact that very few were recognized universally. In much greater numbers were local, tribal and possibly family deities. Our knowledge of the Celtic pantheon is based on the interpretations of contemporary observers, later vernacular literature (mainly from Ireland and Wales) and archaeological finds.

Very little iconography in the form of wood or stone sculptures has survived from before the Roman conquests, although a vast amount of perishable material must have existed. The earliest archaeological evidence from this period is from Provence and Central Europe. At Roquepertuse and Holtzerlingen, Celtic deities were represented in human form as early as the sixth and fifth centuries bc. Roman influence witnessed the production of many more permanent representations of the gods; dedicatory inscriptions reveal a huge array of native god names.

Caesar identified Celtic gods with what he saw as their Roman equivalents, probably to render them more comprehensible to a Roman readership. He said of the Gauls that the god they revered the most was Mercury and, next to him, Apollo, Mars, Jupiter and Minerva. Lucan (ad 39–65), a famous Roman poet, named three Celtic deities: Teutates (god of the tribe), Taranis (thunder) and Esus (multi-skilled). Other commentators identify Teutates with Mercury, Esus with Mars and Taranis with Dispater (the all father). Inscriptions on altars and monuments found across the Roman Empire, however, identify Teutates with Mars, Esus with Mercury and Taranis with Jupiter.

It is to Christian monks that we owe the survival of the ancient oral traditions of the pagan Celts and a more lucid insight into the nature of their deities. Very little was committed to paper before the monks began writing down Irish tales in the sixth century ad. The earliest written Welsh material dates from the twelfth century. Informative though they might be, however, the stories are influenced by Romano-Christian thinking and no doubt the monks censored the worst excesses of heathenism.

The stories are collected in sequences which follow the exploits of heroes, legendary kings and mythical characters from their unusual forms of conception and birth to their remarkable deaths. Along the way we learn of their expeditions to the otherworld, their loves and their battles. Many of the Irish legends are contained in three such collections. The first, known as the Mythological Cycle or Book of Invasions, records the imagined early history of Ireland. The second, the Ulster Cycle, tells of Cúchulainn, a hero with superhuman strength and magical powers. The third is the story of another hero, Finn mac Cumaill, his son Ossian and their warriors, the Fianna. This is known as the Fenian Cycle.

The pagan character of the mythology found in Irish literature is very clear. The Welsh tales, collected mainly in the Mabinogion, are much later (fourteenth century) and are contaminated more by time and changing literary fashions.

Rites and Rituals

Caesar wrote that the Gauls burnt men alive in huge, wicker effigies. Lucan speaks of ‘cruel Teutates, horrible Esus and Taranis whose altar is as bloody as that of the Scythian Diana’. Medieval accounts tell of men hung from trees and torn to pieces in honour of Teutates, and of victims burnt in hollow trees as sacrifices to Taranis.

How reliable or typical these horrific tales may be is a matter of judgement. It is to be expected that Caesar and the sycophantic Lucan might emphasize the cruelty of Celtic cults to justify Roman massacres and the systematic extermination of the druids. Equally, Christian historians had an interest in discrediting paganism.

Druids may be named after the oak, their sacred tree. They were highly esteemed in Celtic society not only as holy men but also as teachers, philosophers, judges, diviners and astronomers. There were no druidesses as such, although priestesses are reported to have stood alongside the druids as they tried to resist the Roman occupation of Anglesey (ad 60).

It was forbidden for the druids’ secrets to be written down lest they be profaned and lose their power. Consequently, laws, histories, traditions and magic formulae, which took many years to learn, were lost to posterity.

Without authentic written records Druidism is shrouded in mystery and obscured by romanticism, but the writings of Classical observers, such as Caesar, give us some idea of Druidic customs. We know, for example, that they were a well-organized, inter-tribal group who met annually to confer and to elect a leader. They held their ceremonies in forbidding, sacred groves which were allowed to grow thick and wild, and they presided at sacrifices, some of which might well have been human. Druids taught that the soul does not perish after death but that it transmigrates or moves into a new body. Perhaps some of the victims were willing participants who saw themselves as dying for the good of the tribe.

Mistletoe, a perennial plant, was considered sacred by the druids. They saw the relationship between the plant and the trees on which it grew as similar to that between the soul and the body. Like the soul, mistletoe was thought to proceed from the gods.

The tolerance shown by the Romans to the religions of the vanquished did not extend to the druids. The emperors Augustus, Tiberius and Claudius all sought to eradicate them. They painted a grim picture of them as unsavoury figures associated with disgusting ritual practices. This persecution was probably born of fear rather than moral scruple. The druids were a powerful group and a potential focus for rebellion.

Certain Celtic deities were associated with particular places such as sacred groves, remote mountains and lakes. Springs were thought to be the homes of goddesses in the service of the Earth Mother, the source of all life. Sulis, for example, guarded the hot springs at Aquae Sulis (present-day Bath).

The Celts believed that their gods and goddesses had powers to heal and protect, and to influence the outcome of important and everyday events. Celts asking a favour of a particular deity would make a sacrifice. If they were appealing to a water goddess, they might throw valued possessions into the water. Archaeologists have made some of their most important discoveries of weapons and other Iron-Age objects in the mud at the bottom of lakes.

Saints and Survivals

The religious practices of the Celts survived well into the Christian era. This is shown by resolutions passed at Church councils in the sixth century ad and by the edicts of Charlemagne (ad 789) against ‘the worshippers of stones, trees and springs’. Powerless to suppress the old beliefs, Christianity assimilated aspects of paganism.

This appropriation accounts for the large number of saints rooted in Celtic gods and heroes, the springs dedicated to saints or to the Virgin and the sanctuaries built on sacred mounds. Indeed, the Christian religion is a rich source for the study of Celtic spirituality.

From ad 432, St Patrick established a form of Christianity in Ireland to suit a society that was still tribal. Rural monasteries, where monks followed the teachings of their founders, varied from the urban system of churches and Bishops, which was favoured by Rome. This was a much more familiar approach for the Celts, whose structures centred on the family, the clan and powerful local leaders. This form spread to other Celtic countries until the Celtic and Roman Churches met at the Synod of Whitby (ad 664) where the Roman approach prevailed. Thereafter, many of the teachings favoured in Ireland and Britain were forced underground.

The Celtic church was distinctive in many ways which betrayed its ancient roots: its affinity with nature in all its aspects, for example; its respect for the seasonal festivals; the equality it afforded women; and the active participation of the congregation during worship.

The Christian church adapted stories of Celtic divinities as miraculous events in the lives of the saints. Many reflect the Celtic sympathy with nature and the ability of the gods to assume the shape of animals. St Ciaran, for example, trained a fox to carry his psalter; St Kevin had his psalter returned by an otter when he dropped it in a lake; and St Columba subdued the Loch Ness Monster. St Patrick was attributed the most miracles, many of which arise from his struggle with the druids; it was said he could take the form of a deer.

The four main religious festivals of the Celts that were absorbed into the Christian calendar were Samain, Imbolc, Beltaine and Lughnasa. Samain (1 November) marked the end of the agricultural year and the beginning of the next. It was a time for important communal rituals, meetings and sacrifices, as well as being a period when spirits from the otherworld became visible to men. Under Christianity this celebration became Harvest Festival and All Souls Day. The eve of the festival, known today as All Hallows Eve or Halloween, was particularly dangerous.

Imbolc (1 February) was sacred to the fertility goddess, Brigit, and it marked the coming into milk of the ewes and the time for moving them to upland pastures. It was subsequently taken over by the Christians as the feast of St Brigid.

At Beltaine (1 May), people lit bonfires in honour of Belenus, a god of life and death. The festival was seen as a purification or a fresh start. It is likely, too, that the fires were used to fumigate cattle before they were moved to the summer pastures. Under Christianity it became the feast of St John the Baptist.

Finally, there was the festival of Lughnasa (1 August), which the Christians renamed Lammas. It honoured the sun god, Lugh.

Recurring Themes

The myths of the Celts, found in Irish, Welsh and Continental vernacular literature, have inspired the imagination of poets and storytellers from the twelfth century to the present day. Their archetypal themes and imagery, though cloaked in novel forms by each new generation, never lose their potency.

No Celtic creation myth has survived, although Caesar, among other ancient commentators, testifies that they did have one. The nearest we have is a collection of stories in the Book of Invasions (twelfth century), which provide a mythical history of Ireland from the Flood to the coming of the Gaels (Celts).

Love is a central theme in Celtic mythology; love between deities and between gods and humans. The love triangle is a recurring variation, often involving a young couple and an unwanted suitor or an older husband. The outcome is often tragic. Typical of this genre are the Welsh story of Pwll and Rhiannon and the Irish tales of Diarmuid and Gráinne, and Deirdre and Naoise.

Sometimes the triangle involves the young woman’s father, who is often represented as a giant. In these stories the hero is frequently set seemingly impossible tasks to complete before winning the daughter’s hand. A primary example is the Welsh tale of Kilhwch and Olwen. Here Kilhwch seeks the help of Arthur and his band of warriors to complete a list of tasks which culminate in a hunt for the monstrous boar, Twrch Trwyth.

Another theme is that of sacral kingship and sovereignty, in which the coupling of the king and the goddess of fertility ensures prosperity in the land. The goddess sometimes appears as a hag who turns into a beautiful young woman following the ritual.

Magic is an essential feature of Celtic myths. It is commonly used as a means of escape, as in the case of Diarmuid and Gráinne who evade Finn’s huntsmen for years using a cloak of invisibility, borrowed from Óengus, a love god. A typical form of magic found in many of the myths is the Celtic deities’ ability to transform themselves or others into a variety of creatures. For example, Midir, the Irish lord of the otherworld, turns himself and the beautiful Étain into swans to escape from the palace of Óengus. The skill is also commonly used to deceive and punish.

Cú Roi and Sir Bartilek are transformed into giants for the beheading game, to make them unrecognizable to Cúchulainn and Gawain. When Math returns home to discover that his foot-maid has been raped by his nephews, Gwydion and Gilfaethwy, he punishes them by turning them into a succession of animals, one male and one female, demanding they produce offspring every year.

Love and enchantment are intimately linked in Celtic tales: Oisín is enchanted by Naim’s beauty; a love potion is the undoing of Tristan and Iseulte; Diarmuid is enchanted by Gráinne; Naoise is enchanted by Deirdre.

Other common themes are the otherworld feast and the feast where dramatic events occur. Such a feast might include a seduction, as in the story of Diarmuid and Gráinne, or a dispute, as in the tale of Briccriu’s Feast. In the latter, an argument over who should receive the choicest cut of meat leads to the contenders taking part in a game to prove who is the most courageous. This involves their submitting without flinching to beheading. Because he is the only one brave enough to go through with it, the Ulster hero, Cúchulainn, is spared the ordeal and wins ‘the champion’s portion’.

The Arthurian Legends

Tales of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, which swept Europe in the Middle Ages and beyond, were designed to entertain.

But, like the Irish and Welsh legends, they were echoes of the mythology which must have existed in Ireland, Britain and Gaul at the time of the Roman conquests.

Early references to Arthur appear in a Welsh poem by Aneirin (sixth century ad), the writings of the British monk, Gildas (sixth century ad) and of the Celtic historian, Nennius (eighth century ad). A tenth-century Latin history of Wales lists his victories and his defeat at the battle of Camlan. There is no proof that Arthur actually existed, but it is possible that he was a Romanized dux bellorum (battle leader) who lived in Britain in the late fifth century and was famed for resisting the Saxons. By the Middle Ages he and his band had become firmly imbedded in the popular imagination, sharing many of the attributes of Finn mac Cumaill and the Fianna.

Arthur had many faces before emerging as a Christian king, the epitome of medieval chivalry and the once and future saviour of his people. In early stories he is given the epithet Horribilis and is called a tyrant. The eleventh-century Welsh story, Kilhwch and Olwen, the earliest, fully fledged Arthurian tale in a Celtic language, portrays him as a Celtic king and benefactor touched with magic. In later romances he is shown as flawed, falling into slothful states from which it is difficult to arouse him.

The popular image of King Arthur was begun by Geoffrey of Monmouth. His twelfth-century History of the Kings of Britain inspired the Norman poet, Wace, who wrote a more courtly version and introduced the Round Table. The French poet, Chrétien de Troyes, developed the story later in the twelfth century, adding novel elements from Continental sources and the songs of Breton minstrels. It was Chrétien who introduced the idea of courtly love and the earliest version of the Grail legend. In the thirteenth century, Layamon wrote a longer, English version, replacing love and chivalry with earlier Celtic traditions and Dark Age brutality. German contributions followed and, in the fourteenth century, the greatest single Arthurian legend in Middle English, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, appeared. In the fifteenth century Thomas Malory published the Le Morte d”Arthur, which was to become the best-known and most complete version of the story.

The pagan roots of Arthurian legend are clearly evident in typical devices such as the band of warriors (the knights), the love triangle (Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot), the search for a magic cauldron (the Grail), the beheading game (Sir Gawain and the Green Knight) and the otherworld (Avalon, Arthur’s final resting place). Medieval authors, from Geoffrey of Monmouth to Malory, found inspiration in these themes, and wove them with other elements into a form which spoke to their courtly contemporaries. So powerful and archetypal is the imagery that it continued to enthrall succeeding generations. In the nineteenth century, English poets such as Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892) and Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837–1909) revisited the themes. In the twentieth century, further Arthurian interpretations and adaptations appeared in literature (T.H. White’s Once and Future King – 1958) and in new media such as film and television. The latter range from the brutally realistic (John Boorman’s Excalibur – 1981) to the ridiculous (Monty Python and the Holy Grail – 1974).

THE INVASIONS CYCLE

Introduction

Tales of the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Early Milesians

THE THREE STORIES which introduce this volume are based on tales selected from the Book of Invasions, otherwise known as the Mythological Cycle. This chapter begins after the conquest of the Fir Bolg by the Tuatha Dé Danann, the god-like race, whose name translates as ‘the people of the god whose mother is Dana’. Three of the most outstanding stories have been chosen for this section, each of which has an especially powerful narrative impact.

The Tuatha Dé Danann are recorded as having originally travelled to Erin from the northern islands of Greece around 2000 bc. They possessed great gifts of magic and druidism and they ruled the country until their defeat by the Milesians, when they were forced to establish an underground kingdom known as the Otherworld or the Sidhe, meaning Hollow Hills.

Lugh (pronounced ‘Lu’, ‘gh’ is silent, as in English) of the Long Arm, who also appears later in the Ulster Cycle as Cúchulainn’s divine father, emerges as one of the principal heroes of the Tuatha Dé Danann who rescues his people from the tyranny of the Fomorians. The Quest of the Children of Tuirenn, together with the sorrowful account of Lir’s children, are undoubtedly two of the great epic tales of this cycle.

The Wooing of Étain which concludes the trio, was probably written sometime in the eighth century. The story unfolds after the People of Dana are dispossessed by the Children of Miled and for the first time the notion of a Land of Youth, or Otherworld, is introduced, a theme again returned to in the third and final Fenian Cycle.

The Quest of the Children of Tuirenn

NUADA OF THE SILVER HAND rose to become King of the Tuatha Dé Danann during the most savage days of the early invasions. The Fomorians, a repulsive band of sea-pirates, were the fiercest of opponents who swept through the country destroying cattle and property and imposing tribute on the people of the land. Every man of the Tuatha Dé Danann, no matter how rich or poor, was required to pay one ounce of gold to the Fomorians and those who neglected to pay this tax at the annual assembly on the Hill of Uisneach were maimed or murdered without compassion. Balor of the Evil Eye was leader of these brutal invaders, and it was well known that when he turned his one glaring eyeball on his foes they immediately fell dead as if struck by a thunderbolt. Everyone lived in mortal fear of Balor, for no weapon had yet been discovered that could slay or even injure him. Times were bleak for the Tuatha Dé Danann and the people had little faith in King Nuada who appeared powerless to resist Balor’s tyranny and oppression. As the days passed by, they yearned for a courageous leader who would rescue them from their life of wretched servitude.

The appalling misery of the Tuatha Dé Danann became known far and wide and, after a time, it reached the ears of Lugh of the Long Arm of the fairymounds, whose father was Cian, son of Cainte. As soon as he had grown to manhood, Lugh had proven his reputation as one of the most fearless warriors and was so revered by the elders of Fairyland that they had placed in his charge the wondrous magical gifts of Manannan the sea-god which had protected their people for countless generations. Lugh rode the magnificent white steed of Manannan, known as Aenbarr, a horse as fleet of foot as the wailing gusts of winter whose charm was such that no rider was ever wounded while seated astride her. He had the boat of Manannan, which could read a man’s thoughts and travel in whatever direction its keeper demanded. He also wore Manannan’s breast-plate and body armour which no weapon could ever pierce, and he carried the mighty sword known as ‘The Retaliator’ that could cut through any battle shield.

The day approached once more for the People of Dana to pay their annual taxes to the Fomorians and they gathered together, as was customary, on the Hill of Uisneach to await the arrival of Balor’s men. As they stood fearful and terrified in the chill morning air, several among them noticed a strange cavalry coming over the plain from the east towards them. At the head of this impressive group, seated high in command above the rest, was Lugh of the Long Arm, whose proud and noble countenance mirrored the splendour of the rising sun. The King was summoned to witness the spectacle and he rode forth to salute the leader of the strange army. The two had just begun to converse amiably when they were interrupted by the approach of a grimy-looking band of men, instantly known to all as Fomorian tax-collectors. King Nuada bowed respectfully towards them and instructed his subjects to deliver their tributes without delay. Such a sad sight angered and humiliated Lugh of the Long Arm and he drew the King aside and began to reproach him:

“Why do your subjects bow before such an evil-eyed brood,” he demanded, “when they do not show you any mark of respect in return?”

“We are obliged to do this,” replied Nuada. “If we refuse we would be killed instantly and our land has witnessed more than enough bloodshed at the hands of the Fomorians.”

“Then it is time for the Tuatha Dé Danann to avenge this great injustice,” replied Lugh, and with that, he began slaughtering Balor’s emissaries single-handedly until all but one lay dead at his feet. Dragging the surviving creature before him, Lugh ordered him to deliver a stern warning to Balor:

“Return to your leader,” he thundered, “and inform him that he no longer has any power over the People of Dana. Lugh of the Long Arm, the greatest of warriors, is more than eager to enter into combat with him if he possesses enough courage to meet the challenge.”

Knowing that these words would not fail to enrage Balor, Lugh lost little time preparing himself for battle. He enlisted the King’s help in assembling the strongest men in the kingdom to add to his own powerful army. Shining new weapons of steel were provided and three thousand of the swiftest white horses were made ready for his men. A magnificent fleet of ships, designed to withstand the most venomous ocean waves, remained moored at port, awaiting the moment when Balor and his malicious crew would appear on the horizon.

The time finally arrived when the King received word that Balor’s fierce army had landed at Eas Dara on the northwest coast of Connacht. Within hours, the Fomorians had pillaged the lands of Bodb the Red and plundered the homes of noblemen throughout the province. Hearing of this wanton destruction, Lugh of the Long Arm was more determined than ever to secure victory for the Tuatha Dé Danann. He rode across the plains of Erin back to his home to enlist the help of Cian, his father, who controlled all the armies of the fairymounds. His two uncles, Cu and Cethen, also offered their support and the three brothers set off in different directions to round up the remaining warriors of Fairyland.

Cian journeyed northwards and he did not rest until he reached Mag Muirthemne on the outskirts of Dundalk. As he crossed the plain, he observed three men, armed and mailed, riding towards him. At first he did not recognize them, but as they drew closer, he knew them to be the sons of Tuirenn whose names were Brian, Iucharba and Iuchar. A long-standing feud had existed for years between the sons of Cainte and the sons of Tuirenn and the hatred and enmity they felt towards each other was certain to provoke a deadly contest. Wishing to avoid an unequal clash of arms, Cian glanced around him for a place to hide and noticed a large herd of swine grazing nearby. He struck himself with a druidic wand and changed himself into a pig. Then he trotted off to join the herd and began to root up the ground like the rest of them.

The sons of Tuirenn were not slow to notice that the warrior who had been riding towards them had suddenly vanished into thin air. At first, they all appeared puzzled by his disappearance, but then Brian, the eldest of the three, began to question his younger brothers knowingly:

“Surely brothers you also saw the warrior on horseback,” he said to them. “Have you no idea what became of him?”

“We do not know,” they replied.

“Then you are not fit to call yourselves warriors,” chided Brian, “for that horseman can be no friend of ours if he is cowardly enough to change himself into one of these swine. The instruction you received in the City of Learning has been wasted on you if you cannot even tell an enchanted beast from a natural one.”

And as he was saying this, he struck Iucharba and Iuchar with his own druidic wand, transforming them into two sprightly hounds that howled and yelped impatiently to follow the trail of the enchanted pig.

Before long, the pig had been hunted down and driven into a small wood where Brian cast his spear at it, driving it clean through the animal’s chest. Screaming in pain, the injured pig began to speak in a human voice and begged his captors for mercy:

“Allow me a dignified death,” the animal pleaded. “I am originally a human being, so grant me permission to pass into my own shape before I die.”

“I will allow this,” answered Brian, “since I am often less reluctant to kill a man than a pig.”

Then Cian, son of Cainte, stood before them with blood trickling down his cloak from the gaping wound in his chest.

“I have outwitted you,” he cried, “for if you had killed me as a pig you would only be sentenced for killing an animal, but now you must kill me in my own human shape. And I must warn you that the penalty you will pay for this crime is far greater than any ever paid before on the death of a nobleman, for the weapons you shall use will cry out in anguish, proclaiming your wicked deed to my son, Lugh of the Long Arm”.

“We will not slay you with any weapons in that case,” replied Brian triumphantly, “but with the stones that lie on the ground around us.” And the three brothers began to pelt Cian with jagged rocks and stones until his body was a mass of wounds and he fell to the earth battered and lifeless. The sons of Tuirenn then buried him where he had fallen in an unmarked grave and hurried off to join the war against the Fomorians.

With the great armies of Fairyland and the noble cavalcade of King Nuada at his side, Lugh of the Long Arm won battle after battle against Balor and his men. Spears shot savagely through the air and scabbards clashed furiously until at last, the Fomorians could hold out no longer. Retreating to the coast, the terrified survivors and their leader boarded their vessels and sailed as fast as the winds could carry them back through the northern mists towards their own depraved land. Lugh of the Long Arm became the hero of his people and they presented him with the finest trophies of valour the kingdom had to offer, including a golden war chariot, studded with precious jewels which was driven by four of the brawniest milk-white steeds.

When the festivities had died down somewhat, and the Tuatha Dé Danann had begun to lead normal lives once more, Lugh began to grow anxious for news of his father. He called several of his companions to him and appealed to them for information, but none among them had received tidings of Cian since the morning he had set off towards the north to muster the armies of the fairymounds.

“I know that he is no longer alive,” said Lugh, “and I give you my word that I will not rest again, or allow food or drink to pass my lips, until I have knowledge of what happened to him.”

And so Lugh, together with a number of his kinsmen, rode forth to the place where he and his father had parted company. From here, the horse of Manannan guided him to the Plain of Muirthemne where Cian had met his tragic death. As soon as he entered the shaded wood, the stones of the ground began to cry out in despair and they told Lugh of how the sons of Tuirenn had murdered his father and buried him in the earth. Lugh wept bitterly when he heard this tale and implored his men to help him dig up the grave so that he might discover in what cruel manner Cian had been slain. The body was raised from the ground and the litter of wounds on his father’s cold flesh was revealed to him. Lugh rose gravely to his feet and swore angry vengeance on the sons of Tuirenn:

“This death has so exhausted my spirit that I cannot hear through my ears, and I cannot see anything with my eyes, and there is not one pulse beating in my heart for grief of my father. Sorrow and destruction will fall on those that committed this crime and they shall suffer long when they are brought to justice.”

The body was returned to the ground and Lugh carved a headstone and placed it on the grave. Then, after a long period of mournful silence, he mounted his horse and headed back towards Tara where the last of the victory celebrations were taking place at the palace.

Lugh of the Long Arm sat calmly and nobly next to King Nuada at the banqueting table and looked around him until he caught sight of the three sons of Tuirenn. As soon as he had fixed his eye on them, he stood up and ordered the Chain of Attention of the Court to be shaken so that everyone present would fall silent and listen to what he had to say.

“I put to you all a question,” said Lugh. “I ask each of you what punishment you would inflict upon the man that had murdered your father?”

The King and his warriors were astonished at these words, but finally Nuada spoke up and enquired whether it was Lugh’s own father that had been killed.

“It is indeed my own father who lies slain,” replied Lugh “and I see before me in this very room the men who carried out the foul deed.”

“Then it would be far too lenient a punishment to strike them down directly,” said the King. “I myself would ensure that they died a lingering death and I would cut off a single limb each day until they fell down before me writhing in agony.”

Those who were assembled agreed with the King’s verdict and even the sons of Tuirenn nodded their heads in approval. But Lugh declared that he did not wish to kill any of the Tuatha Dé Danann, since they were his own people. Instead, he would insist that the perpetrators pay a heavy fine, and as he spoke he stared accusingly towards Brian, Iuchar and Iucharba, so that the identity of the murderers was clearly exposed to all. Overcome with guilt and shame, the sons of Tuirenn could not bring themselves to deny their crime, but bowed their heads and stood prepared for the sentence Lugh was about to deliver.

“This is what I demand of you,” he announced.

“Three ripened apples

The skin of a pig

A pointed spear

Two steeds and a chariot

Seven pigs

A whelping pup

A cooking spit

Three shouts on a hill.

“And,” Lugh added, “if you think this fine too harsh, I will now reduce part of it. But if you think it acceptable, you must pay it in full, without variation, and pledge your loyalty to me before the royal guests gathered here.”

“We do not think it too great a fine,” said Brian, “nor would it be too large a compensation if you multiplied it a hundredfold. Therefore, we will go out in search of all these things you have described and remain faithful to you until we have brought back every last one of these objects.”

“Well, now,” said Lugh, “since you have bound yourselves before the court to the quest assigned you, perhaps you would like to learn more detail of what lies in store,” And he began to elaborate on the tasks that lay before the sons of Tuirenn.

“The apples I have requested of you,” Lugh continued, “are the three apples of the Hesperides growing in the gardens of the Eastern World. They are the colour of burnished gold and have the power to cure the bloodiest wound or the most horrifying illness. To retrieve these apples, you will need great courage, for the people of the east have been forewarned that three young warriors will one day attempt to deprive them of their most cherished possessions.

“And the pig’s skin I have asked you to bring me will not be easy to obtain either, for it belongs to the King of Greece who values it above everything else. It too has the power to heal all wounds and diseases.

“The spear I have demanded of you is the poisoned spear kept by Pisar, King of Persia. This spear is so keen to do battle that its blade must always be kept in a cauldron of freezing water to prevent its fiery heat melting the city in which it is kept.

“And do you know who keeps the chariot and the two steeds I wish to receive from you?” Lugh continued.

“We do not know,” answered the sons of Tuirenn.

“They belong to Dobar, King of Sicily,” said Lugh, “and such is their unique charm that they are equally happy to ride over sea or land, and the chariot they pull is unrivalled in beauty and strength.

“And the seven pigs you must gather together are the pigs of Asal, King of the Golden Pillars. Every night they are slaughtered, but every morning they are found alive again, and any person who eats part of them is protected from ill-health for the rest of his life.

“Three further things I have demanded of you,” Lugh went on. “The whelping hound you must bring me guards the palace of the King of Iruad. Failinis is her name and all the wild beasts of the world fall down in terror before her, for she is stronger and more splendid than any other creature known to man.

“The cooking-spit I have called for is housed in the kitchen of the fairywomen on Inis Findcuire, an island surrounded by the most perilous waters that no man has ever safely reached.

“Finally, you must give the three shouts requested of you on the Hill of Midcain where it is prohibited for any man other than the sons of Midcain to cry aloud. It was here that my father received his warrior training and here that his death will be hardest felt. Even if I should one day forgive you of my father’s murder, it is certain that the sons of Midcain will not.”

As Lugh finished speaking, the children of Tuirenn were struck dumb by the terrifying prospect of all that had to be achieved by them and they went at once to where their father lived and told him of the dreadful sentence that had been pronounced on them.

“It is indeed a harsh fine,” said Tuirenn, “but one that must be paid if you are guilty, though it may end tragically for all three of you.” Then he advised his sons to return to Lugh to beg the loan of the boat of Manannan that would carry them swiftly over the seas on their difficult quest. Lugh kindly agreed to give them the boat and they made their way towards the port accompanied by their father. With heavy hearts, they exchanged a sad farewell and wearily set sail on the first of many arduous journeys.

“We shall go in search of the apples to begin with,” said Brian, and his command was answered immediately by the boat of Manannan which steered a course towards the Eastern World and sailed without stopping until it came to rest in a sheltered harbour in the lands of the Hesperides. The brothers then considered how best they might remove the apples from the garden in which they were growing, and it was eventually decided among them that they should transform themselves into three screeching hawks.

“The tree is well guarded,” Brian declared, “but we shall circle it, carefully avoiding the arrows that will be hurled at us until they have all been spent. Then we will swoop on the apples and carry them off in our beaks.”

The three performed this task without suffering the slightest injury and headed back towards the boat with the stolen fruit. The news of the theft had soon spread throughout the kingdom, however, and the king’s three daughters quickly changed themselves into three-taloned ospreys and pursued the hawks over the sea. Shafts of lightning lit up the skies around them and struck the wings of the hawks, scorching their feathers and causing them to plummet towards the waters below. But Brian managed to take hold of his druidic wand and he transformed himself and his brothers into swans that darted below the waves until the ospreys had given up the chase and it was safe for them to return to the boat.

After they had rested awhile, it was decided that they should travel on to Greece in search of the skin of the pig.

“Let us visit this land in the shape of three bards of Erin,” said Brian, “for if we appear as such, we will be honoured and respected as men of wit and wisdom.”

They dressed themselves appropriately and set sail for Greece composing some flattering verses in honour of King Tuis as they journeyed along. As soon as they had landed, they made their way to the palace and were enthusiastically welcomed as dedicated men of poetry who had travelled far in search of a worthy patron. An evening of drinking and merry-making followed; verses were read aloud by the King’s poets and many ballads were sung by the court musicians. At length, Brian rose to his feet and began to recite the poem he had written for King Tuis. The King smiled rapturously to hear himself described as ‘the oak among kings’ and encouraged Brian to accept some reward for his pleasing composition.

“I will happily accept from you the pig’s skin you possess,” said Brian, “for I have heard that it can cure all wounds.”

“I would not give this most precious object to the finest poet in the world,” replied the King, “but I shall fill the skin three times over with red gold, one skin for each of you, which you may take away with you as the price of your poem.”

The brothers agreed to this and the King’s attendants escorted them to the treasure-house where the gold was to be measured out. They were about to weigh the very last share when Brian suddenly snatched the pig’s skin and raced from the room, striking down several of the guards as he ran. He had just found his way to the outer courtyard when King Tuis appeared before him, his sword drawn in readiness to win back his most prized possession. Many bitter blows were exchanged and many deep wounds were inflicted by each man on the other until, at last, Brian dealt the King a fatal stroke and he fell to the ground never to rise again.

Armed with the pig’s skin that could cure their battle wounds, and the apples that could restore them to health, the sons of Tuirenn grew more confident that they would succeed in their quest. They were determined to move on as quickly as possible to the next task Lugh had set them and instructed the boat of Manannan to take them to the land of Persia, to the court of King Pisar, where they appeared once more in the guise of poets. Here they were also made welcome and were treated with honour and distinction. After a time, Brian was called upon to deliver his poem and, as before, he recited some verses in praise of the King which won the approval of all who were gathered. Again, he was persuaded to accept some small reward for his poem and, on this occasion, he requested the magic spear of Persia. But the King grew very angry at this request and the benevolent attitude he had previously displayed soon turned to open hostility:

“It was most unwise of you to demand my beloved spear as a gift,” bellowed the King, “the only reward you may expect now is to escape death for having made so insolent a request.”

When Brian heard these words he too was incensed and grabbing one of the three golden apples, he flung it at the King’s head, dashing out his brains. Then the three brothers rushed from the court, slaughtering all they encountered along the way, and hurried towards the stables where the spear of Pisar lay resting in a cauldron of water. They quickly seized the spear and headed for the boat of Manannan, shouting out their next destination as they ran, so that the boat made itself ready and turned around in the direction of Sicily and the kingdom of Dobar.

“Let us strike up a friendship with the King,” said Brian, “by offering him our services as soldiers of Erin.”

And when they arrived at Dobar’s court they were well received and admitted at once to the King’s great army where they won the admiration of all as the most valiant defenders of the realm. The brothers remained in the King’s service for a month and two weeks, but during all this time they never once caught a glimpse of the two steeds and the chariot Lugh of the Long Arm had spoken of.

“We have waited long enough,” Brian announced impatiently. “Let us go to the King and inform him that we will quit his service unless he shows us his famous steeds and his chariot.”

So they went before King Dobar who was not pleased to receive news of their departure, for he had grown to rely on the three brave warriors. He immediately sent for his steeds and ordered the chariot to be yoked to them and they were paraded before the sons of Tuirenn. Brian watched carefully as the charioteer drove the steeds around in a circle and as they came towards him a second time he sprung onto the nearest saddle and seized the reins. His two brothers fought a fierce battle against those who tried to prevent them escaping, but it was not long before they were at Brian’s side, riding furiously through the palace gates, eager to pursue their fifth quest.

They sailed onwards without incident until they reached the land of King Asal of the Pillars of Gold. But their high spirits were quickly vanquished by the sight of a large army guarding the harbour in anticipation of their arrival. For the fame of the sons of Tuirenn was widespread by this time, and their success in carrying away with them the most coveted treasures of the world was well known to all. King Asal himself now came forward to greet them and demanded to know why they had pillaged the lands of other kings and murdered so many in their travels. Then Brian told King Asal of the sentence Lugh of the Long Arm had pronounced upon them and of the many hardships they had already suffered as a result.

“And what have you come here for?” the King enquired.

“We have come for the seven pigs which Lugh has also demanded as part of that compensation,” answered Brian, “and it would be far better for all of us if you deliver them to us in good will.”

When the King heard these words, he took counsel with his people, and it was wisely decided that the seven pigs should be handed over peacefully, without bloodshed. The sons of Tuirenn expressed their gratitude to King Asal and pledged their services to him in all future battles. Then Asal questioned them on their next adventure, and when he discovered that they were journeying onwards to the land of Iruad in search of a puppy hound, he made the following request of them:

“Take me along with you,” he said “for my daughter is married to the King of Iruad and I am desperate, for love of her, to persuade him to surrender what you desire of him without a show of arms.”

Brian and his brothers readily agreed to this and the boats were made ready for them to sail together for the land of Iruad.

When they reached the shores of the kingdom, Asal went ahead in search of his son-in-law and told him the tale of the sons of Tuirenn from beginning to end and of how he had rescued his people from a potentially bloody war. But Iruad was not disposed to listen to the King’s advice and adamantly refused to give up his hound without a fight. Seizing his weapon, he gave the order for his men to begin their attack and went himself in search of Brian in order to challenge him to single combat. A furious contest ensued between the two and they struck each other viciously and angrily. Eventually, however, Brian succeeded in overpowering King Iruad and he hauled him before Asal, bound and gagged like a criminal.

“I have spared his life,” said Brian, “perhaps he will now hand over the hound in recognition of my clemency.”

The King was untied and the hound was duly presented to the sons of Tuirenn who were more than pleased that the battle had come to a swift end. And there was no longer any bitterness between Iruad and the three brothers, for Iruad had been honestly defeated and had come to admire his opponents. They bid each other a friendly farewell and the sons of Tuirenn took their leave of the land of the Golden Pillars and set out to sea once again.

Far across the ocean in the land of Erin, Lugh of the Long Arm had made certain that news of every success achieved by the sons of Tuirenn had been brought to his attention. He was fully aware that the quest he had set them was almost drawing to a close and became increasingly anxious at the thought. But he desired above everything else to take possession of the valuable objects that had already been recovered, for Balor of the Evil Eye had again reared his ugly head and the threat of another Fomorian invasion was imminent. Seeking to lure the sons of Tuirenn back to Erin, Lugh sent a druidical spell after the brothers, causing them to forget that their sentence had not yet been fully completed. Under its influence, the sons of Tuirenn entertained visions of the heroic reception that awaited them on the shores of the Boyne and their hearts were filled with joy to think that they would soon be reunited with their father.

Within days, their feet had touched on Erin’s soil again and they hastened to Tara to the Annual Assembly, presided over by the High King of Erin. Here, they were heartily welcomed by the royal family and the Tuatha Dé Danann who rejoiced alongside them and praised them for their great courage and valour. And it was agreed that they should submit the tokens of their quest to the High King himself who undertook to examine them and to inform Lugh of the triumphant return of the sons of Tuirenn. A messenger was despatched to Lugh’s household and within an hour he had arrived at the palace of Tara, anxious to confront the men he still regarded as his enemies.

“We have paid the fine on your father’s life,” said Brian, as he pointed towards the array of objects awaiting Lugh’s inspection.

“This is indeed an impressive sight,” replied Lugh of the Long Arm, “and would suffice as payment for any other murder. But you bound yourselves before the court to deliver everything asked for and I see that you have not done so. Where is the cooking-spit I was promised? And what is to be done about the three shouts on the hill which you have not yet given?”

When the sons of Tuirenn heard this, they realized that they had been deceived and they collapsed exhausted to the floor. Gloom and despair fell upon them as they faced once more the reality of long years of searching and wandering. Leaving behind the treasures that had hitherto protected them, they made their way wearily towards their ship which carried them swiftly away over the storm-tossed seas.

They had spent three months at sea and still they could not discover the smallest trace of the island known as Inis Findcurie. But when their hopes had almost faded, Brian suggested that they make one final search beneath the ocean waves and he put on his magical water-dress and dived over the side of the boat. After two long weeks of swimming in the salt water, he at last happened upon the island, tucked away in a dark hollow of the ocean bed. He immediately went in search of the court and found it occupied by a large group of women, their heads bent in concentration, as they each embroidered a cloth of gold. The women appeared not to notice Brian and he seized this opportunity to move forward to where the cooking-spit rested in a corner of the room. He had just lifted it from the hearth when the women broke into peals of laughter and they laughed long and heartily until finally the eldest of them condescended to address him:

“Take the spit with you, as a reward for your heroism,” she said mockingly, “but even if your two brothers had attended you here, the weakest of us would have had little trouble preventing you from removing what you came for.”

And Brian took his leave of them knowing they had succeeded in humiliating him, yet he was grateful, nonetheless, that only one task remained to be completed.

They lost no time in directing the boat of Manannan towards their final destination and had reached the Hill of Midcain shortly afterwards, on whose summit they had pledged themselves to give three shouts. But as soon as they had begun to ascend to the top, the guardian of the hill, none other than Midcain himself, came forward to challenge the sons of Tuirenn:

“What is your business in my territory,” demanded Midcain.

“We have come to give three shouts on this hill,” said Brian, “in fulfilment of the quest we have been forced to pursue in the name of Lugh of the Long Arm.”

“I knew his father well,” replied Midcain, “and I am under oath not to permit anyone to cry aloud on my hill.”

“Then we have no option but to fight for that permission,” declared Brian, and he rushed at his opponent with his sword before Midcain had the opportunity to draw his own, killing him with a single thrust of his blade through the heart.

Then the three sons of Midcain came out to fight the sons of Tuirenn and the conflict that followed was one of the bitterest and bloodiest ever before fought by any group of warriors. They battled with the strength of wild bears and the ruthlessness of starving lions until they had carved each other to pieces and the grass beneath their feet ran crimson with blood. In the end, however, it was the sons of Tuirenn who were victorious, but their wounds were so deep that they fell to the ground one after the other and waited forlornly for death to come, wishing in vain that they still had the pig skin to cure them.

They had rested a long time before Brian had the strength to speak, and he reminded his brothers that they had not yet given the three shouts on the Hill of Midcain that Lugh had demanded of them. Then slowly they raised themselves up off the ground and did as they had been requested, satisfied at last that they had entirely fulfilled their quest. And after this, Brian lifted his wounded brothers into the boat, promising them a final glimpse of Erin if they would only struggle against death a brief while longer.

And on this occasion the boat of Manannan did not come to a halt on the shores of the Boyne, but moved speedily overland until it reached Dun Tuirenn where the dying brothers were delivered into their father’s care. Then Brian, who knew that the end of his life was fast approaching, pleaded fretfully with Tuirenn:

“Go, beloved father,” he urged, “and deliver this cooking-spit to Lugh, informing him that we have completed all the tasks assigned us. And beg him to allow us to cure our wounds with the pig skin he possesses, for we have suffered long and hard in the struggle to pay the fine on Cian’s murder.”

Then Tuirenn rode towards Tara in all haste, fearful that his sons might pass away before his return. And he demanded an audience with Lugh of the Long Arm who came out to meet him at once and graciously received the cooking-spit presented to him.

“My sons are gravely ill and close to death,” Tuirenn exclaimed piteously. “I beg you to part with the healing pig skin they brought you for one single night, so that I may place it upon their battle wounds and witness it restore them to full health.”

But Lugh of the Long Arm fell silent at this request and stared coldly into the distance towards the Plain of Muirthemne where his father had fallen. When at length he was ready to give Tuirenn his answer, the expression he wore was cruel and menacing and the tone of his voice was severe and merciless:

“I would rather give you the expanse of the earth in gold,” said Lugh, “than hand over any object that would save the lives of your sons. Let them die in the knowledge that they have achieved something good because of me, and let them thank me for bringing them renown and glory through such a valorous death.”

On hearing these words, Tuirenn hung his head in defeat and accepted that it was useless to bargain with Lugh of the Long Arm. He made his way back despondently to where his sons lay dying and gave them his sad news. The brothers were overcome with grief and despair and were so utterly devastated by Lugh’s decision that not one of them lived to see the sun set in the evening sky. Tuirenn’s heart was broken in two and after he had placed the last of his sons in the earth, all life departed from him and he fell dead over the bodies of Brian, Iucharba and Iuchar. The Tuatha Dé Danann witnessed the souls of all four rise towards the heavens and the tragic tale of the sons of Tuirenn was recounted from that day onwards throughout the land, becoming known as one of the Three Sorrows of Story-Telling.

The Tragedy of the Children of Lir

DURING THE GREAT BATTLE of Tailtiu that raged on the plain of Moytura, the Tuatha Dé Danann were slain in vast numbers and finally defeated by a race of Gaelic invaders known as the Milesians. Following this time of wretched warring, Erin came to be divided into two separate kingdoms. The children of Miled claimed for themselves all the land above ground, while the Tuatha Dé Danann were banished to the dark regions below the earth’s surface. The Danann gods did not suffer their defeat easily, and immediately set about re-building an impressive underground kingdom worthy of the divine stature they once possessed. Magnificent palaces, sparkling with jewels and precious stones, were soon erected and a world of wondrous beauty and light was created where once darkness had prevailed. Time had no meaning in this new domain and all who lived there remained eternally beautiful, never growing old as mortals did above ground.

The day approached for the Tuatha Dé Danann to choose for themselves a King who would safeguard their future peace and happiness. The principle deities and elders of the people gathered together at the Great Assembly and began deliberating on their choice of leader. Lir, father of the sea-god, Manannan mac Lir, had announced his desire to take the throne, but so too had Bodb the Red, son of the divinity Dagda, lord of perfect knowledge. It came to pass that the People of Dana chose Bodb the Red as their King and built for him a splendid castle on the banks of Loch Dearg. The new ruler made a solemn pledge to his people, promising to prove himself worthy of the great honour bestowed on him. Before long, the People of Dana began to applaud themselves on their choice. Their lives were happy and fulfilled and their kingdom flourished as never before.

Only one person in the entire land remained opposed to the new sovereign. Lir was highly offended that he had not been elected by the People of Dana. Retreating to his home at Sídh Fionnachaidh, he refused to acknowledge Bodb the Red, or show him any mark of respect. Several of the elders urged the King to gather his army together and march to Armagh where Lir could be punished for this insult, but Bodb the Red would not be persuaded. He desired more than anything to be reconciled to every last one of his subjects and his warm and generous spirit sought a more compassionate way of drawing Lir back into his circle.

One morning, the King received news that Lir’s wife had recently passed away, leaving him grief-stricken and despondent. Many had tried, but none had yet managed to improve Lir’s troubled heart and mind and it was said that he would never recover from his loss. Bodb the Red immediately sent a message to Lir, inviting him to attend the palace. Deeply moved by the King’s forgiveness and concern, Lir graciously accepted the invitation to visit Loch Dearg. A large banquet was prepared in his honour and four shining knights on horseback were sent forth to escort the chariot through the palace gates. The King greeted Lir warmly and sat him at the royal table at his right hand. The two men began to converse as if they had always been the closest of friends, and as the evening wore on it was noticed by all that the cloud of sorrow had lifted from Lir’s brow. Presently, the King began to speak more earnestly to his friend of the need to return to happier times.

“I am sorely grieved to hear of your loss,” he told Lir, “but you must allow me to help you. Within this court reside three of the fairest maidens in the kingdom. They are none other than my foster-daughters and each is very dear to me. I give you leave to take the one you most admire as your bride, for I know that she will restore to your life the happiness you now lack.”

At the King’s request, his three daughters entered the hall and stood before them. Their beauty was remarkable indeed, and each was as fair as the next. Lir’s eyes travelled from one to the other in bewilderment. Finally, he settled on the daughter known as Aeb, for she was the eldest and deemed the wisest of the three. Bodb the Red gave the couple his blessing and it was agreed that they should be married without delay.

After seven days of glorious feasting and celebrating, Aeb and Lir set off from the royal palace to begin their new life together as husband and wife. Lir was no longer weighted down by sorrow and Aeb had grown to love and cherish the man who had chosen her as his bride. Many years of great joy followed for them both. Lir delighted in his new wife and in the twin children she bore him, a boy and a girl, whom they named Aed and Fionnguala. Within another year or two, Aeb again delivered of twins, two sons named Fiachra and Conn, but the second birth proved far more difficult and Aeb became gravely ill. Lir watched over her night and day. Yet despite his tender love and devotion, she could not be saved and his heart was again broken in two. The four beautiful children Aeb had borne him were his only solace in this great time of distress. During the worst moments, when he thought he would die of grief, he was rescued by their image and his love for them was immeasurable.

Hearing of Lir’s dreadful misfortune, King Bodb offered him a second foster-daughter in marriage. Aeb’s sister was named Aoife and she readily agreed to take charge of Lir’s household and her sister’s children. At first, Aoife loved her step-children as if they were her very own, but as she watched Lir’s intense love for them increase daily, a feeling of jealousy began to take control of her. Often Lir would sleep in the same bed chamber with them and as soon as the children awoke, he devoted himself to their amusement, taking them on long hunting trips through the forest. At every opportunity, he kissed and embraced them and was more than delighted with the love he received in return. Believing that her husband no longer felt any affection for her, Aoife welcomed the poisonous and wicked thoughts that invaded her mind. Feigning a dreadful illness, she lay in bed for an entire year. She summoned a druid to her bedside and together they plotted a course to destroy Lir’s children.

One day Aoife rose from her sickbed and ordered her chariot. Seeking out her husband in the palace gardens, she told him that she would like to take the children to visit her father, King Bodb. Lir was happy to see that his wife had recovered her health and was quick to encourage the outing. He gathered his children around him to kiss them goodbye, but Fionnguala refused her father’s kiss and drew away from him, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Do not be troubled, child,” he spoke softly to her, “your visit will bring the King great pleasure and he will prepare the most fleet-footed horses for your speedy return”.

Although her heart was in turmoil, Fionnguala mounted the chariot with her three brothers. She could not understand her sadness, and could not explain why it deepened with every turning of the chariot wheels as they moved forward, away from her father and her beloved home at Sídh Fionnachaidh.

When they had travelled some distance from Lir’s palace, Aoife called the horses to a halt. Waking the children from their happy slumber, she ordered them out of the chariot and shouted harshly to her manservants:

“Kill these monstrous creatures before you, for they have stolen the love Lir once had for me. Do so quickly, and I shall reward you as you desire.”

But the servants recoiled in horror from her shameful request and replied resolutely:

“We cannot perform so terrible an evil. A curse will surely fall on you for even thinking such a vile thing.”

They journeyed on further until they approached the shores of Loch Dairbhreach. The evening was now almost upon them and a bank of deep crimson cloud hung lazily on the horizon above the shimmering lake. Weary starlings were settling in their nests and owls were preparing for their nocturnal watch. Aoife now sought to kill the children herself and drew from her cloak a long, pointed sabre. But as she raised her arm to slay the first of them, she was overcome by a feeling of maternal sympathy and it prevented her completing the task. Angry that she had been thwarted once more, she demanded that the children remove their garments and bathe in the lake. As each one them entered the water, she struck them with her druid’s wand and they were instantly transformed into four milk-white swans. A death-like chill filled the air as she chanted over them the words the druid had taught her:

“Here on Dairbhreach’s lonely wave

For years to come your watery home

Not Lir nor druid can now ye save

From endless wandering on the lonely foam.”

Stunned and saddened by their step-mother’s cruel act of vengeance, the children of Lir bowed their heads and wept piteously for their fate. Fionnguala eventually found the courage to speak, and she uttered a plea for lenience, mindful of her three brothers and of the terrible tragedy Lir would again have to suffer:

“We have always loved you Aoife,” she urged, “why have you treated us in this way when we have only ever shown you loyalty and kindness?”

So sad and helpless were Fionnguala’s words, so soft and innocent was her childlike voice, that Aoife began to regret what she had done and she was suddenly filled with panic and despair. It was too late for her to undo her druid’s spell, and it was all she could do to fix a term to the curse she had delivered upon the children:

“You will remain in the form of four white swans,” she told them, “until a woman from the south shall be joined in marriage to a man from the north, and until the light of Christianity shines on Erin. For three hundred years you will be doomed to live on Loch Dairbhreach, followed by three hundred years on the raging Sea of Moyle, and a further three hundred years on Iorras Domhnann. I grant you the power of speech and the gift of singing, and no music in the world shall sound more beautiful and pleasing to the ear than that which you shall make.”

Then Aoife called for her horse to be harnessed once more and continued on her journey to the palace of Bodb the Red, abandoning the four white swans to their life of hardship on the grey and miserable moorland lake.

The King, who had been eagerly awaiting the arrival of his grandchildren, was deeply disappointed to discover that they had not accompanied his daughter.

“Lir will no longer entrust them to you,” Aoife told him, “and I have not the will to disobey his wishes.”

Greatly disturbed by this news, the King sent a messenger to Lir’s palace, demanding an explanation for his extraordinary behaviour. A strange sense of foreboding had already entered Lir’s soul and, on receiving the King’s message, he became tormented with worry for his children’s safety. He immediately called for his horse to be saddled and galloped away into the night in the direction of Loch Dearg. Upon his arrival at Bodb’s palace, he was met by one of Aoife’s servants who could not keep from him the terrible tale of his wife’s treachery. The King was now also informed and Aoife was ordered to appear before them both. The evil expression in his daughter’s eye greatly enraged the King and his wand struck violently, changing Aoife into a demon, destined to wander the cold and windy air until the very end of time.

Before the sun had risen the next morning, an anguished party had set off from the palace in search of Lir’s children. Through the fog and mist they rode at great speed until the murky waters of Loch Dairbhreach appeared before them in the distance. It was Lir who first caught a glimpse of the four majestic white swans, their slender necks arched forwards towards the pebbled shore, desperately seeking the warm and familiar face of their father. As the swans swam towards him, they began to speak with gentle voices and he instantly recognized his own children in the sad, snow-white creatures. How Lir’s heart ached at this woeful sight, and how his eyes wished to disbelieve the sorrowful scene he was forced to witness. He began to sob loudly and it seemed that his grief would never again be silenced.

“Do not mourn us, father,” whispered Fiachra comfortingly, “your love will give us strength in our plight and we shall all be together one day.”

A beautiful, soothing music now infused the air, miraculously lifting the spirits of all who heard it. After a time, Lir and his companions fell into a gentle, peaceful sleep and when they awoke they were no longer burdened by troubles. Every day, Lir came to visit his children and so too did the Men of Erin, journeying from every part to catch even a single note of the beautiful melody of the swans.

Three hundred years passed pleasantly in this way, until the time arrived for the Children of Lir to bid farewell to the People of Dana and to move on to the cold and stormy Sea of Moyle. As the stars faded and the first rays of sunlight peered through the heavens, Lir came forward to the shores of the lake and spoke to his children for the very last time. Fionnguala began to sing forlornly of the grim and bitter times which lay ahead and as she sang she spread her wings and rose from the water. Aed, Fiachra and Conn joined in her song and then took to the air as their sister had done, flying wearily over the velvet surface of Loch Dairbhreach towards the north-east and the raging ocean:

“Arise, my brothers, from Dairbhreach’s wave,

On the wings of the southern wind;

We leave our father and friends today

In measureless grief behind.

Ah! Sad the parting, and sad our flight.

To Moyle’s tempestuous main;

For the day of woe

Shall come and go

Before we meet again!”

Great was the suffering and hardship endured by the swans on the lonely Sea of Moyle, for they could find no rest or shelter from the hissing waves and the piercing cold of the wintry gales. During that first desolate winter, thick black clouds perpetually gathered in the sky, causing the sea to rise up in fury as they ruptured and spilled forth needles of icy rain and sleet. The swans were tossed and scattered by storms and often driven miles apart. There were countless nights when Fionnguala waited alone and terrified on the Rock of Seals, tortured with anxiety for the welfare of her brothers. The gods had so far answered her prayers and they had been returned to her on each occasion, drenched and battered. Tears of joy and relief flowed freely from her eyes at these times, and she would take her brothers under her wing and pull them to her breast for warmth.

Three hundred years of agony and misery on the Sea of Moyle were interrupted by only one happy event. It happened that one morning, the swans were approached by a group of horsemen while resting in the mouth of the river Bann. Two of the figures introduced themselves as Fergus and Aed, sons of Bodb the Red, and they were accompanied by a fairy host. They had been searching a good many years for the swans, desiring to bring them happy tidings of Lir and the King. The Tuatha Dé Danann were all now assembled at the annual Feast of Age, peaceful and happy, except for the deep sorrow they felt at the absence of the four children of Lir. Fionnguala and her brothers received great comfort from this visit and talked long into the evening with the visitors. When the time finally came for the men to depart, the swans felt that their courage had been restored and looked forward to being reunited with the People of Dana sometime in the future.

When at last their exile had come to an end on the Sea of Moyle, the children of Lir made ready for their voyage westwards to Iorras Domhnann. In their hearts they knew they were travelling from one bleak and wretched place to another, but they were soothed by the thought that their suffering would one day be over. The sea showed them no kindness during their stay at Iorras Domhnann, and remained frozen from Achill to Erris during the first hundred years. The bodies of the swans became wasted from thirst and hunger, but they weathered the angry blasts of the tempests and sought shelter from the driving snow under the black, unfriendly rocks, refusing to give up hope. Each new trial fired the desire within them to be at home once again, safe in the arms of their loving father.

It was a time of great rejoicing among Lir’s children when the three hundred years on Iorras Domhnann finally came to an end. With hearts full of joy and elation, the four swans rose ecstatically into the air and flew southwards towards Sídh Fionnachaidh, their father’s palace. But their misery and torment was not yet at an end. As they circled above the plains of Armagh, they could not discover any trace of their former home. Swooping closer to the ground, they recognized the familiar grassy slopes of their childhood, but these were now dotted with stones and rubble from the crumbling castle walls. A chorus of wailing and sorrow echoed through the ruins of Lir’s palace as the swans flung themselves on the earth, utterly broken and defeated. For three days and three nights they remained here until they could bear it no longer. Fionnguala led her brothers back to the west and they alighted on a small, tranquil lake known as Inis Gluare. All that remained was for them to live out the rest of their lives in solitude, declaring their grief through the saddest of songs.

On the day after the children of Lir arrived at Inis Gluare, a Christian missionary known as Chaemóc was walking by the lakeside where he had built for himself a small church. Hearing the haunting strains floating towards him from the lake, he paused by the water’s edge and prayed that he might know who it was that made such stirring music. The swans then revealed themselves to him and began to tell him their sorry tale. Chaemóc bade them come ashore and he joined the swans together with silver chains and took them into his home where he tended them and provided for them until they had forgotten all their suffering. The swans were his delight and they joined him in his prayers and religious devotions, learning of the One True God who had come to save all men.

It was not long afterwards that Deoch, daughter of the King of Munster, came to marry Lairgnéan, King of Connacht, and hearing of Chaemóc’s four wonderful swans, she announced her desire to have them as her wedding-present. Lairgnéan set off for Inis Gluare intent on seizing the swans from Chaemóc. Arriving at the church where they were resting, their heads bowed in silent prayer, he began to drag them from the altar. But he had not gone more than four paces when the plumage dropped from the birds and they were changed back into their human form. Three withered old men and a white-faced old woman now stood before Lairgnéan and he turned and fled in horror at the sight of them.

For the children of Lir had now been released from Aoife’s curse, having lived through almost a thousand years, to the time when her prophecy came to be fulfilled. Knowing that they had little time left to them, they called for Chaemóc to baptize them and as he did so they died peacefully and happily. The saint carried their bodies to a large tomb and Fionnguala was buried at the centre, surrounded by her three beloved brothers. Chaemóc placed a large headstone on the mound and he inscribed it in oghram. It read, ‘Lir’s children, who rest here in peace at long last’.

The Wooing of Étain

MIDHIR THE PROUD WAS KING of the Daoine Sidhe, the fairy people of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and he dwelt at the grand palace in the Hollow Hills of Brí Leíth. He had a wife named Fuamnach with whom he had lived quite contentedly for a good many years. One day, however, while Midhir was out hunting with a group of his companions, he stumbled across the fairest maiden he had ever before laid eyes on, resting by a mountain stream. She had begun to loosen her hair to wash it and her chestnut tresses fell about her feet, shimmering magnificently in the sunlight. The King was enraptured by her perfect beauty and grace and he could not prevent himself from instantly falling in love with her. Nothing could persuade him to abandon the thought of returning to the palace with the maiden and making her his new wife. He boldly confessed to her this desire, hopeful that his noble bearing and royal apparel would not fail to win her approval. The maiden told him that her name was Étain. She was both honoured and delighted that the fairy king had requested her hand in marriage and agreed at once to return with him to Brí Leíth.

Within a short time, Étain’s beauty had won her great fame throughout the land and the words ‘as fair as Étain’ became the highest compliment any man could bestow on a woman. Midhir had soon forgotten about his former wife and spent his days in the company of his new bride whom he doted on and could not bear to be parted from. Fuamnach was distressed and enraged to see them together, but her desire to be comforted and loved once more was entirely overlooked by her husband. When she could bear her cruel treatment no longer, she sought the help of the druid, Bressal, who was well known to the royal palace. Bressal heard Fuamnach’s story and took great pity on her. That evening, as Étain lay in bed, they both entered her chamber. A great tempest began to rage around them as the druid waved his wand over the sleeping woman and delivered his curse in grave, commanding tones. As soon as he had uttered his final words, the beautiful Étain was changed into a butterfly and swiftly carried off by the howling winds through the open window far beyond the palace of Midhir the Proud.

For seven long years, Étain lived a life of intolerable misery. She could find no relief from her endless flight and her delicate wings were tattered and torn by the fiery gusts that tossed and buffeted her throughout the length and breadth of the country. One day, when she had almost abandoned hope of ever finding rest again, a chance flurry thrust her through a window of the fairy palace of Aengus Óg, the Danann god of love. All deities of the Otherworld possessed the ability to recognize their own kind, and Étain was immediately revealed to Aengus, despite her winged appearance. He could not entirely undo the druid’s sorcery, but he took Étain into his care and conjured up a spell to return her to her human form every day, from dusk until dawn. During the daytime, Aengus set aside the sunniest corner of the palace gardens for her private use and planted it with the most colourful, fragrant flowers and shrubs. In the evening, when Étain was transformed once again into a beautiful maiden, she gave Aengus her love and they grew to treasure each other’s company, believing they would spend many happy years together.

It was not long, however, before Fuamnach came to discover Étain’s place of refuge. Still bent on revenge, she appeared at the palace of Aengus Óg in the form of a raven and alighted on an apple tree in the centre of the garden. She soon caught sight of a dainty butterfly resting on some rose petals and with a sudden swoop she opened her beak and lifted the fragile creature into the air. Once they were outside of the palace walls, a magic tempest began to blow around Étain. She found herself being carried away from the fairy mounds during the fierce storm, to the unfamiliar plains of Erin above ground where very few of the fairy people had ever dared to emerge.

As soon as he discovered that Étain had been outwitted by Fuamnach, Aengus sprinkled a magic potion into the air and called upon the gods to end the beautiful maiden’s torturous wanderings above the earth’s surface. A short time afterwards, Étain became trapped in a terrible gale and was hurled through the castle windows of an Ulster Chieftain named Etar. A great feast was in progress and all the noblemen of the province were gathered together for an evening of merry-making and dancing. Etar’s wife sat at his right hand and she held a goblet of wine to her lips. Weary and thirsty from her flight, Étain came to rest on the rim of the vessel intending to sip some of the refreshing liquid. But as she leaned forward, she fell into the drinking-cup and was passed down the throat of the noblewoman as soon as she swallowed her next draught.

Several weeks after the great feast, Etar’s wife was overjoyed to discover that she was carrying a child. The gods had fulfilled their promise and had caused Étain to nestle in her womb until the time when she could be reborn as a mortal child. After nine months, the Chieftain and his wife were blessed with a daughter and they gave her the name of Étain. She grew to become one of the most beautiful maidens in Ulster and although she bore the same name as before, she could remember nothing of her former life with the Daoine Sidhe.

It was at about this time that a distinguished warrior known as Eochaid Airem was crowned High King of Erin. One of the first tasks he set himself was to organize a splendid annual feast, gathering together all of the kingdom’s noblemen to the royal palace for a month of glorious festivity. But the king was soon disappointed to discover that a great number of his noblemen would not accept his generous invitation. Deeply puzzled by this turn of events, he ordered several of them to appear before him and demanded an explanation.

“We cannot attend such a feast,” they told him, “since the absence of a queen by your side would make it unwholesome. The people of Erin have never before served a king who does not possess a queen. There are many among us with daughters young and fair who would be more than willing to help restore your honour.”

The King was now made to realize that his integrity rested on securing a wife, and he immediately sent out horsemen to the four corners of Erin in search of a maiden who would make for him a suitable queen. Within a few days, a group of his messengers returned with the news that they had found the fairest creature in the land. Eochaid set forth at once to view with his own eyes the maiden his men had found for him. He rode for some distance until at last he happened upon four nymph-like figures laughing and dancing in the sunshine at the edge of a small, meandering brook. One of them was indeed far more beautiful than the others. She was clothed in a mantel of bright purple which was clasped over her bosom with a brooch of bright, glittering gold. Underneath, she wore a tunic of the finest emerald silk, intricately decorated with silver fringes and sparkling jewels. Her skin was as white and smooth as snow, her eyes were as blue as hyacinths and her lips as red as the finest rubies. Two tresses of chestnut hair rested on her head. Each one was plaited into four strands and fastened at the ends with tiny spheres of gold. Eochaid shyly approached the maiden and began to question her softly:

“Who are you,” he inquired, “and who was it created so rare and beautiful a vision as you?”

“I am Étain, daughter of Etar,” said the maiden. “Your messengers warned me of your visit Eochaid and I have heard noble tales of you since I was a little child.”

“Will you allow me to woo you then, fair Étain,” asked the King, “for I cannot conceive of any greater pleasure left to me.”

“It is you I have waited for,” replied Étain, “and I will only be truly fulfilled if you take me with you to Tara where I will serve you well as queen.”

Overwhelmed with joy at these words, Eochaid grasped Étain’s hand and lifted her onto the saddle next to him. They rode speedily towards the palace at Tara where news of the king’s betrothal had already reached the ears of his subjects. A hearty welcome awaited the couple as they approached the great gates and they were married that same afternoon to the jubilant sounds of chiming bells and shouts of approval from the large crowd that had gathered to wish them well.

The Royal Assembly of Tara was now the grand occasion everybody looked forward to and preparations began in earnest for the series of lavish banquets and pageants that were to take place in the grounds of the palace. On the morning of first day of the Assembly, Étain made ready to welcome Eochaid’s guests and she rode to the top of the hill beyond the gates to catch a glimpse of the first to arrive. After a time, a young warrior on horseback appeared in the distance making his way steadily towards her. He wore a robe of royal purple and his hair, which tumbled below his shoulders, was golden yellow in colour. His face was proud and radiant and his eyes lustrous and gentle. In his left hand, he held a five-pointed spear and in his right, a circular shield, laden with white gold and precious gems. The warrior came forward and Étain welcomed him zealously:

“We are honoured by your presence, young warrior,” said Étain. “A warm reception awaits you at the palace where I shall be pleased to lead you.”

But the warrior hesitated to accompany her and began to speak in a pained, anxious voice.

“Do you not know me, Étain?” he asked. “For years I have been searching every corner of the land for you. I am your husband, Midhir the Proud, from the fairy kingdom of the Ever Young.”

“My husband is Eochaid Airem, High King of Erin,” replied Étain. “Are you not deceived by your own eyes? You are a stranger to me and I have never before heard of your kingdom.”

“Fuamnach is dead and it is now safe for you to return to your home,” Midhir told her. “It was the sorcery of Fuamnach and Bressal that drove us apart, Étain. Will you come with me now to a land full of music, where men and women remain eternally fair and without blemish. There, in the land of your birth, we may again live happily as man and wife.”

“I will not readily abandon the King of Erin for a man unknown to me,” answered Étain. “I would never seek to depart with you without the King’s consent and I know he will not give it, since his love for me deepens with every passing day.”

Hearing these words, Midhir bowed his head in defeat. It was not in his nature to take Étain by force and he sadly bade her farewell, galloping furiously across the plains of Erin, his purple cloak billowing around him in the breeze.

Throughout the winter months that followed, Étain remained haunted by the image of the stranger who had visited her on the hill. She began to dream of a land filled with sunshine and laughter where she frequently appeared seated on a throne, smiling happily. She could not explain these dreams and did not dare to confide in her husband. Often, however, she would ride to the place where she had met with Midhir the Proud and gaze outwards towards the flat, green carpet of land, secretly entertaining the hope that a rider on a white horse might suddenly appear on the horizon.

One fair summer’s morning as Eochaid Airem peered out of the palace window, he noticed a young warrior in a purple cloak riding towards the Hill of Tara. The King was intrigued by the sight and ordered his horse to be saddled so that he might personally greet the stranger and establish the purpose of his visit to the palace.

“I am known to all as Midhir,” said the warrior. “I have journeyed here to meet with Eochaid Airem, for I am told he is the finest chess-player in the land. I have with me a chessboard with which to test his skill if he is willing to meet my challenge.”

The warrior then produced from beneath his mantel a solid gold chessboard with thirty-two silver pieces, each one encrusted with the finest sapphires and diamonds.

“I would be more than delighted to play a game of chess with you,” replied the King, and he led the way to a brightly-lit chamber where they placed the board on a sturdy round table and sat down to play the first game. The King was not long in proving his reputation as a champion player and, as the young warrior seemed disappointed with his own performance, it was decided that they should play a second game. Again, the King was victorious and the warrior appeared to become more and more agitated. But it was Midhir’s intention all along to win Eochaid’s sympathy and to lure him into a false sense of security.

“Perhaps it would be best,” suggested the King, “if we decided on a wager for our third and final game. Name your stake, choose any treasure you desire, and it will be forfeited to you if you are triumphant over me.”

“That is very generous of you,” replied Midhir, “but I have more than enough wealth and possessions to satisfy me. Perhaps you have a wife, however, who would not protest too loudly if I stole from her a single kiss as my prize?”

“I am sure she would not object,” answered Eochaid cheerfully, for he felt certain that Étain would never have to deliver such a trophy.

The two played on, but this time the King struggled to keep control of the game and at length he was beaten by the younger man. Eochaid now fell silent and began to regret that he had so carelessly offered his wife as prize. In desperation and despair, he begged his opponent to surrender his claim to the pledged kiss. But Midhir insisted firmly on the forfeit and the King was forced to honour his part of the bargain.

“Perhaps you will find it in your heart to show me a little kindness,” Eochaid pleaded, “and allow me time to reconcile myself to the dispatch of such a precious reward. Return to this palace one month from today and what you have asked for will not be denied you.”

“Your request is not unreasonable,” replied Midhir, “and it leads me to believe that a kiss from your wife must be worth the long wait.”

Then Eochaid Airem appointed a day at the end of the month when Midhir would return to collect his prize and the young warrior departed the palace, his heart lighter than it had been for a very long time.

As the days passed by and the time approached for Étain to deliver her kiss, the King became more and more protective of his beautiful wife. Fearing that his handsome rival would appear at any moment, he gave the order for the palace to be surrounded by a great host of armed men and instructed them not to allow any stranger to enter the grounds. Once he had made certain that the outer courtyards were protected and that the doors to the inner chambers were properly guarded, Eochaid began to feel more at ease and decided to invite his closest friends to dine with him later that evening in the banqueting hall. Étain appeared next to him in a gown of shimmering silver and a row of servants carried trays of the most exotic food and flagons of the finest wine through to the long table. While the queen poured the wine for her hosts, the hall began to fill with laughter and conversation and it was not long before Eochaid called for his musicians to begin playing.

In the midst of this happy atmosphere, nobody noticed the tall, elegant figure enter the room and make his way towards the King, his face noble and determined, his spear held proudly in his left hand. Étain suddenly raised her eyes and saw before her the young rider whose image had filled her sleeping hours since their meeting on the Hill of Tara. He appeared more beautiful and resplendent than ever, more eloquent and powerful than her memory had allowed for. A wonderful feeling of warmth and affection stirred within Étain’s breast as Midhir gazed tenderly upon her and she felt that somehow she had always known and loved the man who stood before her. Then Midhir addressed the King and his words were purposeful and resolute:

“Let me collect what has been promised me,” he said to Eochaid, “It is a debt that is due and the time is ripe for payment.”

The King and his party looked on helplessly as Midhir encircled the fair Étain in his arms. As their lips met, a thick veil of mist appeared around them, and they were lifted gracefully into the air and out into the night. Eochaid and his noblemen rushed from the banqueting hall in pursuit of the couple, but all they could see were two white swans circling the star-filled sky above the royal palace. Eochaid wept bitterly for his loss and swore solemnly that he would not rest a single moment until every fairy mound in the land had been dug up and destroyed in his search for Midhir the Proud.

THE ULSTER CYCLE

Introduction

Stories of Cúchulainn of the Red Guard

THE ULSTER CYCLE, also known as the Red Branch Cycle, is compiled of tales of Ulster’s traditional heroes, chief among whom is Cúchulainn (pronounced ‘Koo khul-in’), arguably the most important war-champion in ancient Irish literature. An account of his birth dating from the ninth century is retold here, although a great many variations exist.

From the age of six, Cúchulainn displays his supernatural ancestry and astounding strength. While still a child, he slays the terrifying hound of Culann. As a mere youth he is sent to train with the Knights of the Red Guard under Scathach and he alone is entrusted with the diabolical weapon known as the Gae Bolg. Later, he single-handedly defends Ulster against Queen Medb (pronounced ‘Maev’) while the rest of the province sleeps under the charm of Macha. His most notable exploits spanning his hectic warrior’s life up until his early death are recounted here.

Cúchulainn is said to have fallen at the battle of Muirthemne, c. 12 bc. He was finally overcome by his old enemy Lugaid, aided by the monstrous daughters of Calatin. As death approaches, Cúchulainn insists that he be allowed to bind himself upright to a pillar-stone. With his dying breath, he gives a loud, victorious laugh and when Lugaid attempts to behead his corpse, the enemy’s right hand is severed as the sword of Cúchulainn falls heavily upon it. The hero’s death is avenged by Conall the Victorious, but with the defeat of Cúchulainn, the end is sealed to the valiant reign of the Red Guard Knights in ancient Irish legend.

The Birth of Cúchulainn

KING CONCHOBAR MAC NESSA was ruler of Ulster at the time when Cúchulainn, the mightiest hero of the Red Guard, came to be born. It happened that one day, the King’s sister Dechtire, whom he cherished above all others, disappeared from the palace without warning, taking fifty of her maidens and her most valuable possessions with her. Although Conchobar summoned every known person in the court before him for questioning, no explanation could be discovered for his sister’s departure. For three long years, the King’s messengers scoured the country in search of Dechtire, but not one among them ever brought him news of her whereabouts.

At last, one summer’s morning, a strange flock of birds descended on the palace gardens of Emain Macha and began to gorge themselves on every fruit tree and vegetable patch in sight. Greatly disturbed by the greed and destruction he witnessed, the King immediately gathered together a party of his hunters, and they set off in pursuit of the birds, armed with powerful slings and the sharpest of arrows. Fergus mac Roig, Conchobar’s chief huntsman and guide, was among the group, as were his trusted warriors Amergin and Bricriu. As the day wore on, they found themselves being lured a great distance southward by the birds, across Sliab Fuait, towards the Plain of Gossa, and with every step taken they grew more angry and frustrated that not one arrow had yet managed to ruffle a single feather.

Nightfall had overtaken them before they had even noticed the light begin to fade, and the King, realizing that they would never make it safely back to the palace, gave the order for Fergus and some of the others to go out in search of a place of lodging for the party. Before long, Fergus came upon a small hut whose firelight was extremely inviting, and he approached and knocked politely on the door. He received a warm and hearty welcome from the old married couple within, and they at once offered him food and a comfortable bed for the evening. But Fergus would not accept their kind hospitality, knowing that his companions were still abroad without shelter.

“Then they are all invited to join us,” said the old woman, and as she bustled about, preparing food and wine for her visitors, Fergus went off to deliver his good news to Conchobar and the rest of the group.

Bricriu had also set off in search of accommodation, and as he had walked to the opposite side of the woodlands, he was certain that he heard the gentle sound of harp music. Instinctively drawn towards the sweet melody, he followed the winding path through the trees until he came upon a regal mansion standing proudly on the banks of the river Boyne. He timidly approached the noble structure, but there was no need for him to knock, since the door was already ajar and a young maiden, dressed in a flowing gown of shimmering gold, stood in the entrance hall ready to greet him. She was accompanied by a young man of great stature and splendid appearance who smiled warmly at Bricriu and extended his hand in friendship:

“You are indeed welcome,” said the handsome warrior, “we have been waiting patiently for your visit to our home this day.”

“Come inside, Bricriu,” said the beautiful maiden, “why is it that you linger out of doors?”

“Can it be that you do not recognize the woman who appears before you?” asked the warrior.

“Her great beauty stirs a memory from the past,” replied Bricriu, “but I cannot recall anything more at present.”

“You see before you Dechtire, sister of Conchobar mac Nessa,” said the warrior, “and the fifty maidens you have been seeking these three years are also in this house. They have today visited Emain Macha in the form of birds in order to lure you here.”

“Then I must go at once to the King and inform him of what I have discovered,” answered Bricriu, “for he will be overjoyed to know that Dechtire has been found and will be eager for her to accompany him back to the palace where there will be great feasting and celebration.”

He hurried back through the woods to rejoin the King and his companions. And when Conchobar heard the news of Bricriu’s discovery, he could scarcely contain his delight and was immediately anxious to be reunited with his sister. A messenger was sent forth to invite Dechtire and the warrior to share in their evening meal, and a place was hurriedly prepared for the couple at the table inside the welcoming little hut. But Dechtire was already suffering the first pangs of childbirth by the time Conchobar’s messenger arrived with his invitation. She excused herself by saying that she was tired and agreed instead to meet up with her brother at dawn on the following morning.

When the first rays of sunshine had brightened the heavens, Conchobar arose from his bed and began to prepare himself for Dechtire’s arrival. He had passed a very peaceful night and went in search of Fergus and the others in the happiest of moods. Approaching the place where his men were sleeping, he became convinced that he had heard the stifled cries of an infant. Again, as he drew nearer, the sound was repeated. He stooped down and began to examine a small, strange bundle lying on the ground next to Bricriu. As he unwrapped it, the bundle began to wriggle in his arms and a tiny pink hand revealed itself from beneath the cloth covering.

Dechtire did not appear before her brother that morning, or on any morning to follow. But she had left the King a great gift – a newborn male child fathered by the noble warrior, Lugh of the Long Arm, a child destined to achieve great things for Ulster. Conchobar took the infant back to the palace with him and gave him to his sister Finnchoem to look after. Finnchoem reared the child alongside her own son Conall and grew to love him as if he had been born of her own womb. He was given the name of Setanta, a name he kept until the age of six, and the druid Morann made the following prophecy over him:

“His praise will be sung by the most valorous knights,

And he will win the love of all

His deeds will be known throughout the land

For he will answer Ulster’s call.”

How Setanta Won the Name of Cúchulainn

WITHIN THE COURT OF EMAIN MACHA, there existed an élite group of boy athletes whose outstanding talents filled the King with an overwhelming sense of pride and joy. It had become a regular part of Conchobar’s daily routine to watch these boys at their various games and exercises, for nothing brought him greater pleasure than to witness their development into some of the finest sportsmen in Erin. He had named the group the Boy-Corps, and the sons of the most powerful chieftains and princes of the land were among its members, having proven their skill and dexterity in a wide and highly challenging range of sporting events.

Before Setanta had grown to the age of six, he had already expressed his desire before the King to be enrolled in the Boy-Corps. At first, Conchobar refused to treat the request seriously, since his nephew was a great deal younger than any other member, but the boy persisted, and the King at last agreed to allow him to try his hand. It was decided that he should join in a game of hurling one morning, and when he had dressed himself in the martial uniform of the Boy-Corps, he was presented with a brass hurley almost his own height off the ground.

A team of twelve boys was assembled to play against him and they sneered mockingly at the young lad before them, imagining they would have little difficulty keeping the ball out of his reach. But as soon as the game started up, Setanta dived in among the boys and took hold of the ball, striking it with his hurley and driving it a powerful distance to the other end of the field where it sailed effortlessly through the goal-posts. And after this first onslaught, he made it impossible for his opponents to retrieve the ball from him, so that within a matter of minutes he had scored fifty goals against the twelve of them. The whole corps looked on in utter amazement and the King, who had been eagerly following the game, was flushed with excitement. His nephew’s show of prowess was truly astonishing and he began to reproach himself for having originally set out to humour the boy.

“Have Setanta brought before me,” he said to his steward, “for such an impressive display of heroic strength and impertinent courage deserves a very special reward.”

Now on that particular day, Conchobar had been invited to attend a great feast at the house of Culann, the most esteemed craftsman and smith in the kingdom. A thought had suddenly entered Conchobar’s head that it would be a very fitting reward for Setanta to share in such a banquet, for no small boy had ever before accompanied the King and the Knights of the Red Guard on such a prestigious outing. It was indeed a great honour and one Setanta readily acknowledged. He desperately wanted to accept the invitation, but only one thing held him back. He could not suppress the desire of a true sportsman to conclude the game he had begun and pleaded with the King to allow him to do so:

“I have so thoroughly enjoyed the first half of my game with the Boy-Corps,” he told the King, “that I am loathe to cut it short. I promise to follow when the game is over if you will allow me this great liberty.”

And seeing the excitement and keenness shining in the boy’s eyes, Conchobar was more than happy to agree to this request. He instructed Setanta to follow on before nightfall and gave him directions to the house of Culann. Then he set off for the banquet, eager to relate the morning’s stirring events to the rest of Culann’s house guests.

It was early evening by the time the royal party arrived at the dwelling place of Culann. A hundred blazing torches guided them towards the walls of the fort and a carpet of fresh green rushes formed a mile-long path leading to the stately entrance. The great hall was already lavishly prepared for the banquet and the sumptuous aroma of fifty suckling pigs turning on the spit filled every room of the house. Culann himself came forward to greet each one of his guests and he bowed respectfully before the King and led him to his place of honour at the centre of the largest table. Once his royal guest had taken his seat, the order was given for the wine to be poured and the laughter and music followed soon afterwards. And when it was almost time for the food to be served, Culann glanced around him one last time to make certain that all his visitors had arrived.

“I think we need wait no longer,” he said to the King. “My guests are all present and it will now be safe to untie the hound who keeps watch over my home each night. There is not a hound in Erin who could equal mine for fierceness and strength, and even if a hundred men should attempt to do battle with him, every last one would be torn to pieces in his powerful jaws.”

“Release him then, and let him guard this place,” said Conchobar, quite forgetting that his young nephew had not yet joined the party. “My men are all present and our appetites have been whetted by our long journey here. Let us delay no longer and begin the feasting at once.”

And after the gong had been sounded, a procession of elegantly-clad attendants entered the room carrying gilded trays of roasted viands and freshly harvested fruit and vegetables, which they set down on the table before the King and the hungry warriors of the Red Guard.

It was just at this moment that the young Setanta came to the green of Culann’s fort carrying with him the hurley and the ball that had brought him victory against the Boy-Corps. As the boy drew nearer to the entrance of the fort, the hound’s ears pricked up warily and it began to growl and bark in such a way as to be heard throughout the entire countryside. The whole company within the great hall heard the animal snarling ferociously and raced outdoors to discover what exactly it was that had disturbed the creature. They saw before them a young boy, who showed little sign of fear as he stood facing the fierce dog with gaping jaws. The child was without any obvious weapon of defence against the animal, but as it charged at him, he thrust his playing ball forcefully down its throat causing it to choke for breath. Then he seized the hound by the hind legs and dashed its head against a rock until blood spewed from its mouth and the life had gone out of it.

Those who witnessed this extraordinary confrontation hoisted the lad triumphantly into the air and bore him on their shoulders to where Conchobar and Culann stood waiting. The King, although more than gratified by the boy’s demonstration of courage, was also much relieved to know that Setanta was safe. Turning to his host, he began to express his joy, but it was immediately apparent that Culann could share none of Conchobar’s happiness. He walked instead towards the body of his dead hound and fell into a mournful silence as he stroked the lifeless form, remembering the loyal and obedient animal who had given its life to protect its master’s property. Seeing Culann bent over the body of his faithful dog, Setanta came forward without hesitation and spoke the following words of comfort to him:

“If in all of Erin there is a hound to replace the one you have lost, I will find it, nurture it and place it in your service when it is fit for action. But, in the meantime, I myself will perform the duty of that hound and will guard your land and your possessions with the utmost pride.”

There was not one among the gathering who remained unmoved by this gesture of contrition and friendship. Culann, for his part, was overcome with gratitude and appreciation and declared that Setanta should bear the name of Cúchulainn, ‘Culann’s Hound’, in remembrance of his first great act of valour. And so, at the age of six, the boy Setanta was named Cúchulainn, a name by which he was known and feared until the end of his days.

The Tragedy of Cúchulainn and Connla

AS SOON AS CÚCHULAINN had reached the appropriate age to begin his formal training as a Knight of the Red Guard, it was decided at the court of Conchobar mac Nessa that he should depart for the Land of Shadows, where Scathach, the wisest, strongest, most celebrated woman-warrior, had prepared the path of his instruction in the feats of war. The stronghold of Scathach lay in a mysterious land overseas, beyond the bounds of the Plain of Ill-luck. It could only be reached by crossing the Perilous Glen, a journey very few had survived, for the Glen teemed with the fiercest of goblins lying in wait to devour hopeful young pilgrims. But even if a youth managed to come through the Perilous Glen unharmed, he had then to cross the Bridge of Leaps, underneath which the sea boiled and hissed furiously. This bridge was the highest and narrowest ever built and it spanned the steepest gorge in the western world. Only a handful of people had ever crossed it, but those who did were privileged to become the highest-ranking scholars of Scathach and the very finest of Erin’s warriors.

Within a week of leaving the court of Emain Macha, Cúchulainn had arrived at the Plain of Ill-luck and although he had already suffered many trials along the way, he knew in his heart that the worst still lay ahead. As he gazed out over the vast stretch of barren land he was obliged to traverse, he grew despondent, for he could see that one half was covered in a porous clay which would certainly cause his feet to stick fast, while the other was overgrown with long, coarse, straw-coloured grass, whose pointed blades were designed to slash a man’s limbs to pieces. And as he stood crestfallen, attempting to decide which of the two routes would prove less hazardous, he noticed a young man approaching on horseback from the east. The very appearance of the rider lifted Cúchulainn’s spirits, but when he observed that the youth’s countenance shone as splendidly as the golden orb of the sun (though he does not reveal himself, this is, of course, Cúchulainn’s father, Lugh of the Long Arm), he immediately felt hopeful and reassured once more. The two began to converse together and Cúchulainn enquired of the young man which track he considered the best to follow across the Plain of Ill-luck. The youth pondered the question awhile and then, reaching beneath his mantel, he handed Cúchulainn a leather pouch containing a small golden wheel.

“Roll this before you as you cross the quagmire,” he told Cúchulainn, “and it will scorch a path in the earth which you may follow safely to the stronghold of Scathach.”

Cúchulainn gratefully received the gift and bid farewell to the youth. And after he had set the wheel in motion, it led him safely, just as the young rider had promised, across the Plain of Ill-luck and through the Perilous Glen until he reached the outskirts of the Land of Shadows.

It was not long before he happened upon a small camp in the heart of the woodlands where the scholars of Scathach, the sons of the noblest princes and warriors of Erin, were busy at their training. He recognized at once his friend Ferdia, son of the Firbolg, Daman, and the two men embraced each other warmly. After Cúchulainn had told Ferdia all of the latest news from Ulster, he began to question his friend about the great woman-warrior who was set to educate him in arms.

“She dwells on the island beyond the Bridge of Leaps,” Ferdia told him, “which no man, not even myself, has ever managed to cross. It is said that when we have achieved a certain level of valour, Scathach herself will teach us to cross the bridge, and she will also teach us to thrust the Gae Bolg, a weapon reserved for only the bravest of champions.”

“Then I must prove to her that I am already valorous,” replied Cúchulainn, “by crossing that bridge without any assistance from her.”

“You are unlikely to succeed,” warned Ferdia, “for if a man steps on one end of the bridge, the middle rises up and flings him into the waters below where the mouths of sea-monsters lie open, ready to swallow him whole.”

But these words of caution merely fired Cúchulainn’s ambition to succeed in his quest. Retiring to a quiet place, he sat down to recover his strength from his long journey and waited anxiously for evening to fall.

The scholars of Scathach had all gathered to watch Cúchulainn attempt to cross the Bridge of Leaps and they began to jeer him loudly when after the third attempt he had failed to reach the far side. The mocking chorus that greeted his failure greatly infuriated the young warrior but prompted him at the same time to put all his strength and ability into one final, desperate leap. And at the fourth leap, which came to be known as “the hero’s salmon-leap”, Cúchulainn landed on the ground of the island at the far side of the bridge. Lifting himself off the ground, he strode triumphantly to the fortress of Scathach and beat loudly on the entrance door with the shaft of his spear. Scathach appeared before him, wonder-struck that a boy so young and fresh of face had demonstrated such courage and vigour. She agreed at once to accept him as her pupil, promising to teach him all the feats of war if he would pledge himself to remain under her tuition and guidance for a period not less than a full year and a day.

During the time that Cúchulainn dwelt with Scathach, he grew to become her favourite pupil, for he acquired each new skill with the greatest of ease and approached every additional challenge set him with the utmost enthusiasm. Scathach had never before deemed any of her students good enough to be trained in the use of the Gae Bolg, but she now considered Cúchulainn a champion worthy of this special honour and presented him one morning with the terrible weapon. Then she instructed him on how to use it and explained that it should be hurled with the foot, and upon entering the enemy it would fill every inch of his body with deadly barbs, killing him almost instantly.

It was while Cúchulainn remained under Scathach’s supervision that the Land of Shadows came under attack from the fiercest of tribal warriors, led by the Princess Aífe. After several weeks of bloody battle, during which no solution to the conflict could be reached, it was agreed that Scathach and Aífe should face each other in single combat. On hearing this news, Cúchulainn expressed the gravest concern and was adamant that he would accompany Scathach to the place where the contest was due to take place. Yet Scathach feared that something untoward might befall her young protégé, and she placed a sleeping-potion in Cúchulainn’s drink with the power to prevent him waking until she was safely reached her meeting place with Aífe. But the potion, which would have lasted twenty-four hours in any other man, held Cúchulainn in a slumber for less than one hour and when he awoke he seized his weapon and went forth to join the war against Aífe.

And not only did he slay three of Aífe’s finest warriors in the blink of an eyelid, he insisted on trading places with Scathach and facing the tribal-leader by himself. But before going into battle against her, he asked Scathach what it was that Aífe prized above all other things.

“What she most loves are her two horses, her chariot, and her charioteer,” she informed Cúchulainn. So he set off to meet Aífe, forearmed with this knowledge.

The two opponents met on the Path of Feats and entered into a vicious combat there. They had only clashed swords three or four times however, before Aífe delivered Cúchulainn a mighty blow, shattering his powerful sword to the hilt and leaving him defenceless. Seeing the damage to his weapon, Cúchulainn at once cried out:

“What a terrible fate that charioteer beyond has met with. Look, his chariot and his two beautiful horses have fallen down the glen.”

And as Aífe glanced around, Cúchulainn managed to seize her by the waist, squeezing firmly with his hands until she could hardly breathe and had dropped her sword at his feet. Then he carried her over his shoulder back to the camp of Scathach and flung her on the ground where he placed his knife at her throat.

“Do not take my life from me, Cúchulainn,” Aífe begged, “and I will agree to whatever you demand.”

It was soon settled between Scathach and Cúchulainn that Aífe should agree to a lasting peace and, as proof of her commitment, they pronounced that she should bind herself over to remain a full year as Cúchulainn’s hostage in the Land of Shadows. And after nine months, Aífe gave birth to a son whom she named Connla, for she and Cúchulainn had grown to become the best of friends and the closest of lovers with the passing of time.

Now sadly, the day arrived for Cúchulainn to depart the Land of Shadows, and knowing that Aífe would not accompany him, he spoke the following wish for his son’s future:

“I give you this golden ring for our child,” he told Aífe. “And when he has grown so that the ring fits his finger, send him away from here to seek out his father in Erin.

“Counsel him on my behalf to keep his identity secret,” he added, “so that he may stand proud on his own merit and never refuse a combat, or turn out of his way for any man.”

Then after he had uttered these words, Cúchulainn took his leave of Aífe and made his way back to his own land and his people.

Seven years had passed, during which time Cúchulainn had chosen Emer, daughter of Forgall, one of the finest maidens in Ulster, to become his wife, and the two lived a very happy life together. He rarely thought of Aífe and the son he had left behind in the Land of Shadows, for he had also risen to become captain of the House of the Red Branch of Conchobar mac Nessa and was by far the busiest and most respected warrior in the kingdom.

It was at this time, however, that Connla, son of Cúchulainn, set out on his journey to be reunited with his father in Erin, approaching her shores on the precise day that all the great warriors and noble lords of Ulster were assembled for an annual ceremony on the Strand of Footprints. They were very much surprised to see a little boat of bronze appear on the crest of the waves, and in it a small boy clutching a pair of gilded oars, steering his way steadily towards them. The boy seemed not to notice them and every so often he stopped rowing and bent down to pick up a stone from the heap he had collected at the bottom of the boat. Then, putting one of these stones into a sling, he launched a splendid shot at the sea-birds above, bringing the creatures down, stunned, but unharmed, one after another, in a manner far too quick for the naked eye to perceive. The whole party looked on in amazement as the lad performed these wonderful feats, but the King soon grew uncomfortable at the spectacle he witnessed and called Condere, son of Eochaid, to him:

“This boy’s arrival here does not bode well for us,” said the King. “For if grown-up men of his kind were to follow in his wake, they would grind us all to dust. Let someone go to meet him and inform him that he is not welcome on Erin’s soil.”

And as the boy came to moor his boat, Condere approached him and delivered Conchobar’s message.

“Go and tell your King,” said the boy, “that even if everyone among you here had the strength of a hundred men, and you all came forward to challenge me, you would not be able to persuade me to turn back from this place.”

Hearing these words, the King grew even more concerned and he called Conall the Victorious to him:

“This lad mocks us,” Conchobar told him, “and it is now time for a show of force against him.”

So Conall was sent against the boy, but as he approached the lad put a stone in his sling and sent it whizzing with a noise like thunder through the air. It struck Conall on the forehead, knocking him backwards to the ground and before he could even think about rising to his feet, the boy had bound his arms and legs with the strap from his shield. And in this manner, the youth made a mockery of the host of Ulster, challenging man after man to confront him, and succeeding on every occasion to defeat his opponents with little or no effort.

At last, when King Conchobar could suffer this humiliation no longer, he sent a messenger to Dundalk to the house of Cúchulainn requesting that he come and do battle against the young boy whom Conall the Victorious could not even manage to overcome. And hearing that her husband was prepared to meet this challenge, Emer, his wife, went and pleaded with him not to go forward to the Strand of Footprints:

“Do not go against the boy,” she begged Cúchulainn, “since the great courage he possesses has convinced me that he is Connla, son of Aífe. Hear my voice, Cúchulainn, and do not go forward to murder your only child.”

“Even if he were my son,” replied Cúchulainn, “I would slay him for the honour of Ulster.”

And he ordered his chariot to be yoked without further delay and set off in the direction of the strand.

Soon afterwards, he came upon the young boy sitting in his boat polishing stones and calmly awaiting his next opponent. Cúchulainn strode towards him, demanding to know his name and lineage. But the boy would not reveal his identity or the slightest detail of the land of his birth. Then Cúchulainn lost patience with him and they began to exchange blows. With one daring stroke, the boy cut off a lock of Cúchulainn’s hair, and as he watched it fall to the ground, the older warrior became greatly enraged.

“Enough of this child’s play,” he shouted and, dragging the boy from the boat, he began to wrestle with him in the water. But the boy’s strength was astonishing and he managed twice to push Cúchulainn’s head beneath the waves, almost causing him to drown. And it was on the third occasion that this occurred, when Cúchulainn gasped helplessly for air, that he remembered the Gae Bolg which Scathach had entrusted him with, and he flung it at the boy through the water. At once, the boy loosened his powerful hold and reached agonizingly towards his stomach, where the blood flowed freely from the vast gaping wound the weapon had made there.

“That is a weapon Scathach has not yet taught me to use,” said the boy. “Carry me now from the water, for I am gravely injured.”

And as Cúchulainn bore the boy in his arms towards the shore he noticed a golden ring on his middle finger.

“It is true then,” he murmured sadly to himself, and set the boy down on the ground before the King and the men of Ulster.

“You see here before you my son,” Cúchulainn announced solemnly, “the child I have mortally wounded for the good of Ulster.”

“Alas, it is so,” spoke Connla in a feeble voice, “and I wish with all my heart that I could remain with you to the end of five years. For in that time, I would grow among you and conquer the world before you on every side, so that soon you would rule as far as Rome. But since this cannot be, let me now take my leave of the most famous among you before I die.”

So, one after another, the most courageous knights of the Red Guard were brought before Connla and he placed his arms around the neck of each of them and embraced them affectionately. Then Cúchulainn came forward and his son kissed his father tenderly before drawing his last breath. And as he closed his eyes, a great lament was raised among them and they dug a grave for the boy and set a splendid pillar-stone at its head. Connla, son of Aífe, was the only son Cúchulainn ever had and he lived to regret for the rest of his days that he had destroyed so precious a gift.

The Combat of Ferdia and Cúchulainn

BEYOND THE BORDERS OF ULSTER in the province of Connacht, there ruled a spirited and domineering queen named Medb, daughter of Eochaid Fedlech, whose husband, King Ailill, was the meekest and gentlest of creatures. Medb’s nature was such that whatever she desired she took for her own, and whatever law displeased her, she refused to obey, so that her husband gave her whatever she demanded and nothing was ever too great a task for him to complete on her behalf. Medb was also the strongest and mightiest of warriors and she had gathered together a powerful army, convinced that one day she would conquer the whole land of Erin.

One evening as Medb and her husband lay together, they began to count up and compare their numerous possessions, for it was one of Medb’s favourite entertainments to ridicule Ailill by proving that she had acquired far more treasures and wealth than he had over the years. Weapons, rings and jewellery were counted out, as well as chariots, horses, mansions and plots of land, but each of them was found to possess precisely the same amount as the other. So they began to count the herds of cattle and sheep that roamed the pastures beyond the walls of the castle and it was then that Ailill remembered the Bull of Finnbennach and began to tease his wife about the animal, reminding her of how the bull had deserted her herd in favour of his because it refused to remain in the hands of a woman. As soon as Medb heard these words, all of her property lost its value for her, and she grew adamant that she would soon find a bull to equal the Bull of Finnbennach even if she had to scour the entire countryside for it and bring it back to Connacht by force.

Mac Roth, the King’s steward, was summoned to appear before Medb and when she questioned him on the whereabouts of such a bull, he was able to tell her without any hesitation exactly where the best specimen in the country might be found:

“It belongs to Daire mac Fiachna in the province of Ulster,” he told the Queen. “It is known as the Brown Bull of Cooley and is regarded as the finest beast in the whole of Erin.”

“Then you must go to the son of Fiachna and ask him for the loan of the bull for a year,” replied Medb, “informing him that at the end of this time, the beast will be safely returned to him, together with fifty of the finest heifers my kingdom has to offer. And if Daire chooses to bring the bull here himself, he may add to his reward a measure of land equalling the size of his present domain in Ulster and a splendid war chariot worthy of the bravest of Connacht’s warriors.”

On the following morning, a group of nine foot-messengers led by mac Roth set off in the direction of Ulster, carrying with them a number of gifts from Queen Medb to the owner of the bull, including an oak chest loaded with gold and silver ornaments and several decorated bronze flagons filled with the finest mead in the land. The mere sight of such a treasure-laden party approaching the fort of Daire mac Fiachna raised the spirits of all who set eyes on them and a very warm welcome was lavished on the men. Then Daire himself came forward to greet the party and enquired of them the purpose of their journey to his home. Mac Roth began to tell him of the squabble between Medb and Ailill and of how the Queen had decided that she must quickly find a bull to match the impressive Bull of Finnbennach. Flattered that his own beast had achieved such fame in Connacht, Daire was immediately disposed to help Queen Medb as best he could, but when he heard of the generous reward he would receive in return for the loan of his property, he was well pleased with himself and gave the order at once for the Bull of Cooley to be prepared for its journey to Connacht the next day.

The evening was spent feasting and drinking and a happy atmosphere prevailed for a time as the men of the two provinces exchanged friendly conversation. But as the wine flowed, the tongues of Queen Medb’s messengers began to loosen and in the company of their hosts they began to brag of their army’s great strength:

“It is just as well for Daire,” boasted one of Medb’s envoys, “that he has surrendered the beast willingly to us. For if he had refused to do so, the Queen’s mighty army would have marched on Ulster and taken the bull from him without any trouble at all.”

When Daire’s men heard these offensive remarks, they went straightaway to their master’s quarters and demanded that he avenge such a dreadful insult. Mac Roth was immediately summoned to appear before Daire who angrily informed him of the conversation that had been overheard.

“Go back to your Queen,” said Daire, “and tell her that she shall never take from me by foul means what she cannot win by fair. Let Medb and Ailill invade Ulster if they dare, for we are well equipped to meet the challenge.”

Before the break of day, Medb’s messengers had set off for Connacht to deliver the unhappy tidings to their Queen. But when Medb saw that they had not returned with the Brown Bull of Cooley, she did not fly into the rage they had expected. Instead, she spoke calmly to mac Roth:

“I have foreseen this result,” she told him. “Your dispute with the son of Fiachna is of little consequence, for I have always known that if the Brown Bull of Cooley was not given willingly, he would be taken by force. That time is now arrived, and taken he shall be!”

So began the Queen of Connacht’s great war on Ulster, one of the bloodiest wars the country had ever before endured. From every corner of Erin came the allies of Medb and Ailill, including Fraech, son of Fidach, and Calatin, accompanied by his twenty-seven sons. Warriors of great renown from the provinces of Leinster and Munster swelled the numbers of Medb’s armed legions, and they were joined by many heroic Ulstermen, among them Fergus mac Roy and Cormac, son of Conchobar, who had defected from their own army, unhappy with their King’s leadership.

Not a day or a night passed without a fierce and fiery combat between the armies of Connacht and Ulster. Rivers and streams ran crimson with blood and the bodies of the slain littered the emerald hills and plains. Medb was not slow to display her true worth as a warrior in her own right and Fergus, her chief scout, proved himself a most loyal and courageous comrade in arms. Yet there was none among Medb’s great army who could emulate the feats of one particular Ulster warrior, a youthful figure who seemed utterly invincible and who drove himself against them time and time again, bursting with renewed vitality and strength on each occasion.

Cúchulainn, leader of Ulster’s Red Guard, was well known to both Fergus and Cormac, but he had grown stronger and more powerful than they had ever imagined possible during their brief time of exile. And as they observed his powers of command and his exceptional skill on the battlefield, they became increasingly alarmed and went before the Queen to warn her that she was faced with no ordinary opponent. Medb grew worried at this news and took counsel with the most prominent figures of her army. After some deliberation, it was decided that her most valiant warrior should be sent to do battle against Cúchulainn. The son of Daman, known as Ferdia, was nominated for this task, for he had been trained alongside Cúchulainn under the great woman-warrior Scathach in the Land of Shadows and had risen to become Connacht’s champion warrior, a man feared and respected by all who encountered him.

Nothing had ever yet challenged the deep bond of friendship formed between Ferdia and Cúchulainn during their time together in the Land of Shadows. The love and respect the two men felt for each other had remained constant over the years, and whenever they found occasion to be together, it was not unusual for people to mistake them for brothers. When Ferdia discovered what Medb demanded of him, he was greatly disturbed, and though he was loathe to oppose the wishes of his sovereign, he immediately refused the Queen’s request and dismissed her messengers. Then Medb sent her druids and men of poetry to Ferdia’s tent, instructing them to recite the most savage and mocking verses in the loudest of voices for everybody to hear.

It was for the sake of his own honour that Ferdia agreed to meet with Medb and Ailill without any further delay. The King and Queen were more than delighted to receive him and Medb wasted no time reeling off the numerous rewards Ferdia could hope to receive if he would only obey her simple wish. But Ferdia showed no interest in the riches that were intended for him, so that Medb grew more and more angry and frustrated. She had little or nothing to lose by playing her one last card and with a tone of false resignation she addressed Ferdia once more:

“It must be true what Cúchulainn has said of you,” said Medb slyly. “He said that you feared death by his hands and that you would be wise not to go against him. Perhaps it is just as well that the two of you do not meet.”

On hearing this, Ferdia could scarcely contain his anger:

“It was unjust of Cúchulainn to say such a thing,” he roared. “He well knows that it is not cowardice, but love, that prevents me facing him. So it is settled then. Tomorrow I will go forth to his camp and raise my weapon against him.”

But even as he spoke these words, a mood of gloom and despair descended upon Ferdia and he walked out into the black night, his head bowed in sadness. His closest companions and servants were also overcome with grief to discover what it was that Ferdia was compelled to do, for each was troubled by the knowledge that one of the two great champion warriors of Erin would fail to return home alive.

Word had soon reached Cúchulainn that Medb had chosen his dearest friend to face him in combat and, as he watched Ferdia’s war chariot approach, he was forced to acknowledge in his own mind that he would much rather fall by his friend’s weapon than slay Ferdia with his own. Yet, at the same time, he could not fully understand why his fosterbrother had so easily given into the wishes of Queen Medb. The betrayal he felt could not be ignored and he prepared himself to greet Ferdia with a degree of caution and reserve. As Ferdia stood down from his chariot, Cúchulainn did not rush forward to embrace him as he would have done in the past, but remained at a distance, waiting for his friend to make the first gesture of friendship.

“I wish that we could have met again in more favourable circumstances,” said Ferdia. “With all my heart I long to embrace you, old friend.”

“I once would have trusted such words,” answered Cúchulainn, “but I no longer place any trust in what you say when I know that you have abandoned our friendship for the sake of a treacherous queen and the rewards she no doubt promised you.”

“I see that treason has overcome our love,” replied Ferdia sadly, “but it is just as well that you think this way. It is best not to remember our friendship, but to meet each other as true enemies of war.”

And so they began to choose the weapons they would use against each other and it was agreed that they would begin the day’s fighting with small javelins. They hurled these at each other, backwards and forwards through the air with great energy and speed, but by the close of day, not one spear had pierced the shield of either champion. As nightfall approached, they called a truce, and agreed to resume combat with different weapons at dawn on the following morning.

On the second day, Cúchulainn and Ferdia took up the fight once more, remaining seated in their chariots as they cast heavy, broad-bladed spears at each other across the ford from noon until sundown. But on this day, they both suffered many wounds that stained their flesh red with blood. When they had grown weary of the battle, they again agreed to stop fighting until morning and, placing their weapons in the hands of their servants, they moved towards each other and kissed and embraced warmly in remembrance of their friendship. Their horses shared the same paddock that evening and their charioteers gathered round the same fire. Healing herbs were laid on their wounds and they both rested until daybreak.

As the third day of combat was about to commence and the two men stood opposite each other once more, Cúchulainn was suddenly struck by the change which seemed to have occurred overnight in his friend. Ferdia’s brow was now deeply furrowed and his eyes reflected a deep, dark sadness. He no longer held himself upright and he lurched forward wearily to meet his opponent. Filled with pity and sorrow, Cúchulainn pleaded with Ferdia to abandon the fighting, but his friend merely shook his head, insisting that he must fulfil his contract with Queen Medb and King Ailill. They proceeded to choose their weapons and armed themselves with full-length shields and hard-smiting swords. Then they began to strike each other savagely and viciously until they had each carved great wedges of flesh from the other’s shoulder-blades and thighs. Still the combat could not be resolved and they decided to part once more for the evening, their bodies torn to shreds and their friendship shattered irreparably. And on this occasion, no kiss was exchanged between them, no curing herbs were exchanged, and their horses and charioteers slept in separate quarters.

As the sun was about to rise on the fourth morning, Ferdia arose and walked out alone to the ford of combat. He wore the jaded, sorrowful expression of a man who senses death close at hand and he began to arm himself with particular care and attention. He knew instinctively that the decisive day of the battle had arrived and that one of them would certainly fall before the evening had drawn to a close. Next to his skin he wore a tunic of silk, speckled with gold and over this he placed a thick leather smock. He then laid a huge, flat stone, which he had carried all the way from Africa, across his torso and covered it with a solid iron apron. On his head he placed a crested war-helmet, adorned with crystals and rubies. He carried in his left hand a massive shield with fifty bosses of bronze and in his right, he clutched his mighty battle-sword. And when at last he was satisfied that he had protected himself against injury as best he could, he remained by the ford, performing many impressive feats with his sword while he awaited the arrival of Cúchulainn.

It was decided between the two warriors on this fourth day that they should use whatever weapons they had to hand and once they had gathered these together the fighting began in earnest. So wild was their rage on that morning, so bitter and violent the clashing of their swords, even the goblins and demons of the air fled in fear. Every creature of the forest shrieked in terror and ran for cover, while the waters themselves changed course, recoiling from the horror and ruthlessness of the combat. And as the afternoon came and went, the wounds inflicted were now deeper and more savage. Each man, although staggering with exhaustion, sought to outdo the other and remained watchful of just such an opportunity. Then, at last, in a moment of acute weariness, Cúchulainn lowered his heavy shield and as soon as he had done so, Ferdia thrust at him with his blade, driving it cleanly through his breast, causing the blood to flow freely down the battle-warrior’s tunic. Again, Ferdia struck with his sword and this time it entered Cúchulainn’s stomach so that he curled over in agony and began writhing on the earth. And knowing that he must save himself before it was too late, Cúchulainn reached for the Gae Bolg, a weapon he was resolved to use only as a last resort. Taking careful aim, he let fly the instrument with his right foot so that it passed through Ferdia’s protective iron apron, through to the flat stone which it broke in three pieces and into the body of his friend filling every joint and every limb with its deadly barbs.

Cúchulainn hastened towards where his friend lay and pulled him gently to his bosom.

“Death is almost upon me,” sighed Ferdia, “and it is a sad day for us that our friendship should come to such an end. Do not forget the love we once had, Cúchulainn.”

And as Ferdia perished in his arms, Cúchulainn wept piteously, clasping his friend’s cold hand lovingly in his own. Then he lifted the body from the damp earth and carried it northwards across the ford to a place where they would not be disturbed by the approaching armies of Ulster. Daylight faded and as Cúchulainn lay down next to Ferdia he fell into a death-like swoon from which he could not be roused for a full seven days.

The Story of Deirdre

THERE WAS A MAN in Ireland once who was called Malcolm Harper^1. The man was a right good man, and he had a goodly share of this world’s goods. He had a wife, but no family. What did Malcolm hear but that a soothsayer had come home to the place, and as the man was a right good man, he wished that the soothsayer might come near them. Whether it was that he was invited or that he came of himself, the soothsayer came to the house of Malcolm.

“Are you doing any soothsaying?” says Malcolm.

“Yes, I am doing a little. Are you in need of soothsaying?”

“Well, I do not mind taking soothsaying from you, if you had soothsaying for me, and you would be willing to do it.”

“Well, I will do soothsaying for you. What kind of soothsaying do you want?”

“Well, the soothsaying I wanted was that you would tell me my lot or what will happen to me, if you can give me knowledge of it.”

“Well, I am going out, and when I return, I will tell you.”

And the soothsayer went forth out of the house and he was not long outside when he returned.

“Well,” said the soothsayer, “I saw in my second sight that it is on account of a daughter of yours that the greatest amount of blood shall be shed that has ever been shed in Erin since time and race began. And the three most famous heroes that ever were found will lose their heads on her account.”

After a time a daughter was born to Malcolm, he did not allow a living being to come to his house, only himself and the nurse. He asked this woman, “Will you yourself bring up the child to keep her in hiding far away where eye will not see a sight of her nor ear hear a word about her?”

The woman said she would, so Malcolm got three men, and he took them away to a large mountain, distant and far from reach, without the knowledge or notice of any one. He caused there a hillock, round and green, to be dug out of the middle, and the hole thus made to be covered carefully over so that a little company could dwell there together. This was done.

Deirdre and her foster-mother dwelt in the bothy mid the hills without the knowledge or the suspicion of any living person about them and without anything occurring, until Deirdre was sixteen years of age. Deirdre grew like the white sapling, straight and trim as the rash on the moss. She was the creature of fairest form, of loveliest aspect, and of gentlest nature that existed between earth and heaven in all Ireland – whatever colour of hue she had before, there was nobody that looked into her face but she would blush fiery red over it.

The woman that had charge of her, gave Deirdre every information and skill of which she herself had knowledge and skill. There was not a blade of grass growing from root, nor a bird singing in the wood, nor a star shining from heaven but Deirdre had a name for it. But one thing, she did not wish her to have either part or parley with any single living man of the rest of the world. But on a gloomy winter night, with black, scowling clouds, a hunter of game was wearily travelling the hills, and what happened but that he missed the trail of the hunt, and lost his course and companions. A drowsiness came upon the man as he wearily wandered over the hills, and he lay down by the side of the beautiful green knoll in which Deirdre lived, and he slept. The man was faint from hunger and wandering, and benumbed with cold, and a deep sleep fell upon him. When he lay down beside the green hill where Deirdre was, a troubled dream came to the man, and he thought that he enjoyed the warmth of a fairy broch, the fairies being inside playing music. The hunter shouted out in his dream, if there was any one in the broch, to let him in for the Holy One’s sake. Deirdre heard the voice and said to her foster-mother: “O foster-mother, what cry is that?” “It is nothing at all, Deirdre – merely the birds of the air astray and seeking each other. But let them go past to the bosky glade. There is no shelter or house for them here.” “Oh, foster-mother, the bird asked to get inside for the sake of the God of the Elements, and you yourself tell me that anything that is asked in His name we ought to do. If you will not allow the bird that is being benumbed with cold, and done to death with hunger, to be let in, I do not think much of your language or your faith. But since I give credence to your language and to your faith, which you taught me, I will myself let in the bird.” And Deirdre arose and drew the bolt from the leaf of the door, and she let in the hunter. She placed a seat in the place for sitting, food in the place for eating, and drink in the place for drinking for the man who came to the house. “Oh, for this life and raiment, you man that came in, keep restraint on your tongue!” said the old woman. “It is not a great thing for you to keep your mouth shut and your tongue quiet when you get a home and shelter of a hearth on a gloomy winter’s night.”

“Well,” said the hunter, “I may do that – keep my mouth shut and my tongue quiet, since I came to the house and received hospitality from you; but by the hand of thy father and grandfather, and by your own two hands, if some other of the people of the world saw this beauteous creature you have here hid away, they would not long leave her with you, I swear.”

“What men are these you refer to?” said Deirdre.

“Well, I will tell you, young woman,” said the hunter.

“They are Naois^2, son of Uisnech^3, and Allen^4 and Arden^5 his two brothers.”

“What like are these men when seen, if we were to see them?” said Deirdre.

“Why, the aspect and form of the men when seen are these,” said the hunter: “they have the colour of the raven on their hair, their skin like swan on the wave in whiteness, and their cheeks as the blood of the brindled red calf, and their speed and their leap are those of the salmon of the torrent and the deer of the grey mountain side. And Naois is head and shoulders over the rest of the people of Erin.”

“However they are,” said the nurse, “be you off from here and take another road. And, King of Light and Sun! in good sooth and certainty, little are my thanks for yourself or for her that let you in!”

The hunter went away, and went straight to the palace of King Connachar^6. He sent word in to the king that he wished to speak to him if he pleased. The king answered the message and came out to speak to the man. “What is the reason of your journey?” said the king to the hunter.

“I have only to tell you, O king,” said the hunter, “that I saw the fairest creature that ever was born in Erin, and I came to tell you of it.”

“Who is this beauty and where is she to be seen, when she was not seen before till you saw her, if you did see her?”

“Well, I did see her,” said the hunter. “But, if I did, no man else can see her unless he get directions from me as to where she is dwelling.”

“And will you direct me to where she dwells? and the reward of your directing me will be as good as the reward of your message,” said the king.

“Well, I will direct you, O king, although it is likely that this will not be what they want,” said the hunter.

Connachar, King of Ulster, sent for his nearest kinsmen, and he told them of his intent. Though early rose the song of the birds mid the rocky caves and the music of the birds in the grove, earlier than that did Connachar, King of Ulster, arise, with his little troop of dear friends, in the delightful twilight of the fresh and gentle May; the dew was heavy on each bush and flower and stem, as they went to bring Deirdre forth from the green knoll where she stayed. Many a youth was there who had a lithe leaping and lissom step when they started whose step was faint, failing, and faltering when they reached the bothy on account of the length of the way and roughness of the road.

“Yonder, now, down in the bottom of the glen is the bothy where the woman dwells, but I will not go nearer than this to the old woman,” said the hunter.

Connachar with his band of kinsfolk went down to the green knoll where Deirdre dwelt and he knocked at the door of the bothy. The nurse replied, “No less than a king’s command and a king’s army could put me out of my bothy tonight. And I should be obliged to you, were you to tell who it is that wants me to open my bothy door.”

“It is I, Connachar, King of Ulster.” When the poor woman heard who was at the door, she rose with haste and let in the king and all that could get in of his retinue.

When the king saw the woman that was before him that he had been in quest of, he thought he never saw in the course of the day nor in the dream of night a creature so fair as Deirdre and he gave his full heart’s weight of love to her. Deirdre was raised on the topmost of the heroes’ shoulders and she and her foster-mother were brought to the Court of King Connachar of Ulster.

With the love that Connachar had for her, he wanted to marry Deirdre right off there and then, will she nill she marry him. But she said to him, “I would be obliged to you if you will give me the respite of a year and a day.” He said “I will grant you that, hard though it is, if you will give me your unfailing promise that you will marry me at the year’s end.” And she gave the promise. Connachar got for her a woman-teacher and merry modest maidens fair that would lie down and rise with her, that would play and speak with her. Deirdre was clever in maidenly duties and wifely understanding, and Connachar thought he never saw with bodily eye a creature that pleased him more.

Deirdre and her women companions were one day out on the hillock behind the house enjoying the scene, and drinking in the sun’s heat. What did they see coming but three men a-journeying. Deirdre was looking at the men that were coming, and wondering at them. When the men neared them, Deirdre remembered the language of the huntsman, and she said to herself that these were the three sons of Uisnech, and that this was Naois, he having what was above the bend of the two shoulders above the men of Erin all. The three brothers went past without taking any notice of them, without even glancing at the young girls on the hillock. What happened but that love for Naois struck the heart of Deirdre, so that she could not but follow after him. She girded up her raiment and went after the men that went past the base of the knoll, leaving her women attendants there. Allen and Arden had heard of the woman that Connachar, King of Ulster, had with him, and they thought that, if Naois, their brother, saw her, he would have her himself, more especially as she was not married to the King. They perceived the woman coming, and called on one another to hasten their step as they had a long distance to travel, and the dusk of night was coming on. They did so. She cried: “Naois, son of Uisnech, will you leave me?” “What piercing, shrill cry is that – the most melodious my ear ever heard, and the shrillest that ever struck my heart of all the cries I ever heard?” “It is anything else but the wail of the wave-swans of Connachar,” said his brothers. “No! yonder is a woman’s cry of distress,” said Naois, and he swore he would not go further until he saw from whom the cry came, and Naois turned back. Naois and Deirdre met, and Deirdre kissed Naois three times, and a kiss each to his brothers. With the confusion that she was in, Deirdre went into a crimson blaze of fire, and her colour came and went as rapidly as the movement of the aspen by the stream side. Naois thought he never saw a fairer creature, and Naois gave Deirdre the love that he never gave to thing, to vision, or to creature but to herself.

Then Naois placed Deirdre on the topmost height of his shoulder, and told his brothers to keep up their pace, and they kept up their pace. Naois thought that it would not be well for him to remain in Erin on account of the way in which Connachar, King of Ulster, his uncle’s son, had gone against him because of the woman, though he had not married her; and he turned back to Alba, that is, Scotland. He reached the side of Loch-Ness and made his habitation there. He could kill the salmon of the torrent from out his own door, and the deer of the grey gorge from out his window. Naois and Deirdre and Allen and Arden dwelt in a tower, and they were happy so long a time as they were there.

By this time the end of the period came at which Deirdre had to marry Connachar, King of Ulster. Connachar made up his mind to take Deirdre away by the sword whether she was married to Naois or not. So he prepared a great and gleeful feast. He sent word far and wide through Erin all to his kinspeople to come to the feast. Connachar thought to himself that Naois would not come though he should bid him; and the scheme that arose in his mind was to send for his father’s brother, Ferchar Mac Ro, and to send him on an embassy to Naois. He did so; and Connachar said to Ferchar, “Tell Naois, son of Uisnech, that I am setting forth a great and gleeful feast to my friends and kinspeople throughout the wide extent of Erin all, and that I shall not have rest by day nor sleep by night if he and Allen and Arden be not partakers of the feast.”

Ferchar Mac Ro and his three sons went on their journey, and reached the tower where Naois was dwelling by the side of Loch Etive. The sons of Uisnech gave a cordial kindly welcome to Ferchar Mac Ro and his three sons, and asked of him the news of Erin. “The best news that I have for you,” said the hardy hero, “is that Connachar, King of Ulster, is setting forth a great sumptuous feast to his friends and kinspeople throughout the wide extent of Erin all, and he has vowed by the earth beneath him, by the high heaven above him, and by the sun that wends to the west, that he will have no rest by day nor sleep by night if the sons of Uisnech, the sons of his own father’s brother, will not come back to the land of their home and the soil of their nativity, and to the feast likewise, and he has sent us on embassy to invite you.”

“We will go with you,” said Naois.

“We will,” said his brothers.

But Deirdre did not wish to go with Ferchar Mac Ro, and she tried every prayer to turn Naois from going with him – she said:

“I saw a vision, Naois, and do you interpret it to me,” said Deirdre – then she sang:

“O Naois, son of Uisnech, hear

What was shown in a dream to me.

There came three white doves out of the South

Flying over the sea,

And drops of honey were in their mouth

From the hive of the honey-bee.

O Naois, son of Uisnech, hear,

What was shown in a dream to me.

I saw three grey hawks out of the south

Come flying over the sea,

And the red red drops they bare in their mouth

They were dearer than life to me.”

Said Naois:

“It is nought but the fear of woman’s heart,

And a dream of the night, Deirdre.

“The day that Connachar sent the invitation to his feast will be unlucky for us if we don’t go, O Deirdre.”

“You will go there,” said Ferchar Mac Ro; “and if Connachar show kindness to you, show ye kindness to him; and if he will display wrath towards you display ye wrath towards him, and I and my three sons will be with you.”

“We will,” said Daring Drop. “We will,” said Hardy Holly. “We will,” said Fiallan the Fair.

“I have three sons, and they are three heroes, and in any harm or danger that may befall you, they will be with you, and I myself will be along with them.” And Ferchar Mac Ro gave his vow and his word in presence of his arms that, in any harm or danger that came in the way of the sons of Uisnech, he and his three sons would not leave head on live body in Erin, despite sword or helmet, spear or shield, blade or mail, be they ever so good.

Deirdre was unwilling to leave Alba, but she went with Naois. Deirdre wept tears in showers and she sang:

“Dear is the land, the land over there,

Alba full of woods and lakes;

Bitter to my heart is leaving thee,

But I go away with Naois.”

Ferchar Mac Ro did not stop till he got the sons of Uisnech away with him, despite the suspicion of Deirdre.

“The coracle was put to sea,

The sail was hoisted to it;

And the second morrow they arrived

On the white shores of Erin.”

As soon as the sons of Uisnech landed in Erin, Ferchar Mac Ro sent word to Connachar, king of Ulster, that the men whom he wanted were come, and let him now show kindness to them. “Well,” said Connachar, “I did not expect that the sons of Uisnech would come, though I sent for them, and I am not quite ready to receive them. But there is a house down yonder where I keep strangers, and let them go down to it today, and my house will be ready before them tomorrow.”

But he that was up in the palace felt it long that he was not getting word as to how matters were going on for those down in the house of the strangers. “Go you, Gelban Grednach, son of Lochlin’s King, go you down and bring me information as to whether her former hue and complexion are on Deirdre. If they be, I will take her out with edge of blade and point of sword, and if not, let Naois, son of Uisnech, have her for himself,” said Connachar.

Gelban, the cheering and charming son of Lochlin’s King, went down to the place of the strangers, where the sons of Uisnech and Deirdre were staying. He looked in through the bicker-hole on the door-leaf. Now she that he gazed upon used to go into a crimson blaze of blushes when any one looked at her. Naois looked at Deirdre and knew that some one was looking at her from the back of the door-leaf. He seized one of the dice on the table before him and fired it through the bicker-hole, and knocked the eye out of Gelban Grednach the Cheerful and Charming, right through the back of his head. Gelban returned back to the palace of King Connachar.

“You were cheerful, charming, going away, but you are cheerless, charmless, returning. What has happened to you, Gelban? But have you seen her, and are Deirdre’s hue and complexion as before?” said Connachar.

“Well, I have seen Deirdre, and I saw her also truly, and while I was looking at her through the bicker-hole on the door, Naois, son of Uisnech, knocked out my eye with one of the dice in his hand. But of a truth and verity, although he put out even my eye, it were my desire still to remain looking at her with the other eye, were it not for the hurry you told me to be in,” said Gelban.

“That is true,” said Connachar; “let three hundred bravo heroes go down to the abode of the strangers, and let them bring hither to me Deirdre, and kill the rest.”

Connachar ordered three hundred active heroes to go down to the abode of the strangers and to take Deirdre up with them and kill the rest. “The pursuit is coming,” said Deirdre.

“Yes, but I will myself go out and stop the pursuit,” said Naois.

“It is not you, but we that will go,” said Daring Drop, and Hardy Holly, and Fiallan the Fair; “it is to us that our father entrusted your defence from harm and danger when he himself left for home.” And the gallant youths, full noble, full manly, full handsome, with beauteous brown locks, went forth girt with battle arms fit for fierce fight and clothed with combat dress for fierce contest fit, which was burnished, bright, brilliant, bladed, blazing, on which were many pictures of beasts and birds and creeping things, lions and lithe-limbed tigers, brown eagle and harrying hawk and adder fierce; and the young heroes laid low three-thirds of the company.

Connachar came out in haste and cried with wrath: “Who is there on the floor of fight, slaughtering my men?”

“We, the three sons of Ferchar Mac Ro.”

“Well,” said the king, “I will give a free bridge to your grandfather, a free bridge to your father, and a free bridge each to you three brothers, if you come over to my side tonight.”

“Well, Connachar, we will not accept that offer from you nor thank you for it. Greater by far do we prefer to go home to our father and tell the deeds of heroism we have done, than accept anything on these terms from you. Naois, son of Uisnech, and Allen and Arden are as nearly related to yourself as they are to us, though you are so keen to shed their blood, and you would shed our blood also, Connachar.” And the noble, manly, handsome youths with beauteous, brown locks returned inside. “We are now,” said they, “going home to tell our father that you are now safe from the hands of the king.” And the youths all fresh and tall and lithe and beautiful, went home to their father to tell that the sons of Uisnech were safe. This happened at the parting of the day and night in the morning twilight time, and Naois said they must go away, leave that house, and return to Alba.

Naois and Deirdre, Allan and Arden started to return to Alba. Word came to the king that the company he was in pursuit of were gone. The king then sent for Duanan Gacha Druid, the best magician he had, and he spoke to him as follows: “Much wealth have I expended on you, Duanan Gacha Druid, to give schooling and learning and magic mystery to you, if these people get away from me today without care, without consideration or regard for me, without chance of overtaking them, and without power to stop them.”

“Well, I will stop them,” said the magician, “until the company you send in pursuit return.” And the magician placed a wood before them through which no man could go, but the sons of Uisnech marched through the wood without halt or hesitation, and Deirdre held on to Naois’s hand.

“What is the good of that? that will not do yet,” said Connachar. “They are off without bending of their feet or stopping of their step, without heed or respect to me, and I am without power to keep up to them or opportunity to turn them back this night.”

“I will try another plan on them,” said the druid; and he placed before them a grey sea instead of a green plain. The three heroes stripped and tied their clothes behind their heads, and Naois placed Deirdre on the top of his shoulder.

They stretched their sides to the stream,

And sea and land were to them the same,

The rough grey ocean was the same

As meadow-land green and plain.

“Though that be good, O Duanan, it will not make the heroes return,” said Connachar; “they are gone without regard for me, and without honour to me, and without power on my part to pursue them or to force them to return this night.”

“We shall try another method on them, since yon one did not stop them,” said the druid. And the druid froze the grey ridged sea into hard rocky knobs, the sharpness of sword being on the one edge and the poison power of adders on the other. Then Arden cried that he was getting tired, and nearly giving over. “Come you, Arden, and sit on my right shoulder,” said Naois. Arden came and sat, on Naois’s shoulder. Arden was long in this posture when he died; but though he was dead Naois would not let him go. Allen then cried out that he was getting faint and nigh-well giving up. When Naois heard his prayer, he gave forth the piercing sigh of death, and asked Allen to lay hold of him and he would bring him to land.

Allen was not long when the weakness of death came on him and his hold failed. Naois looked around, and when he saw his two well-beloved brothers dead, he cared not whether he lived or died, and he gave forth the bitter sigh of death, and his heart burst.

“They are gone,” said Duanan Gacha Druid to the king, “and I have done what you desired me. The sons of Uisnech are dead and they will trouble you no more; and you have your wife hale and whole to yourself.”

“Blessings for that upon you and may the good results accrue to me, Duanan. I count it no loss what I spent in the schooling and teaching of you. Now dry up the flood, and let me see if I can behold Deirdre,” said Connachar. And Duanan Gacha Druid dried up the flood from the plain and the three sons of Uisnech were lying together dead, without breath of life, side by side on the green meadow plain and Deirdre bending above showering down her tears.

Then Deirdre said this lament: “Fair one, loved one, flower of beauty; beloved upright and strong; beloved noble and modest warrior. Fair one, blue-eyed, beloved of thy wife; lovely to me at the trysting-place came thy clear voice through the woods of Ireland. I cannot eat or smile henceforth. Break not today, my heart: soon enough shall I lie within my grave. Strong are the waves of sorrow, but stronger is sorrow’s self, Connachar.”

The people then gathered round the heroes’ bodies and asked Connachar what was to be done with the bodies. The order that he gave was that they should dig a pit and put the three brothers in it side by side.

Deirdre kept sitting on the brink of the grave, constantly asking the gravediggers to dig the pit wide and free. When the bodies of the brothers were put in the grave, Deirdre said:

“Come over hither, Naois, my love,

Let Arden close to Allen lie;

If the dead had any sense to feel,

Ye would have made a place for Deirdre.”

The men did as she told them. She jumped into the grave and lay down by Naois, and she was dead by his side.

The king ordered the body to be raised from out the grave and to be buried on the other side of the loch. It was done as the king bade, and the pit closed. Thereupon a fir shoot grew out of the grave of Deirdre and a fir shoot from the grave of Naois, and the two shoots united in a knot above the loch. The king ordered the shoots to be cut down, and this was done twice, until, at the third time, the wife whom the king had married caused him to stop this work of evil and his vengeance on the remains of the dead.

Footnotes for The Story of Deirdre

1. ‘Malcolm Harper’ – a.k.a. Feidhlimidh Mac Daill. This version of the tragedy of Deirdre comes from Joseph Jacobs” collection of Celtic Fairy Tales, which he has adapted from Celtic Magazine, xiii (1888), p. 69. In this Scottish version the father was called Colum Cruiteir (which translates as ‘Malcolm Harper’), but in the original Irish legend from the Ulster Cycle he is actually Feidhlimidh Mac Daill (or Felim mac Dall).

2. ‘Naois’ is the spelling used in this version, but in the Irish it is more commonly ‘Naoise’.

3. ‘Uisnech’ – again, a variant spelling of the Irish ‘Uisneach’.

4. ‘Allen’ – a variant spelling of the Irish ‘Ainnle’.

5. ‘Arden’ – a variant spelling of the Irish ‘Ardan’.

6. ‘King Connachar’ – this is in fact King Conchobar mac Nessa.

THE FENIAN CYCLE

Introduction

Tales of Finn Mac Cumaill and the Fianna

THE CENTRAL CHARACTER OF THE FENIAN, or Ossianic Cycle is Finn mac Cumaill (pronounced “Finn mac Cool”), thought to be a real historical person who lived in Ireland some time in the third century ad. A myriad of stories now exists detailing the adventures of this distinguished warrior who rose to leadership of the Fianna and whose stronghold was situated on the Hill of Allen near Co. Kildare. The tales in this cycle generally take place in the Midlands of Ireland and describe a much later epoch when life was less turbulent and the climate of war had been replaced by a more harmonious and romantic atmosphere. The men of the Fianna were not merely military soldiers therefore, but highly accomplished hunter-fighters, often trained in the wilderness, and forced to submit to a number of rigourous tests before they were accepted into the Fianna. Alongside warrior attributes, members of the Fianna were also expected to know by heart the full poet’s repertoire, numbering twelve books, and to possess the gift of poetic composition. Oisín (pronounced ‘Usheen’), son of Finn mac Cumaill, is traditionally regarded as the greatest poet of all ancient Irish tales.

The parentage of Finn and the cause of the feud between himself and the Clan of Morna are recounted in this chapter, followed by the story of The Pursuit of Diarmuid and Gráinne which is considered to be one of the most striking and inventive tales of the cycle. The visit of Oisín to Tír na nÓg is a much later addition to the Fenian tales, and only made a first appearance in literary form in the mid-eighteenth century.

Finn also appears in mythology from the Isle of Man and Scotland where he is known as Finn MacCool, and Fingal, depending on the part of the country, and there are many variations of the spelling of his surname. His son Ossian, from the Irish Oisín of the Fenian Cycle, has a different number of brothers in different legends, as well as variations in the spelling of his name. The feats of the great Féinn, of the wise warrior Fionn, and his sons, Osgar and Ossian, form the basis of some of the most dazzling Scottish legends.

The Coming of Finn mac Cumaill

MANY HUNDREDS OF YEARS after the death of Cúchulainn and the Knights of the Red Guard, the Fianna of Erin reached the height of their fame under the leadership of Finn mac Cumaill. The great warriors of the Fianna were every bit as courageous as their forerunners and each was carefully chosen for his strength and fearlessness on the battlefield. They were also powerful hunters who loved the outdoor life, and many among them possessed the gift of poetry which led to the writing of beautiful tributes to the land of their birth, with its breathtaking mountain valleys and swift-flowing, silver streams. These noble Fenian fighters were above all champion protectors of Erin and during their reign no foreign invader ever dared to set foot on her illustrious shores.

Cumall, son of Trenmor of Clan Brascna, was the father of Finn mac Cumaill and he served as one of the bravest leaders of the Fianna until the day he was slain by his rival, Goll mac Morna, at the battle of Cnucha. Following his death, the Clan of Morna took control of the Fianna and the relatives and friends of Cumall were forced into hiding in the dense forests of the midlands where they built for themselves makeshift homes and yearned for the day when their household would again be restored to power. The Clan of Morna stole from the dead leader the Treasure Bag of the Fianna, filled with strange magical instruments from the Eastern World that had the power to heal all wounds and illnesses. It was placed in the charge of Lia, a chieftain of Connacht, for it was he who had dealt Cumall the first significant wound in the battle of Cnucha.

After the defeat of her husband, Muirne, wife of Cumall, hurriedly abandoned her home and fled to the west to the woodlands of Kerry, accompanied by two of her most trusted handmaidens. For she was carrying the child of the deceased warrior and wished to bring it safely into the world, out of the reach of the bloodthirsty sons of Morna. Within the month, Muirne had given birth to a son and she gave him the name of Demna. And as she gazed upon the infant’s face, she was struck by its likeness to the face of Cumall, not yet cold in his grave. Tears of sorrow and anguish flooded down her cheeks and she grasped the child fiercely to her bosom, making a solemn promise to protect him from all harm and evil until he should grow to manhood.

But it was not long before Goll mac Morna received news of the birth of Cumall’s heir and he rode forth in great haste through the forests of Erin towards Kerry, intent on destroying the infant. That evening, as she lay sleeping, Muirne had a disturbing vision of a war chariot with wheels of fire approaching her home and she arose at once and summoned her handmaidens to her.

“The sons of Morna have knowledge of our whereabouts,” she told them, “and the child is unsafe while he remains here with me. Take him under cover of darkness to a safe retreat and do not rest until you are certain you have discovered the remotest dwelling in Erin where he may grow to adulthood unharmed and untroubled.”

The two handmaidens took the tiny bundle from Muirne’s arms and set off in the piercingly cold night air towards the protection of the woods. They journeyed for fourteen days by secret paths until they reached the mountains of Slieve Bloom and here, under the shelter of the sprawling oak trees, they finally came to rest, satisfied at last that they had found a true place of sanctuary.

In the fullness of time, the boy Demna grew fair and strong and the two women who cared for him taught him how to hunt and how to spear fish and they marvelled at the speed and zealousness with which he learned to do these things. Before he had reached the age of ten, he could outrun the fastest wild deer of the forests and was so accomplished in the use of his various weapons that he could bring down a hawk with a single shot from his sling, or pin down a charging wild boar with one simple thrust of his spear. It was obvious too that he had the makings of a fine poet, for he was at one with nature and grew to love her fruits, whether listening for hours to the sound of a running brook, or gazing in awe and wonder at the delicate petals of mountain snowdrops. And his nursemaids were overjoyed with their charge and knew that Muirne would be proud of the son they had reared on her behalf, though she may never again lay eyes on the child.

One day, when Demna was in his fourteenth year and had grown more adventurous in spirit, he went out alone and journeyed deep into the mountains until he had reached the place known as Mag Life on the shores of the Liffey. Here, he came upon a chieftain’s stronghold and, as he peered beyond the walls of the castle, he observed a group of young boys his own age engaged in a game of hurling. He boldly approached them and expressed his desire to join them in their sport, so they presented him with a hurley and invited him to play along. Though he was outnumbered by the rest of them and was unfamiliar with the rules of the game, Demna quickly proved that he could play as well as any of them and managed, on every occasion, to take the ball from the best players in the field. He was invited to join the group for another game on the following day and, this time, they put one half of their number against him. But again, he had little difficulty beating them off. On the third day, the group decided to test his ability even further and all twelve of them went against him. Demna was triumphant once more and his athletic skill was much admired and applauded. After this, the boys went before their chieftain and told him the story of the youth who had bravely defeated them. The chieftain asked for the young man to be brought before him and when he laid eyes on Demna’s beautiful golden hair and saw the milky whiteness of his skin, he pronounced that he should be given the name of Finn, meaning ‘fair one’, and it was by this name that he was always known thereafter.

At the end of three months, there was not a living person in the land who had not heard rumours of the daring feats of Finn, the golden-haired youth. And it was not long before Goll mac Morna had dispatched his horsemen throughout the countryside to track down the son of Cumall, ordering them to bring him back dead or alive. Finn’s two foster-mothers grew anxious that he would be found and they called Finn back home to them and advised him to leave his home in the mountains of Slieve Bloom:

“The champion warriors of the sons of Morna will arrive soon,” they told him, “and they have been instructed to kill you if they find you here. It was Goll, son of Morna, who murdered your father Cumall. Go from us now, Finn, and keep your identity secret until you are strong enough to protect yourself, for the sons of Morna know that you are the rightful leader of the Fianna and they will stop at nothing until you are dead.”

And so Finn gathered together his belongings and set off in the direction of Loch Lein in the west where he lived for a time in the outdoors, safe from the attention of everyone. At length, however, he began to yearn for the company of other warriors and could not suppress his desire to volunteer himself in military service to the King of Bantry. Even though he did not make himself known to any of his companions, it was not long before their suspicions were aroused, for there was not a soldier more intrepid, nor a hunter more accomplished in the whole of the kingdom. The King himself was curious to learn more about the young warrior and invited him to visit the palace. The two men sat down to a game of chess and the King was greatly surprised to witness the ease with which the youth managed to defeat him. They decided to play on, and Finn won seven games, one after another. Then the King gave up the contest and began to question his opponent warily:

“Who are you,” he asked, “and who are your people?”

“I am the son of a peasant of the Luagni of Tara,” replied Finn.

“I do not believe this to be the truth,” said the King, “I am convinced that you are the son that Muirne bore to Cumall. You need not fear me if this is so and I advise you, as proof, to depart here without delay, since I do not wish you to be slain by the sons of Morna while under my poor protection.”

Then Finn realized that he had little choice but to continue his wanderings over the lonely plains of Erin. And it was always the case that whenever he came into contact with other people, his beauty and noble bearing betrayed him, so that the eyes of all were fixed upon him, and the news of his presence promptly spread throughout the region.

He journeyed onwards into Connacht, restricting himself to those areas of the wilderness where he felt certain he would not encounter another living soul. But as he was on his way one morning, he heard the unmistakable sound of a woman wailing and soon came upon her in a clearing of the woods, kneeling over the body of a dead youth.

“I have good cause to mourn in such a fashion,” said the woman looking up at Finn, “for my only son has been struck down without mercy by the tall warrior who has just passed by here.”

“And what was your son’s name who suffered this cruel, unwarranted fate?” enquired Finn.

“Glonda was his name,” replied the woman, “and I ask you, under bond as a warrior, to avenge his death, since I know of no other who can help me.”

Without hesitating a moment longer, Finn set off in pursuit of the warrior, following the tracks through the woods until he came to the dwelling place of Lia Luachair on the outskirts of Connacht. Taking up the old woman’s challenge, he drew his sword and began attacking Lia, striking him down with little effort. It was then that Finn noticed a strange bag on the floor at the older man’s feet, and as he looked inside, the treasures of Cumall and the Fianna were revealed to him, and he was overcome with pride that he had unwittingly slain the man who had dealt his father the first wound at Cnucha.

It was at this time that Finn grew weary of his solitary life and began to gather around him all the young warriors of the country who had come to admire his courage and determination. And one of the first tasks he set himself was to go in search of his uncle Crimall and the rest of the Clan Brascna who were still in hiding from the sons of Morna. Accompanied by his followers, he crossed the River Shannon and marched into Connacht where he found his uncle and a number of the old Fianna lying low in the heart of the forest. Crimall stepped forwards and lovingly embraced his nephew, for it was apparent at once that the young stranger before him was the son of Cumall. Then Finn presented the old man with the Bag of Treasures and told him the story from beginning to end of how he had come upon it and slain its custodian. And as he spoke, Crimall laid out the treasures on the ground before them and all who gazed upon them grew fresh of face and strong in body and the burden of age and sorrow was instantly lifted from their brows.

“Our time of deliverance is close at hand,” shouted Crimall joyfully, “for it has been foretold that he who recovers the Treasure Bag of the Fianna from the hands of the enemy is the one who will lead the Clan of Brascna to victory once more. Go now Finn,” he added, “and seek out the ancient bard known as Finnegas, since he is the one destined to prepare you for the day when you will rise to your rightful position as head of the Fianna.”

Hearing these words, Finn bade the company farewell and set off alone towards the shores of the River Boyne in the east, eager to meet with the wise old druid who had schooled his father in the ways of poetry and story-telling, whose masterful instruction was deemed essential for any man aspiring to leadership of the Fianna.

For seven long years, Finnegas had lived on the banks of the Boyne, seeking to catch the Salmon of Fec. The salmon, which swam in a deep pool overhung by hazel boughs, was famous throughout the land, for it was prophesied that the first person to eat of its flesh would enjoy all the wisdom of the world. And it happened one day that while Finn was sitting by the river with Finnegas at his side, the salmon swam boldly towards them, almost daring them to cast their rods into the water. Finnegas lost no time in doing so and was astounded when the fish got caught on his hook, struggling only very weakly to release itself. He hauled the salmon onto the shore and watched its silver body wriggle in the sand until all life had gone out of it. When it finally lay still, he gave the salmon over to Finn and ordered him to build a fire on which to cook it.

“But do not eat even the smallest morsel,” Finnegas told him, “for it is my reward alone, having waited patiently for seven years.”

Finn placed a spit over the fire and began turning it as requested until the fish was cooked through. He then placed it on a plate and took it to Finnegas.

“And have you eaten any of the salmon?” asked the poet.

“No,” answered Finn, “but I burned my thumb while cooking it and put it in my mouth to relieve the pain.”

“Then you are indeed Finn mac Cumaill,” said Finnegas, “and I bear you no ill-will for having tasted the salmon, for in you the prophecy is come true.”

Then Finnegas gave Finn the rest of the salmon to eat and it brought him instant knowledge of all he desired to know. And that evening he composed the finest of verses, proving that he possessed a talent equal to the most gifted poets in Erin:

May-day! delightful day!

Bright colours play the vale along.

Now wakes at morning’s slender ray

Wild and gay the Blackbird’s song.

Now comes the bird of dusty hue,

The loud cuckoo, the summer-lover;

Branchy trees are thick with leaves;

The bitter, evil time is over.

Loaded bees with puny power

Goodly flower-harvest win;

Cattle roam with muddy flanks;

Busy ants go out and in.

Through the wild harp of the wood

Making music roars the gale–

Now it settles without motion,

On the ocean sleeps the sail.

Men grow mighty in the May,

Proud and gay the maidens grow;

Fair is every wooded height;

Fair and bright the plain below.

A bright shaft has smit the streams,

With gold gleams the water-flag;

Leaps the fish and on the hills

Ardour thrills the leaping stag.

Loudly carols the lark on high,

Small and shy his tireless lay,

Singing in wildest, merriest mood,

Delicate-hued, delightful May.

T.W. Rolleston, May-Day

The Rise of Finn to Leadership of the Fianna

AFTER FINN HAD EATEN of the Salmon of Fec which gave him all the gifts of wisdom, he had only to put his thumb in his mouth and whatever he wished to discover was immediately revealed to him. He knew beyond all doubt that he had been brought into the world to take the place of Cumall as head of the Fianna, and was confident at last that he had learned from Finnegas all that he would ever need to know. Turning his back on the valley of the Boyne, he set off to join Crimall and his followers in the forests of Connacht once more in order to plan in earnest for his future. He had by now become the most courageous of warriors, yet this quality was tempered by a remarkable generosity and gentleness of spirit that no man throughout the length and breath of the country could ever hope to rival. Finn was loved and admired by every last one of his comrades and they devoted their lives to him, never once slackening in their efforts to prove themselves worthy of his noble patronage.

It was decided among this loyal group that the time had come for Finn to assert his claim to the leadership of the Fianna and they went and pledged him their support and friendship in this bravest of quests. For it was well known that the Clan of Morna, who continued to rule the Fenian warriors, would not surrender their position without a bitter struggle. Finn now believed himself ready for such a confrontation and the day was chosen when he and his army would march to the Hill of Tara and plead their case before Conn Céadchathach, the High King of Erin.

As it was now the month of November and the Great Assembly of Tara was once more in progress, a period of festivity and good-will, when every man was under oath to lay aside his weapon. Chieftains, noblemen, kings and warriors all journeyed to Tara for the splendid event and old feuds were forgotten as the wine and mead flowed freely and the merry-making and dancing lasted well into the small hours. It was not long before Finn and his band of followers had arrived at Tara and they proceeded at once to the main banqueting hall where they were welcomed by the King’s attendants and seated among the other Fenian warriors. As soon as he had walked into the hall, however, all eyes had been turned towards Finn, and a flurry of hushed enquiries circulated around the room as to the identity of the golden-haired youth. The King too, was quick to acknowledge that a stranger had entered his court, and he picked up a goblet of wine and instructed one of his servants to present it to the young warrior. At this gesture of friendship, Finn felt reassured in approaching the King, and he walked forward to the royal table and introduced himself to one and all.

“I am Finn, son of Cumall,” he declared, “and I have come to take service with you, High King of Erin, just as my father did before me as head of the Fianna.”

And when he heard these words, Goll mac Morna, who sat at the King’s right hand, grew pale in anger, and shuddered to hear the King respond favourably to the young warrior:

“I would be honoured to have you serve in my ranks,” replied Conn Céadchathach. “If you are the son of Cumall, son of Trenmor, then you are also a friend of mine.”

After this, Finn bound himself in loyalty to the King, and his own band of men followed his example, and each was presented with a sword of the Fianna which they accepted with great pride and humility.

Everybody in the kingdom had either heard of Aillen the goblin or seen the creature with their own eyes. Every year during the Great Assembly, Conn Céadchathach increased the number of men guarding the royal city, but still the goblin managed to pass undetected through the outer gates, moving swiftly towards the palace and setting it alight with its flaming breath. Not even the bravest of warriors could prevent Aillen from reeking havoc on Tara, for he carried with him a magic harp and all who heard its fairy music were gently lulled to sleep. The King lived in hope however, that one day the goblin would be defeated and he adamantly refused to be held to ransom by the creature, insisting that the annual festivities take place as normal. A handsome reward awaited that warrior who could capture or destroy Aillen, but none had yet succeeded in doing so. It was at this time that Goll mac Morna conceived of his wicked plan to belittle his young rival before the King, for he could see that Conn Céadchathach secretly entertained the hope that Finn would rescue Tara from further destruction. He called the young warrior to him and told him of the one true way to win the King’s favour, being careful not to mention the enchanting harp or the difficulty of the task that lay ahead:

“Go and bind yourself before the King to rid this city of the terrible goblin who every year burns it to the ground,” said Goll. “You alone possess the courage to do this Finn, and you may name your price if you are successful.”

So Finn went before the King and swore that he would not rest in peace until he had slain Aillen the goblin.

“And what would you have as your reward?” asked the King.

“If I manage to rid you of the goblin,” Finn replied, “I should like to take up my rightful position as captain of the Fianna. Will you agree, under oath, to such a reward?”

“If this is what you desire,” answered the King, “then I bind myself to deliver such a prize.”

Satisfied with these words, Finn took up his weapon and ventured out into the darkness to begin his lonely vigil over the palace.

As night fell and the November mists began to thicken round the hill of Tara, Finn waited anxiously for the goblin to appear. After some time, he saw an older warrior enter the courtyard and make his way towards him. He noticed that the warrior held in his hand a long, pointed spear, protected by a case of the soft, shining leather.

“I am Fiacha,” said the warrior gently, “and I was proud to serve under your father, Cumall, when he was leader of the Fianna. The spear I carry is the spear of enchantment which Cumall placed in my charge upon his death.

“Take this weapon,” he added, “and as soon as you hear the fairy music, lay its blade against your forehead and you will not fall under the melody’s spell.”

Finn thanked the warrior for his gift and turned it over to inspect it, admiring its shining handle of Arabian gold and the sharp steel body of the blade that glinted challengingly in the moonlight. Then he began to roam the ramparts once more, straining his ear to catch the first notes of the magic harp. He gazed out over the wide, frosty plains of Meath but still there was no sign of the evil goblin. He had almost given up hope that Aillen would appear and had sat down wearily on the hard, frozen earth, when he caught sight of a shadowy, phantom-like figure in the distance, floating eerily over the plain towards the royal palace. At first the strange music that wafted through the air was scarcely audible, but as the goblin drew nearer, the sweet sound of the harp strings filled the air like a potent fragrance, intoxicating the senses and inducing a warm, drowsy feeling. Finn was immediately enraptured by the sound and his eyelids slowly began to droop as the music weaved its magic spell over him. But something within him struggled against the opiate of the melody and his fingers searched for the spear of enchantment. Releasing the weapon from its leather shroud, he lay the cold steel blade against his forehead and drew a long, deep breath as he allowed its rejuvenating strength to flow through his tired limbs.

As soon as Aillen had reached the crest of the Hill of Tara he began to spit blazing fire-balls through the palace gates, unaware that Finn had escaped the enchantment of the harp. Now Aillen had never before come face to face with an alert and animate mortal, and the sudden appearance of the young warrior quenching the flames with the cloak off his back prompted a shriek of terror and alarm. Turning swiftly around in the direction he had come from, Aillen fled for his safety, hoping to reach the fairy mound at Sliabh Fuaid before Finn could overtake him. But the young warrior was far too fleet of foot and before the goblin had managed to glide through the entrance of the mound, Finn had cast his spear, striking down the goblin with a single fatal blow through the chest. Then Finn bent over the corpse and removed Aillen’s head and carried it back to the palace so that all were made aware that he had put an end to the reign of destruction.

When the sun had risen on the following morning, the King was overjoyed to discover that his kingdom remained untouched by the goblin’s flame. He knew at once that Finn must have fulfilled his promise and was eager to express his gratitude. He called together all the men of the Fianna and sent his messenger to Finn’s chamber requesting him to appear before him. Then the King stood Finn at his right hand and addressed his audience slowly and solemnly with the following words:

“Men of Erin,” said the King, “I have pledged my word to this young warrior that if he should ever destroy the goblin Aillen, he would be granted leadership of the Fianna. I urge you to embrace him as your new leader and to honour him with your loyalty and service. If any among you cannot agree to do this, let him now resign his membership of the Fianna.”

And turning to face Goll mac Morna, the King asked him:

“Do you swear service to Finn mac Cumaill, or is it your decision to quit the Fianna?”

“The young warrior has risen nobly to his position,” replied Goll, “and I now bow to his superiority and accept him as my captain.”

Then Goll mac Morna swore allegiance to Finn and each warrior came forward after him and did the same in his turn. And from this day onwards it was deemed the highest honour to serve under Finn mac Cumaill, for only the best and bravest of Erin’s warriors were privileged to stand alongside the most glorious leader the Fianna had ever known.

The Pursuit of Diarmuid and Gráinne

FOLLOWING THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE MAIGNES, Finn mac Cumaill had spent an unhappy year alone as a widower. The loss of his wife had come as a severe blow to the hero of the Fianna and even though he was surrounded by loved ones, including his beloved son Oisín and his grandson Oscar, who watched over and comforted him, he could not rid himself of thoughts of Maignes and was increasingly overwhelmed by deep feelings of loneliness and despair.

One morning, seeing his father in such a pitiful state of grief, Oisín called upon his most trusted friend, Diorruing O’Baoiscne, and together they agreed that something must be done to rescue Finn from his prolonged melancholy. It was Diorruing who suggested that perhaps the time had come for Finn to take a new wife and the two young men began to consider who best would fill this role. And as they pondered this question, Oisín suddenly remembered that the High King of Erin, Cormac mac Art, was said to possess one of the most beautiful daughters in the land. Her name was Gráinne, and although several suitors had sought her hand, it was known that she had not consented to marry any of them and was still in search of a husband.

Oisín and Diorruing went before Finn and expressed their concern that he had not yet recovered his good spirits. Finn listened attentively, and he could not deny that every word they spoke was the truth. But he had tried, he told them, to put aside all memory of his wife, and his attempts so far had been utterly futile.

“Will you let us help you then?” Oisín asked his father. “For we feel certain that you would be better off with a strong woman by your side. The maiden you seek is named Gráinne, daughter of Cormac mac Art, and if you will allow it, we will journey to Tara on your behalf and request her hand in marriage.”

After they had persuaded Finn that he had little to lose by agreeing to such a venture, both Oisín and Doirruing set off for the royal residence at Tara. So impressive was their stature as warriors of the Fianna, that as soon as they arrived, they were respectfully escorted through the palace gates and permitted an immediate audience with the King. And when Cormac mac Art heard that Finn mac Cumaill desired to take his daughter for a wife, he was more than pleased at the prospect, yet at the same time, he felt it his duty to inform Oisín of the outcome of Gráinne’s previous courtships:

“My daughter is a wilful and passionate woman,” the King told Oisín. “She has refused the hand of some of the finest princes and battle-champions Erin has ever known. Let her be brought before us so that she may give you her own decision on the matter, for I would rather not incur your displeasure by saying yes, only to have her go against me.”

So Gráinne was brought before them and the question was put to her whether or not she would have Finn mac Cumaill for a husband. And it was without the slightest show of interest or enthusiasm that Gráinne made the following reply:

“If you consider this man a fitting son-in-law for you, father, then why shouldn’t he be a suitable husband for me?”

But Oisín and Doirruing were satisfied with this answer and taking their leave of the King after having promised to visit as soon as possible in the company of Finn mac Cumaill, they hastened back to the Hill of Allen to deliver the good news.

Within a week, the royal household of Tara was busy preparing itself to welcome the leader of the Fianna and the captains of the seven battalions of his great army. An elaborate banquet was prepared in their honour and King Cormac mac Art received his visitors with great pride and excitement. Then he led the way to the vast dining hall and they all sat down to enjoy a merry evening of feasting and drinking. Seated at Cormac’s left hand was his wife, Eitche, and next to her sat Gráinne, resplendent in a robe of emerald silk which perfectly enhanced her breathtaking beauty. Finn mac Cumaill took pride of place at the King’s right hand and beside him were seated the most prominent warriors of the Fianna according to his rank and patrimony.

After a time, Gráinne struck up a conversation with her father’s druid Daire who sat close by, demanding to know of him the cause of the great celebrations taking place.

“If you are not aware of the reason,” said the druid, “then it will indeed be hard for me to explain it to you.”

But Gráinne continued to pester Daire with the same question until eventually he was forced to give her a more direct answer:

“That warrior next to your father is none other than Finn mac Cumaill,” said the druid, “and he has come here tonight to ask you to be his wife.”

And so, for the first time, Gráinne scrutinized the figure she had so flippantly agreed to marry, and having studied his face at some length she fell silent for a time. Then she addressed the druid once more:

“It comes as a great surprise to me,” said Gráinne, “that it is not for his own son Oisín, or even his grandson Oscar, that Finn seeks me as a wife, since it would be far more appropriate if I married one of these two than marry this man who must be three times my own age.”

“Do not say such things,” answered Daire worriedly, “for if Finn were to hear you, he would certainly now refuse you and none among the Fianna would ever dare to look at you afterwards.”

But Gráinne merely laughed to hear these words and her eye began to wander in the direction of the young Fenian warriors at the banqueting table. As she surveyed each of them in turn, she questioned the druid as to their identity, desiring to know what exceptional qualities they each had to recommend them. And when her eyes came to rest upon one particularly handsome warrior with dusky-black hair, her interest was very keenly aroused.

“That is Diarmuid, son of Dubne,” the druid informed her, “who is reputed to be the best lover of women and of maidens in all the world.”

As she continued to sip her wine, Gráinne stared even more closely at the black-haired youth until eventually she called her attendant to her and whispered in her ear:

“Bring me the jewelled goblet from my chamber closet that holds enough wine for nine times nine men.” she told her. “Have it filled to the brim with wine, then set it down before me.”

When her servant returned with the heavy goblet Gráinne added to it the contents of a small phial she had secretly hidden in a fold of her gown.

“Take the goblet to Finn first of all,” she urged her handmaiden, “and bid him swallow a draught of wine in honour of our courtship. After he has done so, pass the goblet to all of the company at the high table, but be careful not to allow any of the youthful warriors of the Fianna to drink from it.”

The servant did as she was requested and it was not long before all who swallowed the wine from Gráinne’s cup had fallen into a deep and peaceful slumber. Then Gráinne rose quietly from her place at the table and made her way towards where Diarmuid was seated.

“Will you receive my love, Diarmuid,” Gráinne asked him, “and escape with me tonight to a place far away from here?”

“It is Finn mac Cumaill you are set to wed,” answered the young warrior, stunned at her suggestion. “I would not do such a thing for any woman who is betrothed to the leader of the Fianna.”

“Then I place you under bonds as a warrior of the King,” said Gráinne, “to take me out of Tara tonight and to save me from an unhappy union with an old man.”

“These are evil bonds indeed,” said Diarmuid, “and I beg you to withdraw them, for I cannot understand what it is I have done to deserve such unwarranted punishment.”

“You have done nothing except allow me to fall in love with you,” replied Gráinne, “ever since the day, many years ago, when you visited the palace and joined in a game of hurling on the green of Tara. I turned the light of my eyes on you that day, and I never gave my love to any other man from that time until now, nor will I ever, Diarmuid.”

Torn between his loyalty to Finn, and an allegiance to the sacred bonds Gráinne had placed him under, Diarmuid turned to his Fenian friends for counsel and advice. But all of them, including Oisín, Oscar, Diorruing and Cailte, advised that he had little choice but to go with Gráinne:

“You have not invited Gráinne’s love,” Oisín told him, “and you are not responsible for the bonds she has laid upon you. But he is a miserable wretch who does not honour his warrior’s oath. You must follow Gráinne therefore, and accept this destiny, though your own death may come of it.”

Filled with despair and sorrow at these words, Diarmuid gathered up his weapons and then moving towards his comrades, he embraced each of them sadly, knowing that his days with the Fianna had now come to an end, to be replaced by days of tortured exile, when Finn mac Cumaill would ruthlessly pursue the couple from one end of Erin to the next.

As soon as the flight of Diarmuid and Gráinne had been brought to his attention, the leader of the Fianna was consumed with violent jealousy and rage and swore the bitterest revenge on the pair. At once, Finn mac Cumaill called for his horses to be saddled and a great host of his men set off on the trail of the couple, journeying for days along the most secluded tracks through the densest forests of Erin until they had crossed the river Shannon and arrived near to the place known as Doire Da Both. On the outskirts of this forest, the Fenian trackers discovered a makeshift camp dusted with the ashes of a small fire, which although now cold, left them in little doubt that they were moving very closely behind their prey.

On the following evening, after they had travelled a lengthy distance deeper into the forest, Finn and his men came upon a form of wooden enclosure built of saplings, stones and mud, containing seven narrow doors. Climbing to one of the tallest trees, Finn’s chief scout peered inside the structure and saw there Diarmuid and a woman lying next to him on a blanket of deer-skin. The men of the Fianna were ordered to stand guard at each of the seven exits and then Finn himself approached the hut and shouted loudly for Diarmuid to come forward and surrender himself to them. Diarmuid awoke abruptly from his sleep and taking Gráinne by the hand thrust his head through the smallest of the doors. But his eyes betrayed not the slightest glimmer of fear to see Finn and his great warriors surrounding the hut. Instead, he clasped Gráinne closer to him and planted three kisses on her lips for all the men of the Fianna to observe. Finn mac Cumaill was seized by a fury on seeing this, and proclaimed at once that the removal of Diarmuid’s head by whatever method his men were forced to employ would alone prove fitting reprisal for so brazen a show of disrespect.

Now Aengus Óg, the god of love, was the foster-father of Diarmuid, son of Dubne, the deity who had protected and watched over the couple since the night they had fled the palace of Tara. And witnessing their plight at the hands of the Fianna, Aengus now took it upon himself to come to their aid, drifting invisibly towards them on the breeze.

“Come and take shelter under my cloak,” he appealed to them, “and we will pass unseen by Finn and his people to a place of refuge and safety.”

But Diarmuid insisted that he would remain behind to face his former comrades as a true warrior, and requested that Aengus take only Gráinne with him. So Aengus drew Gráinne under his mantel for protection and they both rose up into the air, gliding towards the woodlands of the south where they felt certain Diarmuid would survive to meet up with them later.

After he had bid Aengus and Gráinne farewell, Diarmuid stood upright, tall and proud, and prepared himself for the task of fighting his way through the formidable band of Fenian warriors. Taking up his weapon, he approached the first of the seven doors and demanded to know which of his former comrades stood behind it waiting to do combat with him:

“I wish you no harm, Diarmuid,” replied the gentle voice of Oisín. “Let me guide you out through this door, and I promise I will not raise a finger to hurt you.”

And on each of the other doors upon which he knocked, apart from the very last, Diarmuid met with the same response, for it appeared that not one among his old friends of the Fianna was prepared to meet him with hostility. Finally, however, Diarmuid arrived at the seventh door and this time when he knocked, the response was anything but warm and friendly:

“It is I, Finn mac Cumaill,” came the thundering reply, “a man who bears you no love, as you well know. And if you should come out through this gate I would take great pleasure in striking you down and cleaving asunder every last bone in your body.”

“I will not go out by any other door in that case,” answered Diarmuid, “for I would not wish such raw anger to be unleashed on any of my friends gathered here whose desire it is to let me go free.”

And then, having driven the shafts of his mighty spears firmly into the earth, Diarmuid used them to spring high into the air, leaping over the walls of the wooden hut, clean over the heads of Finn and his men. So swift was this manoeuvre, so light his descent on the grass beyond the warrior group, that none could trace the path of his escape and they stood looking on in amazement, deliberating a long time whether or not it was some goblin of the air who had helped carry Diarmuid so effortlessly to freedom.

It was not long before Diarmuid had arrived at the clearing in the woods where Aengus and Gráinne waited anxiously to see him. Great was their relief to know that he had escaped the Fianna unharmed and they both listened in admiration as he related to them the tale of his daring escape. When the excitement of the reunion had abated however, Aengus Óg grew more serious and spoke earnestly to his foster-son and Gráinne:

“I must now depart from you,” he said to them, “but I leave you with these words of advice. Do not slacken in caution while Finn mac Cumaill remains in pursuit of you. Never enter a cave with only one opening; and never take refuge on an island with only one harbour. Always eat your meals in a place different to where you have cooked them; never rest your head where you eat your meal, and wherever you sleep tonight, make sure you choose a fresh bed on the following night.”

For many months afterwards, Diarmuid and Gráinne followed the advice of Aengus Óg and lived precisely as he had counselled them. But the time came when they grew weary once more of shifting from place to place and they longed for even two nights together when they might sleep under the same familiar oak tree or heather bush. They had by now reached the forests of the west and had entered a bower guarded by the fierce giant Searbhán.

“Surely we may rest awhile here, Diarmuid,” said Gráinne. “Is it not the most unlikely thing in the world that Finn and his men would find us out in such a lonely and shaded part of the woods?”

And seeing the look of exhaustion on Gráinne’s face, Diarmuid agreed to go in search of Searbhán to beg permission to shelter in the forest. The giant also took pity on Gráinne and it was soon settled that the couple were free to roam the forests and hunt for their food for up to three days provided neither of them touched the quicken tree of Dubros growing in its centre or ate any of its sweet-smelling berries. For this particular tree belonged to the people of the Fairy mounds who did not wish that any mortal should eat of its fruit and share the gift of immortality. And so Diarmuid accepted responsibility for both himself and Gráinne and swore upon his sword that during their short stay the berries would remain the sacred property of the fairies.

As for Finn mac Cumaill and his loyal followers of the Fianna, they had not tired in their quest for revenge and were little more than half a day’s journey away from the outskirts of Searbhán’s forest. And it was while Finn awaited news from his scouts, sent forth to search for evidence of Diarmuid and Gráinne, that he observed a group of horsemen approaching the Fenian camp. He recognized these riders at once as the offspring of the sons of Morna who had murdered his father at the battle of Cnucha and with whom he still had a long-standing feud. But it soon became apparent that these young warriors had travelled a great distance to beg forgiveness for the sins of their fathers and to be reconciled to the Fianna.

Now when Finn’s scouts returned to inform him that Diarmuid and Gráinne rested under the protection of Searbhán beneath the tree of Dubros, Finn made up his mind to test the commitment of the warriors of the Clan of Morna:

“If you truly seek forgiveness,” he told them, “go forth into the woods and bring me one of two things, either the head of Diarmuid, son of Dubne, or a fistful of berries from the tree of Dubros.”

And when the offspring of Morna heard this request, they answered the leader of the Fianna innocently:

“We would be honoured to perform such a task. Point us in the direction of the woods and we shall soon return with one of these two prizes.”

When they were still quite a long way off however, Diarmuid spotted the warriors of Clan Morna approaching and he made ready his weapon for attack. And as they came closer he jumped to the earth from a tree above, blocking the path of their progress.

“Who are you,” Diarmuid asked them, “and why have you come to the forest of Searbhán?”

“We are of the Clan of Morna,” they replied, “and we have been sent here by Finn mac Cumaill to perform one of two tasks, either to recover the head of Diarmuid, son of Dubne, or to escape here with a fistful of berries from the tree of Dubros.”

“I am the man whose head you seek,” replied Diarmuid, “and over there is the tree bearing the fruit you are required to remove. But it will be no easy task for you to accomplish either of these things. Choose now which of the two feats you would attempt to perform.”

“I would sooner fight for your head,” answered the eldest of the warriors, “than go against the giant Searbhán.”

So the children of Morna began wrestling with Diarmuid who had little or no difficulty overcoming them and within minutes they had been bound hand and foot by him.

Then Gráinne, who had been watching the struggle with some amusement, came forward and began to question Diarmuid about the berries. And when she heard of their magic properties, and of how, in particular, they could make the old young and beautiful once more, she insisted that she must taste them before putting any other food in her mouth again. It was useless for Diarmuid to try and persuade her otherwise, and he began to sharpen his spear, resigned to the fact that he must soon confront the tree’s ferocious guardian. Seeing that he was reluctant to break his bond of friendship with the giant, the children of Morna offered to go and get the berries for Gráinne. But although Diarmuid would not agree to this, he was nonetheless touched by their generosity and offered to loosen their bonds so that they might witness the combat.

And so Diarmuid, accompanied by the children of Morna, went forward and roused the giant from his sleep, demanding that he hand over some of the precious berries for Gráinne to eat. Furious at this request, the giant swung his mighty club over his shoulder and brought it down hard in Diarmuid’s direction. But Diarmuid managed to leap aside, avoiding any injury, and then hurled himself at the giant forcing him to loosen his hold on the club so that it fell heavily to the ground. Seizing the weapon, Diarmuid delivered three strong blows to the giant’s head, dashing his brains to pieces. And when he was certain that Searbhán was dead, he climbed the tree of Dubros and plucked the juiciest berries, handing one bunch to Gráinne and the other to the children of Morna.

“Take these berries to Finn,” he told the warriors, “and do not pretend to him that you have seen me. Tell him instead that you have earned his forgiveness by slaying the giant with your own bare hands.”

The children of Morna were more than happy to do this, and they expressed their gratitude to Diarmuid that he had finally brought peace between the two clans. And having placed the berries carefully in their saddlebags, they made their way back towards Finn and the men of the Fianna.

As soon as he laid eyes on the berries, Finn mac Cumaill placed them under his nose and announced at once that it was Diarmuid, not the offspring of Morna, who had gathered them:

“For I can smell his skin on them,” roared Finn, “and I will now go myself in search of him and remove his head with my own sword.”

And he tore through the forest as fast as his horse could carry him until he reached the tree of Dubros where he suspected Diarmuid and Gráinne must be hiding. Here he sat down and called for Oisín to bring his chess-board to him. The two began to play a long and complicated game, for they were each as skilled as the other, until eventually they reached a point where the victor of the game would be decided by Oisín’s next move. And Diarmuid, who had been closely following the game from above, could not prevent himself from helping his friend. Impulsively, he threw a berry down from one of the branches where it landed on the board indicating to Oisín how the game should be won. At this, Finn rose rapidly to his feet and calling all the warriors of the Fianna together he ordered them to surround the tree. Then Garb of Sliab Cua announced that Diarmuid had slain his father and that nothing would make him happier than to avenge this death. So Finn agreed to this and Garb climbed the tree in pursuit of Diarmuid.

Again, however, Aengus Óg was watchful of his foster-son and rushed to his aid without the Fianna’s knowledge. And as Diarmuid flung Garb backwards from the branches with one swift movement of his foot, Aengus put the form of his foster-son upon him so that his own warriors took off his head believing him to be Diarmuid, son of Dubne. After they had done this, Garb was again changed back into his own shape causing great distress to all who witnessed the transformation. And of the nine Fenian warriors Finn mac Cumaill ordered to ascend the tree in search of Diarmuid, the same fate befell each of them so that Finn fell into a heavy mood of anguish and grief. And when Diarmuid announced that he would descend the tree and slaughter every living person under Finn’s protection, Finn at last could tolerate the killing no longer and begged for it to come to an end.

So Diarmuid and Aengus Óg appeared before Finn and it was agreed among the three of them that peace should be restored between Finn and Diarmuid. Then the leader of the Fianna and five of his captains went to the stronghold of the High King of Erin to secure a pardon for Diarmuid and Gráinne. Once this had been done, the couple were allowed to return to their native country of west Kerry where they built for themselves a fine home and lived in peace and harmony together for a great many years to follow.

Oisín in Tír na N-Óg (The Land of Youth)

FINN MAC CUMAILL, the mightiest warrior of the Fianna, had no equal among mortal men and his reputation as one of the fiercest fighters in Ireland spread with each glorious victory on the battlefield. His young son, Oisín, was a particular favourite with him, for the boy showed signs of remarkable courage at an early age and had clearly inherited his father’s voracious thirst for adventure. Each time Finn gazed at his golden-haired son a memory of Blaí, the boy’s mother, stirred within his breast, filling him with both joy and sorrow. Blaí was now lost to him, but the child she had borne him possessed her great beauty and gift of poetry. Oisín was a true warrior and the greatest of Fenian poets. Many women had fallen in love with him, but none had yet succeeded in winning his heart. The son of Finn mac Cumaill was happiest fighting alongside his father, or roaming the dense forests that chimed with birdsong in the company of his trusty hounds.

While hunting in the middle of the woods one summer’s morning, just as the silver veil of mist was rising from the shores of Loch Lein, Oisín was struck by the most enchanting vision. A young maiden appeared before him, seated majestically on a milk-white steed. Oisín had never seen her kind before, but felt certain she must have come from the fairy world. Her luxuriant golden hair, adorned by an elaborate jewelled crown, cascaded over her shoulders and she was clothed in a mantle of the finest red silk. Her saddle was made of purple and gold and her horse’s hooves were placed in four shoes of gold, studded with the most precious gems. She moved gracefully towards Oisín, who was immediately entranced by her radiance and perfection. The maiden’s cheeks were as delicate as the satin petals of a rose; her eyes were as bright and pure as two drops of dew on a violet; her skin was as white and delicate as the first snows of winter.

“I am Niamh daughter of the great King who rules the Land of Youth,” she spoke softly. “Your name is well known to me, brave Oisín, son of the noble Finn mac Cumaill. I have hastened here for love’s sake, to woo you.”

Oisín stood bewitched before the maiden as she began to sing to him of Tír na N-Óg, the Land of Youth. Her music drifted lightly towards him like a perfumed summer breeze, and it was the sweetest sound the young warrior had ever heard.

“Delightful land of honey and wine

Beyond what seems to thee most fair –

Rich fruits abound the bright year round

And flowers are found of hues most rare.

Unfailing there the honey and wine

And draughts divine of mead there be,

No ache nor ailing night or day –

Death or decay thou ne’er shalt see!

A hundred swords of steel refined,

A hundred cloaks of kind full rare,

A hundred steeds of proudest breed,

A hundred hounds – thy meed when there!

The royal crown of the King of Youth

Shall shine in sooth on thy brow most fair,

All brilliant with gems of luster bright

Whose worth aright none might declare.

All things I’ve named thou shalt enjoy

And none shall cloy – to endless life –

Beauty and strength and power thou’lt see

And I’ll e’er be thy own true wife!”

Michael Comyn, Niamh sings to Oisín

“Niamh of the Golden Hair,” Oisín spoke to her. “I have never before met a maiden so pleasing to the eye and I long to visit the kingdom of which you sing. I would be honoured to take you as my bride and will depart this land of mortals without delay to be with you.” –

Before reaching up to grasp her hand, he looked around him only once, catching a final glimpse of his father’s great palace and the beautiful woodlands he had now chosen to leave behind. Bidding a valiant farewell in his heart to the men of the Fianna, he mounted the powerful horse which carried them both away towards the cliffs of the west, and further on into the crashing waves.

For five days and five nights they rode, crossing the great plains of Erin and journeying on through various kingdoms of the Otherworld. The deep sea opened up to greet them and they passed underneath the bed of the ocean into a land of golden light. Regal citadels, surrounded by luscious green lawns and exotic, vibrantly coloured blooms, gleamed in the rays of sparkling sunshine. A youthful knight, clad in a magnificent raiment of purple and silver, suddenly appeared alongside them, riding a white mare. A fair young maiden sat next to him on the saddle holding a golden apple in the palm of her hand. Niamh again told Oisín of the beauty of Tír na N-Óg, a land even more beautiful than the splendid images now before them. They journeyed onwards, passing from this luminous world through a raging, violent tempest, moving as swiftly as the howling winds and driving rains would carry them across mountains, valleys and bottomless dark lakes until the bright orb of the sun emerged in all its splendour once more.

The kingdom now before them was far more breathtaking than Oisín had ever imagined possible. A silver-pebbled stream wound its way towards a gently undulating hill dotted with purple and yellow orchids which breathed a rich, opulent fragrance into the air. A magnificent castle stood on the hilltop, shaded by giant leafy trees laden with ripe golden pears. The sound of honey-bees buzzing from flower to flower united melodiously with the singing of birds, languidly pruning their feathers in the amber glow of early twilight. A large crowd moved forward to welcome the couple. Minstrels played soothing, magical airs and delicate blossoms were strewn at their feet creating a soft carpet for them to tread on. The happy pair were escorted to the palace where the King and Queen had prepared a large wedding banquet. The King warmly embraced his new son-in-law and ordered the seven days of feasting and celebrations to commence.

As each new day dawned in the Land of Youth it brought with it an abundance of joy for Oisín and Niamh. Time stood absolutely still in this perfect world and they had only to wish for something and it would instantly appear. Before long, the couple were blessed with three healthy children: two handsome sons, and a beautiful daughter. The son of Finn mac Cumaill had won the admiration and respect of every person in the kingdom and he enthralled each and every subject with tales of his Fenian friends and the splendid adventures they had survived together. Only one thing now threatened to destroy his happiness. At night, Oisín was tormented by dreams of Erin and of his people, the Fianna. These dreams became more and more powerful with the passing of time and he ached with the desire to visit his homeland once again. Such a dreadful anxiety could not be hidden from Niamh, for she knew what troubled her husband and could not bear to see him suffer this deep sadness and unrest.

“Go, Oisín,” she told him, “though it breaks my heart, I will not hinder you. But you must promise me, in the name of our love for each other and for our children, that you will not dismount on Erin’s soil, for time has autonomy in the land of Erin. Hear my warning that if you touch the earth, you will never again return to the Land of Youth.”

Having listened carefully to these words of caution, Oisín rode away, guided by his magical steed across the plains leading back to his beloved country. After five long days, he arrived in his native land and made his way to the home of his father. Cheered by memories of his youth and the joyous welcome home he knew he would soon receive, he rode to the far side of the forest and waited anxiously for the thick mist to clear so that the great house would be revealed in all its regal splendour. Yet when the drizzling clouds finally dispersed, Oisín was shocked to discover only a pile of crumbling stones where the stronghold of Finn mac Cumaill had once stood firm. Utterly distressed and bewildered, he turned his horse swiftly around and galloped away in search of any mortal creature who might bring him news of the Fianna.

After what seemed an eternity, he spotted on the horizon a strange band of men toiling and sweating in their efforts to lift a slab of granite from the ground. Oisín marvelled at their small frames and their lack of strength in lifting such a trifling load.

“I am searching for the dwelling place of Finn mac Cumaill and the Fianna,” he shouted to the men.

“We have often heard of Finn,” replied a stooped, wizened figure, the eldest of the group. “But it has been many hundreds of years since the great battle of Gabra where he and the last of the Fianna lost their lives.”

“I can see you possess the blood of such mighty ancestors,” added another of the band. “Can you lend us your strength to shift this stone?”

Niamh’s words of counsel to Oisín had not been forgotten, but he was angered by these men of Erin who stood before him so weak and feeble. Filled with a great pride in his own strength and ability, he bent forward from his horse to assist in the lifting of the slab. But the angle at which he had leaned towards the men, added to the weight of the stone, caused the animal’s saddle-girth to snap and Oisín could not save himself from falling to the ground. In an instant, his steed had disappeared into thin air, his royal garments had turned to grimy sackcloth and his youthful warrior’s face had become creased and lined as the burden of three hundred years of mortal life fell on him. Withered and blind, he reached out with his bony arms, grasping in the dark for some form of comfort. A wretched, pitiful cry escaped his lips and he heard again Niamh’s parting words to him. As he lay helpless on the cold, damp earth, he began to weep inconsolably for the wife and children to whom he could never now return in the Land of Eternal Youth.

THE MABINOGION

Introduction

THE MABINOGI, believed to mean ‘stories of youth’, are a diverse collection of eleven Welsh medieval tales. They were recorded in the White Book of Rhydderch which is believed to date from 1350 and the Red Book of Hergest which dates from between 1382 and 1410. The tales themselves originate from much earlier oral traditions in Wales and vary in their origin, structure, style and themes. Four of them, however, form a clear group as each features the hero Pryderi. In this collection of tales, known as ‘The Four Branches of the Mabinogi’, aspects of Celtic mythology are clearly present as characters encounter supernatural beings including Bendigeid Vran the giant. Three other tales have traditionally been grouped into a category known as ‘the three romances’; these are ‘Peredur son of Evrawc’, ‘The Lady of the Fountain’ and ‘Geraint son of Erbin’. These accounts feature King Arthur in a different form to the popular Arthurian legends told today. Although often categorized together, they are not believed to originate from the same author and some argue they do not fit the category of a romance comfortably. The remaining four vary; two are again Arthurian tales and two tell of early British history.

Lady Charlotte Guest was the first to translate these tales into English between 1838 to 1849, giving them the name used today of the ‘Mabinogion’, which she erroneously believed to be the plural form but which she popularized with the result that it is still used today. She also included a twelfth tale, the ‘Tale of Taliesin’, which tells the story of Taliesin, a great bard who was a reincarnation of Gwyon Bach. Though not originally part of the White Book or the Red Book, we have chosen to include it here.

What follows are the stories from Guest’s 1849 edition of her translation, but re-ordered to start with the four branches and the rest following as they appear in the extant medieval manuscripts – since we felt it more appropriate to start with those stories that most properly form part of the Mabinogi, and to not group stories according to potentially misleading perceptions, allowing a freer interpretation of any connection between the tales.

The First Branch of the Mabinogi

Pwyll Prince Of Dyved

PWYLL PRINCE OF DYVED was lord of the seven Cantrevs of Dyved; and once upon a time he was at Narberth his chief palace, and he was minded to go and hunt, and the part of his dominions in which it pleased him to hunt was Glyn Cuch. So he set forth from Narbeth that night, and went as far as Llwyn Diarwyd. And that night he tarried there, and early on the morrow he rose and came to Glyn Cuch, when he let loose the dogs in the wood, and sounded the horn, and began the chase. And as he followed the dogs, he lost his companions; and whilst he listened to the hounds, he heard the cry of other hounds, a cry different from his own, and coming in the opposite direction.

And he beheld a glade in the wood forming a level plain, and as his dogs came to the edge of the glade, he saw a stag before the other dogs. And lo, as it reached the middle of the glade, the dogs that followed the stag overtook it and brought it down. Then looked he at the colour of the dogs, staying not to look at the stag, and of all the hounds that he had seen in the world, he had never seen any that were like unto these. For their hair was of a brilliant shining white, and their ears were red; and as the whiteness of their bodies shone, so did the redness of their ears glisten. And he came towards the dogs, and drove away those that had brought down the stag, and set his own dogs upon it.

And as he was setting on his dogs he saw a horseman coming towards him upon a large light-grey steed, with a hunting horn round his neck, and clad in garments of grey woollen in the fashion of a hunting garb. And the horseman drew near and spoke unto him thus. “Chieftain,” said he, “I know who thou art, and I greet thee not.” “Peradventure,” said Pwyll, “thou art of such dignity that thou shouldest not do so.” “Verily,” answered he, “it is not my dignity that prevents me.” “What is it then, O Chieftain?” asked he. “By Heaven, it is by reason of thine own ignorance and want of courtesy.” “What discourtesy, Chieftain, hast thou seen in me?” “Greater discourtesy saw I never in man,” said he, “than to drive away the dogs that were killing the stag and to set upon it thine own. This was discourteous, and though I may not be revenged upon thee, yet I declare to Heaven that I will do thee more dishonour than the value of an hundred stags.” “O Chieftain,” he replied, “if I have done ill I will redeem thy friendship.” “How wilt thou redeem it?” “According as thy dignity may be, but I know not who thou art?” “A crowned king am I in the land whence I come.” “Lord,” said he, “may the day prosper with thee, and from what land comest thou?” “From Annwvyn,”1 answered he; “Arawn, a King of Annwvyn, am I.” “Lord,” said he, “how may I gain thy friendship?” “After this manner mayest thou,” he said. “There is a man whose dominions are opposite to mine, who is ever warring against me, and he is Havgan, a King of Annwvyn, and by ridding me of this oppression, which thou canst easily do, shalt thou gain my friendship.” “Gladly will I do this,” said he. “Show me how I may.” “I will show thee. Behold thus it is thou mayest. I will make firm friendship with thee; and this will I do. I will send thee to Annwvyn in my stead, and I will give thee the fairest lady thou didst ever behold to be thy companion, and I will put my form and semblance upon thee, so that not a page of the chamber, nor an officer, nor any other man that has always followed me shall know that it is not I. And this shall be for the space of a year from tomorrow, and then we will meet in this place.” “Yes,” said he; “but when I shall have been there for the space of a year, by what means shall I discover him of whom thou speakest?” “One year from this night,” he answered, “is the time fixed between him and me that we should meet at the Ford; be thou there in my likeness, and with one stroke that thou givest him, he shall no longer live. And if he ask thee to give him another, give it not, how much soever he may entreat thee, for when I did so, he fought with me next day as well as ever before.” “Verily,” said Pwyll, “what shall I do concerning my kingdom?” Said Arawn, “I will cause that no one in all thy dominions, neither man nor woman, shall know that I am not thou, and I will go there in thy stead.” “Gladly then,” said Pwyll, “will I set forward.” “Clear shall be thy path, and nothing shall detain thee, until thou come into my dominions, and I myself will be thy guide!”

So he conducted him until he came in sight of the palace and its dwellings. “Behold,” said he, “the Court and the kingdom in thy power. Enter the Court, there is no one there who will know thee, and when thou seest what service is done there, thou wilt know the customs of the Court.”

So he went forward to the Court, and when he came there, he beheld sleeping-rooms, and halls, and chambers, and the most beautiful buildings ever seen. And he went into the hall to disarray, and there came youths and pages and disarrayed him, and all as they entered saluted him. And two knights came and drew his hunting-dress from about him, and clothed him in a vesture of silk and gold. And the hall was prepared, and behold he saw the household and the host enter in, and the host was the most comely and the best equipped that he had ever seen. And with them came in likewise the Queen, who was the fairest woman that he had ever yet beheld. And she had on a yellow robe of shining satin; and they washed and went to the table, and sat, the Queen upon one side of him, and one who seemed to be an Earl on the other side.

And he began to speak with the Queen, and he thought, from her speech, that she was the seemliest and most noble lady of converse and of cheer that ever was. And they partook of meat, and drink, with songs and with feasting; and of all the Courts upon the earth, behold this was the best supplied with food and drink, and vessels of gold and royal jewels.

* * *

And the year he spent in hunting, and minstrelsy, and feasting, and diversions, and discourse with his companions until the night that was fixed for the conflict. And when that night came, it was remembered even by those who lived in the furthest part of his dominions, and he went to the meeting, and the nobles of the kingdom with him. And when he came to the Ford, a knight arose and spake thus. “Lords,” said he, “listen well. It is between two kings that this meeting is, and between them only. Each claimeth of the other his land and territory, and do all of you stand aside and leave the fight to be between them.”

Thereupon the two kings approached each other in the middle of the Ford, and encountered, and at the first thrust, the man who was in the stead of Arawn struck Havgan on the centre of the boss of his shield, so that it was cloven in twain, and his armour was broken, and Havgan himself was borne to the ground an arm’s and a spear’s length over the crupper of his horse, and he received a deadly blow. “O Chieftain,” said Havgan, “what right hast thou to cause my death? I was not injuring thee in anything, and I know not wherefore thou wouldest slay me. But, for the love of Heaven, since thou hast begun to slay me, complete thy work.” “Ah, Chieftain,” he replied, “I may yet repent doing that unto thee, slay thee who may, I will not do so.” “My trusty Lords,” said Havgan, “bear me hence. My death has come. I shall be no more able to uphold you.” “My Nobles,” also said he who was in the semblance of Arawn, “take counsel and know who ought to be my subjects.” “Lord,” said the Nobles, “all should be, for there is no king over the whole of Annwvyn but thee.” “Yes,” he replied, “it is right that he who comes humbly should be received graciously, but he that doth not come with obedience, shall be compelled by the force of swords.” And thereupon he received the homage of the men, and he began to conquer the country; and the next day by noon the two kingdoms were in his power. And thereupon he went to keep his tryst, and came to Glyn Cuch.

And when he came there, the King of Annwvyn was there to meet him, and each of them was rejoiced to see the other. “Verily,” said Arawn, “may Heaven reward thee for thy friendship towards me. I have heard of it. When thou comest thyself to thy dominions,” said he, “thou wilt see that which I have done for thee.” “Whatever thou hast done for me, may Heaven repay it thee.”

Then Arawn gave to Pwyll Prince of Dyved his proper form and semblance, and he himself took his own; and Arawn set forth towards the Court of Annwvyn; and he was rejoiced when he beheld his hosts, and his household, whom he had not seen so long; but they had not known of his absence, and wondered no more at his coming than usual. And that day was spent in joy and merriment; and he sat and conversed with his wife and his nobles. And when it was time for them rather to sleep than to carouse, they went to rest.

* * *

Pwyll Prince of Dyved came likewise to his country and dominions, and began to inquire of the nobles of the land, how his rule had been during the past year, compared with what it had been before. “Lord,” said they, “thy wisdom was never so great, and thou wast never so kind or so free in bestowing thy gifts, and thy justice was never more worthily seen than in this year.” “By Heaven,” said he, “for all the good you have enjoyed, you should thank him who hath been with you; for behold, thus hath this matter been.” And thereupon Pwyll related the whole unto them. “Verily, Lord,” said they, “render thanks unto Heaven that thou hast such a fellowship, and withhold not from us the rule which we have enjoyed for this year past.” “I take Heaven to witness that I will not withhold it,” answered Pwyll.

And thenceforth they made strong the friendship that was between them, and each sent unto the other horses, and greyhounds, and hawks, and all such jewels as they thought would be pleasing to each other. And by reason of his having dwelt that year in Annwvyn, and having ruled there so prosperously, and united the two kingdoms in one day by his valour and prowess, he lost the name of Pwyll Prince of Dyved, and was called Pwyll Chief of Annwvyn from that time forward.

* * *

Once upon a time, Pwyll was at Narberth his chief palace, where a feast had been prepared for him, and with him was a great host of men. And after the first meal, Pwyll arose to walk, and he went to the top of a mound that was above the palace, and was called Gorsedd Arberth. “Lord,” said one of the Court, “it is peculiar to the mound that whosoever sits upon it cannot go thence, without either receiving wounds or blows, or else seeing a wonder.” “I fear not to receive wounds and blows in the midst of such a host as this, but as to the wonder, gladly would I see it. I will go therefore and sit upon the mound.”

And upon the mound he sat. And while he sat there, they saw a lady, on a pure white horse of large size, with a garment of shining gold around her, coming along the highway that led from the mound; and the horse seemed to move at a slow and even pace, and to be coming up towards the mound. “My men,” said Pwyll, “is there any among you who knows yonder lady?” “There is not, Lord,” said they. “Go one of you and meet her, that we may know who she is.” And one of them arose, and as he came upon the road to meet her, she passed by, and he followed as fast as he could, being on foot; and the greater was his speed, the further was she from him. And when he saw that it profited him nothing to follow her, he returned to Pwyll, and said unto him, “Lord, it is idle for any one in the world to follow her on foot.” “Verily,” said Pwyll, “go unto the palace, and take the fleetest horse that thou seest, and go after her.”

And he took a horse and went forward. And he came to an open level plain, and put spurs to his horse; and the more he urged his horse, the further was she from him. Yet she held the same pace as at first. And his horse began to fail; and when his horse’s feet failed him, he returned to the place where Pwyll was. “Lord,” said he, “it will avail nothing for any one to follow yonder lady. I know of no horse in these realms swifter than this, and it availed me not to pursue her.” “Of a truth,” said Pwyll, “there must be some illusion here. Let us go towards the palace.” So to the palace they went, and they spent that day. And the next day they arose, and that also they spent until it was time to go to meat. And after the first meal, “Verily,” said Pwyll, “we will go the same party as yesterday to the top of the mound. And do thou,” said he to one of his young men, “take the swiftest horse that thou knowest in the field.” And thus did the young man. And they went towards the mound, taking the horse with them. And as they were sitting down they beheld the lady on the same horse, and in the same apparel, coming along the same road. “Behold,” said Pwyll, “here is the lady of yesterday. Make ready, youth, to learn who she is.” “My lord,” said he, “that will I gladly do.” And thereupon the lady came opposite to them. So the youth mounted his horse; and before he had settled himself in his saddle, she passed by, and there was a clear space between them. But her speed was no greater than it had been the day before. Then he put his horse into an amble, and thought that notwithstanding the gentle pace at which his horse went, he should soon overtake her. But this availed him not; so he gave his horse the reins. And still he came no nearer to her than when he went at a foot’s pace. And the more he urged his horse, the further was she from him. Yet she rode not faster than before. When he saw that it availed not to follow her, he returned to the place where Pwyll was. “Lord,” said he, “the horse can no more than thou hast seen.” “I see indeed that it avails not that any one should follow her. And by Heaven,” said he, “she must needs have an errand to some one in this plain, if her haste would allow her to declare it. Let us go back to the palace.” And to the palace they went, and they spent that night in songs and feasting, as it pleased them.

And the next day they amused themselves until it was time to go to meat. And when meat was ended, Pwyll said, “Where are the hosts that went yesterday and the day before to the top of the mound?” “Behold, Lord, we are here,” said they. “Let us go,” said he, “to the mound, to sit there. And do thou,” said he to the page who tended his horse, “saddle my horse well, and hasten with him to the road, and bring also my spurs with thee.” And the youth did thus. And they went and sat upon the mound; and ere they had been there but a short time, they beheld the lady coming by the same road, and in the same manner, and at the same pace. “Young man,” said Pwyll, “I see the lady coming; give me my horse.” And no sooner had he mounted his horse than she passed him. And he turned after her and followed her. And he let his horse go bounding playfully, and thought that at the second step or the third he should come up with her. But he came no nearer to her than at first. Then he urged his horse to his utmost speed, yet he found that it availed nothing to follow her. Then said Pwyll, “O maiden, for the sake of him whom thou best lovest, stay for me.” “I will stay gladly,” said she, “and it were better for thy horse hadst thou asked it long since.” So the maiden stopped, and she threw back that part of her headdress which covered her face. And she fixed her eyes upon him, and began to talk with him. “Lady,” asked he, “whence comest thou, and whereunto dost thou journey?” “I journey on mine own errand,” said she, “and right glad am I to see thee.” “My greeting be unto thee,” said he. Then he thought that the beauty of all the maidens, and all the ladies that he had ever seen, was as nothing compared to her beauty. “Lady,” he said, “wilt thou tell me aught concerning thy purpose?” “I will tell thee,” said she. “My chief quest was to seek thee.” “Behold,” said Pwyll, “this is to me the most pleasing quest on which thou couldst have come; and wilt thou tell me who thou art?” “I will tell thee, Lord,” said she. “I am Rhiannon, the daughter of Heveydd Hên, and they sought to give me to a husband against my will. But no husband would I have, and that because of my love for thee, neither will I yet have one unless thou reject me. And hither have I come to hear thy answer.” “By Heaven,” said Pwyll, “behold this is my answer. If I might choose among all the ladies and damsels in the world, thee would I choose.” “Verily,” said she, “if thou art thus minded, make a pledge to meet me ere I am given to another.” “The sooner I may do so, the more pleasing will it be unto me,” said Pwyll, “and wheresoever thou wilt, there will I meet with thee.” “I will that thou meet me this day twelvemonth at the palace of Heveydd. And I will cause a feast to be prepared, so that it be ready against thou come.” “Gladly,” said he, “will I keep this tryst.” “Lord,” said she, “remain in health, and be mindful that thou keep thy promise; and now I will go hence.” So they parted, and he went back to his hosts and to them of his household. And whatsoever questions they asked him respecting the damsel, he always turned the discourse upon other matters. And when a year from that time was gone, he caused a hundred knights to equip themselves and to go with him to the palace of Heveydd Hên. And he came to the palace, and there was great joy concerning him, with much concourse of people and great rejoicing, and vast preparations for his coming. And the whole Court was placed under his orders.

And the hall was garnished and they went to meat, and thus did they sit; Heveydd Hên was on one side of Pwyll, and Rhiannon on the other. And all the rest according to their rank. And they ate and feasted and talked one with another, and at the beginning of the carousal after the meat, there entered a tall auburn-haired youth, of royal bearing, clothed in a garment of satin. And when he came into the hall, he saluted Pwyll and his companions. “The greeting of Heaven be unto thee, my soul,” said Pwyll, “come thou and sit down.” “Nay,” said he, “a suitor am I, and I will do mine errand.” “Do so willingly,” said Pwyll. “Lord,” said he, “my errand is unto thee, and it is to crave a boon of thee that I come.” “What boon soever thou mayest ask of me, as far as I am able, thou shalt have.” “Ah,” said Rhiannon, “wherefore didst thou give that answer?” “Has he not given it before the presence of these nobles?” asked the youth. “My soul,” said Pwyll, “what is the boon thou askest?” “The lady whom best I love is to be thy bride this night; I come to ask her of thee, with the feast and the banquet that are in this place.” And Pwyll was silent because of the answer which he had given. “Be silent as long as thou wilt,” said Rhiannon. “Never did man make worse use of his wits than thou hast done.” “Lady,” said he, “I knew not who he was.” “Behold this is the man to whom they would have given me against my will,” said she. “And he is Gwawl the son of Clud, a man of great power and wealth, and because of the word thou hast spoken, bestow me upon him lest shame befall thee.” “Lady,” said he, “I understand not thine answer. Never can I do as thou sayest.” “Bestow me upon him,” said she, “and I will cause that I shall never be his.” “By what means will that be?” asked Pwyll. “In thy hand will I give thee a small bag,” said she. “See that thou keep it well, and he will ask of thee the banquet, and the feast, and the preparations which are not in thy power. Unto the hosts and the household will I give the feast. And such will be thy answer respecting this. And as concerns myself, I will engage to become his bride this night twelvemonth. And at the end of the year be thou here,” said she, “and bring this bag with thee, and let thy hundred knights be in the orchard up yonder. And when he is in the midst of joy and feasting, come thou in by thyself, clad in ragged garments, and holding thy bag in thy hand, and ask nothing but a bagful of food, and I will cause that if all the meat and liquor that are in these seven Cantrevs were put into it, it would be no fuller than before. And after a great deal has been put therein, he will ask thee whether thy bag will ever be full. Say thou then that it never will, until a man of noble birth and of great wealth arise and press the food in the bag with both his feet, saying, ‘Enough has been put therein;’ and I will cause him to go and tread down the food in the bag, and when he does so, turn thou the bag, so that he shall be up over his head in it, and then slip a knot upon the thongs of the bag. Let there be also a good bugle horn about thy neck, and as soon as thou hast bound him in the bag, wind thy horn, and let it be a signal between thee and thy knights. And when they hear the sound of the horn, let them come down upon the palace.” “Lord,” said Gwawl, “it is meet that I have an answer to my request.” “As much of that thou hast asked as it is in my power to give, thou shalt have,” replied Pwyll. “My soul,” said Rhiannon unto him, “as for the feast and the banquet that are here, I have bestowed them upon the men of Dyved, and the household, and the warriors that are with us. These can I not suffer to be given to any. In a year from tonight a banquet shall be prepared for thee in this palace, that I may become thy bride.”

So Gwawl went forth to his possessions, and Pwyll went also back to Dyved. And they both spent that year until it was the time for the feast at the palace of Heveydd Hên. Then Gwawl the son of Clud set out to the feast that was prepared for him, and he came to the palace, and was received there with rejoicing. Pwyll, also, the Chief of Annwvyn, came to the orchard with his hundred knights, as Rhiannon had commanded him, having the bag with him. And Pwyll was clad in coarse and ragged garments, and wore large clumsy old shoes upon his feet. And when he knew that the carousal after the meat had begun, he went towards the hall, and when he came into the hall, he saluted Gwawl the son of Clud, and his company, both men and women. “Heaven prosper thee,” said Gwawl, “and the greeting of Heaven be unto thee.” “Lord,” said he, “may Heaven reward thee, I have an errand unto thee.” “Welcome be thine errand, and if thou ask of me that which is just, thou shalt have it gladly.” “It is fitting,” answered he. “I crave but from want, and the boon that I ask is to have this small bag that thou seest filled with meat.” “A request within reason is this,” said he, “and gladly shalt thou have it. Bring him food.” A great number of attendants arose and began to fill the bag, but for all that they put into it, it was no fuller than at first. “My soul,” said Gwawl, “will thy bag be ever full?” “It will not, I declare to Heaven,” said he, “for all that may be put into it, unless one possessed of lands, and domains, and treasure, shall arise and tread down with both his feet the food that is within the bag, and shall say, ‘Enough has been put therein.’” Then said Rhiannon unto Gwawl the son of Clud, “Rise up quickly.” “I will willingly arise,” said he. So he rose up, and put his two feet into the bag. And Pwyll turned up the sides of the bag, so that Gwawl was over his head in it. And he shut it up quickly and slipped a knot upon the thongs, and blew his horn. And thereupon behold his household came down upon the palace. And they seized all the host that had come with Gwawl, and cast them into his own prison. And Pwyll threw off his rags, and his old shoes, and his tattered array; and as they came in, every one of Pwyll’s knights struck a blow upon the bag, and asked, “What is here?” “A Badger,” said they. And in this manner they played, each of them striking the bag, either with his foot or with a staff. And thus played they with the bag. Every one as he came in asked, “What game are you playing at thus?” “The game of Badger in the Bag,” said they. And then was the game of Badger in the Bag first played.

“Lord,” said the man in the bag, “if thou wouldest but hear me, I merit not to be slain in a bag.” Said Heveydd Hên, “Lord, he speaks truth. It were fitting that thou listen to him, for he deserves not this.” “Verily,” said Pwyll, “I will do thy counsel concerning him.” “Behold this is my counsel then,” said Rhiannon; “thou art now in a position in which it behoves thee to satisfy suitors and minstrels; let him give unto them in thy stead, and take a pledge from him that he will never seek to revenge that which has been done to him. And this will be punishment enough.” “I will do this gladly,” said the man in the bag. “And gladly will I accept it,” said Pwyll, “since it is the counsel of Heveydd and Rhiannon.” “Such then is our counsel,” answered they. “I accept it,” said Pwyll. “Seek thyself sureties.” “We will be for him,” said Heveydd, “until his men be free to answer for him.” And upon this he was let out of the bag, and his liegemen were liberated. “Demand now of Gwawl his sureties,” said Heveydd, “we know which should be taken for him.” And Heveydd numbered the sureties. Said Gwawl, “Do thou thyself draw up the covenant.” “It will suffice me that it be as Rhiannon said,” answered Pwyll. So unto that covenant were the sureties pledged. “Verily, Lord,” said Gwawl, “I am greatly hurt, and I have many bruises. I have need to be anointed; with thy leave I will go forth. I will leave nobles in my stead, to answer for me in all that thou shalt require.” “Willingly,” said Pwyll, “mayest thou do thus.” So Gwawl went towards his own possessions.

And the hall was set in order for Pwyll and the men of his host, and for them also of the palace, and they went to the tables and sat down. And as they had sat that time twelvemonth, so sat they that night. And they ate, and feasted, and spent the night in mirth and tranquillity. And the time came that they should sleep, and Pwyll and Rhiannon went to their chamber.

And next morning at the break of day, “My Lord,” said Rhiannon, “arise and begin to give thy gifts unto the minstrels. Refuse no one today that may claim thy bounty.” “Thus shall it be gladly,” said Pwyll, “both today and every day while the feast shall last.” So Pwyll arose, and he caused silence to be proclaimed, and desired all the suitors and the minstrels to show and to point out what gifts were to their wish and desire. And this being done, the feast went on, and he denied no one while it lasted. And when the feast was ended, Pwyll said unto Heveydd, “My Lord, with thy permission I will set out for Dyved tomorrow.” “Certainly,” said Heveydd, “may Heaven prosper thee. Fix also a time when Rhiannon may follow thee.” “By Heaven,” said Pwyll, “we will go hence together.” “Willest thou this, Lord?” said Heveydd. “Yes, by Heaven,” answered Pwyll.

And the next day, they set forward towards Dyved, and journeyed to the palace of Narberth, where a feast was made ready for them. And there came to them great numbers of the chief men and the most noble ladies of the land, and of these there was none to whom Rhiannon did not give some rich gift, either a bracelet, or a ring, or a precious stone. And they ruled the land prosperously both that year and the next.

And in the third year the nobles of the land began to be sorrowful at seeing a man whom they loved so much, and who was moreover their lord and their foster-brother, without an heir. And they came to him. And the place where they met was Preseleu, in Dyved. “Lord,” said they, “we know that thou art not so young as some of the men of this country, and we fear that thou mayest not have an heir of the wife whom thou hast taken. Take therefore another wife of whom thou mayest have heirs. Thou canst not always continue with us, and though thou desire to remain as thou art, we will not suffer thee.” “Truly,” said Pwyll, “we have not long been joined together, and many things may yet befall. Grant me a year from this time, and for the space of a year we will abide together, and after that I will do according to your wishes.” So they granted it. And before the end of a year a son was born unto him. And in Narberth was he born; and on the night that he was born, women were brought to watch the mother and the boy. And the women slept, as did also Rhiannon, the mother of the boy. And the number of the women that were brought into the chamber was six. And they watched for a good portion of the night, and before midnight every one of them fell asleep, and towards break of day they awoke; and when they awoke, they looked where they had put the boy, and behold he was not there. “Oh,” said one of the women, “the boy is lost?” “Yes,” said another, “and it will be small vengeance if we are burnt or put to death because of the child.” Said one of the women, “Is there any counsel for us in the world in this matter?” “There is,” answered another, “I offer you good counsel.” “What is that?” asked they. “There is here a stag-hound bitch, and she has a litter of whelps. Let us kill some of the cubs, and rub the blood on the face and hands of Rhiannon, and lay the bones before her, and assert that she herself hath devoured her son, and she alone will not be able to gainsay us six.” And according to this counsel it was settled. And towards morning Rhiannon awoke, and she said, “Women, where is my son?” “Lady,” said they, “ask us not concerning thy son, we have nought but the blows and the bruises we got by struggling with thee, and of a truth we never saw any woman so violent as thou, for it was of no avail to contend with thee. Hast thou not thyself devoured thy son? Claim him not therefore of us.” “For pity’s sake,” said Rhiannon; “the Lord God knows all things. Charge me not falsely. If you tell me this from fear, I assert before Heaven that I will defend you.” “Truly,” said they, “we would not bring evil on ourselves for any one in the world.” “For pity’s sake,” said Rhiannon, “you will receive no evil by telling the truth.” But for all her words, whether fair or harsh, she received but the same answer from the women.

And Pwyll the chief of Annwvyn arose, and his household, and his hosts. And this occurrence could not be concealed, but the story went forth throughout the land, and all the nobles heard it. Then the nobles came to Pwyll, and besought him to put away his wife, because of the great crime which she had done. But Pwyll answered them, that they had no cause wherefore they might ask him to put away his wife, save for her having no children. “But children has she now had, therefore will I not put her away; if she has done wrong, let her do penance for it.”

So Rhiannon sent for the teachers and the wise men, and as she preferred doing penance to contending with the women, she took upon her a penance. And the penance that was imposed upon her was, that she should remain in that palace of Narberth until the end of seven years, and that she should sit every day near unto a horseblock that was without the gate. And that she should relate the story to all who should come there, whom she might suppose not to know it already; and that she should offer the guests and strangers, if they would permit her, to carry them upon her back into the palace. But it rarely happened that any would permit. And thus did she spend part of the year.

Now at that time Teirnyon Twryv Vliant was Lord of Gwent Is Coed, and he was the best man in the world. And unto his house there belonged a mare, than which neither mare nor horse in the kingdom was more beautiful. And on the night of every first of May she foaled, and no one ever knew what became of the colt. And one night Teirnyon talked with his wife: “Wife,” said he, “it is very simple of us that our mare should foal every year, and that we should have none of her colts.” “What can be done in the matter?” said she. “This is the night of the first of May,” said he. “The vengeance of Heaven be upon me, if I learn not what it is that takes away the colts.” So he caused the mare to be brought into a house, and he armed himself, and began to watch that night. And in the beginning of the night, the mare foaled a large and beautiful colt. And it was standing up in the place. And Teirnyon rose up and looked at the size of the colt, and as he did so he heard a great tumult, and after the tumult behold a claw came through the window into the house, and it seized the colt by the mane. Then Teirnyon drew his sword, and struck off the arm at the elbow, so that portion of the arm together with the colt was in the house with him. And then did he hear a tumult and wailing, both at once. And he opened the door, and rushed out in the direction of the noise, and he could not see the cause of the tumult because of the darkness of the night, but he rushed after it and followed it. Then he remembered that he had left the door open, and he returned. And at the door behold there was an infant boy in swaddling-clothes, wrapped around in a mantle of satin. And he took up the boy, and behold he was very strong for the age that he was of.

Then he shut the door, and went into the chamber where his wife was. “Lady,” said he, “art thou sleeping?” “No, lord,” said she, “I was asleep, but as thou camest in I did awake.” “Behold, here is a boy for thee if thou wilt,” said he, “since thou hast never had one.” “My lord,” said she, “what adventure is this?” “It was thus,” said Teirnyon; and he told her how it all befell. “Verily, lord,” said she, “what sort of garments are there upon the boy?” “A mantle of satin,” said he. “He is then a boy of gentle lineage,” she replied. “My lord,” she said, “if thou wilt, I shall have great diversion and mirth. I will call my women unto me, and tell them that I have been pregnant.” “I will readily grant thee to do this,” he answered. And thus did they, and they caused the boy to be baptized, and the ceremony was performed there; and the name which they gave unto him was Gwri Wallt Euryn, because what hair was upon his head was as yellow as gold. And they had the boy nursed in the Court until he was a year old. And before the year was over he could walk stoutly. And he was larger than a boy of three years old, even one of great growth and size. And the boy was nursed the second year, and then he was as large as a child six years old. And before the end of the fourth year, he would bribe the grooms to allow him to take the horses to water. “My lord,” said his wife unto Teirnyon, “where is the colt which thou didst save on the night that thou didst find the boy?” “I have commanded the grooms of the horses,” said he, “that they take care of him.” “Would it not be well, lord,” said she, “if thou wert to cause him to be broken in, and given to the boy, seeing that on the same night that thou didst find the boy, the colt was foaled and thou didst save him?” “I will not oppose thee in this matter,” said Teirnyon. “I will allow thee to give him the colt.” “Lord,” said she, “may Heaven reward thee; I will give it him.” So the horse was given to the boy. Then she went to the grooms and those who tended the horses, and commanded them to be careful of the horse, so that he might be broken in by the time that the boy could ride him.

And while these things were going forward, they heard tidings of Rhiannon and her punishment. And Teirnyon Twryv Vliant, by reason of the pity that he felt on hearing this story of Rhiannon and her punishment, inquired closely concerning it, until he had heard from many of those who came to his court. Then did Teirnyon, often lamenting the sad history, ponder within himself, and he looked steadfastly on the boy, and as he looked upon him, it seemed to him that he had never beheld so great a likeness between father and son, as between the boy and Pwyll the Chief of Annwvyn. Now the semblance of Pwyll was well known to him, for he had of yore been one of his followers. And thereupon he became grieved for the wrong that he did, in keeping with him a boy whom he knew to be the son of another man. And the first time that he was alone with his wife, he told her that it was not right that they should keep the boy with them, and suffer so excellent a lady as Rhiannon to be punished so greatly on his account, whereas the boy was the son of Pwyll the Chief of Annwvyn. And Teirnyon’s wife agreed with him, that they should send the boy to Pwyll. “And three things, lord,” said she, “shall we gain thereby. Thanks and gifts for releasing Rhiannon from her punishment; and thanks from Pwyll for nursing his son and restoring him unto him; and thirdly, if the boy is of gentle nature, he will be our foster-son, and he will do for us all the good in his power.” So it was settled according to this counsel.

And no later than the next day was Teirnyon equipped, and two other knights with him. And the boy, as a fourth in their company, went with them upon the horse which Teirnyon had given him. And they journeyed towards Narberth, and it was not long before they reached that place. And as they drew near to the palace, they beheld Rhiannon sitting beside the horseblock. And when they were opposite to her, “Chieftain,” said she, “go not further thus, I will bear every one of you into the palace, and this is my penance for slaying my own son and devouring him.” “Oh, fair lady,” said Teirnyon, “think not that I will be one to be carried upon thy back.” “Neither will I,” said the boy. “Truly, my soul,” said Teirnyon, “we will not go.” So they went forward to the palace, and there was great joy at their coming. And at the palace a feast was prepared, because Pywll was come back from the confines of Dyved. And they went into the hall and washed, and Pwyll rejoiced to see Teirnyon. And in this order they sat. Teirnyon between Pwyll and Rhiannon, and Teirnyon’s two companions on the other side of Pwyll, with the boy between them. And after meat they began to carouse and to discourse. And Teirnyon’s discourse was concerning the adventure of the mare and the boy, and how he and his wife had nursed and reared the child as their own. “And behold here is thy son, lady,” said Teirnyon. “And whosoever told that lie concerning thee, has done wrong. And when I heard of thy sorrow, I was troubled and grieved. And I believe that there is none of this host who will not perceive that the boy is the son of Pwyll,” said Teirnyon. “There is none,” said they all, “who is not certain thereof.” “I declare to Heaven,” said Rhiannon, “that if this be true, there is indeed an end to my trouble.” “Lady,” said Pendaran Dyved, “well hast thou named thy son Pryderi^2, and well becomes him the name of Pryderi son of Pwyll Chief of Annwvyn.” “Look you,” said Rhiannon, “will not his own name become him better?” “What name has he?” asked Pendaran Dyved. “Gwri Wallt Euryn is the name that we gave him.” “Pryderi,” said Pendaran, “shall his name be.” “It were more proper,” said Pwyll, “that the boy should take his name from the word his mother spoke when she received the joyful tidings of him.” And thus was it arranged.

“Teirnyon,” said Pwyll, “Heaven reward thee that thou hast reared the boy up to this time, and, being of gentle lineage, it were fitting that he repay thee for it.” “My lord,” said Teirnyon, “it was my wife who nursed him, and there is no one in the world so afflicted as she at parting with him. It were well that he should bear in mind what I and my wife have done for him.” “I call Heaven to witness,” said Pwyll, “that while I live I will support thee and thy possessions, as long as I am able to preserve my own. And when he shall have power, he will more fitly maintain them than I. And if this counsel be pleasing unto thee, and to my nobles, it shall be that, as thou hast reared him up to the present time, I will give him to be brought up by Pendaran Dyved, from henceforth. And you shall be companions, and shall both be foster-fathers unto him.” “This is good counsel,” said they all. So the boy was given to Pendaran Dyved, and the nobles of the land were sent with him. And Teirnyon Twryv Vliant, and his companions, set out for his country, and his possessions, with love and gladness. And he went not without being offered the fairest jewels and the fairest horses, and the choicest dogs; but he would take none of them.

Thereupon they all remained in their own dominions. And Pryderi, the son of Pwyll the Chief of Annwvyn, was brought up carefully as was fit, so that he became the fairest youth, and the most comely, and the best skilled in all good games, of any in the kingdom. And thus passed years and years, until the end of Pwyll the Chief of Annwvyn’s life came, and he died.

And Pryderi ruled the seven Cantrevs of Dyved prosperously, and he was beloved by his people, and by all around him. And at length he added unto them the three Cantrevs of Ystrad Tywi, and the four Cantrevs of Cardigan; and these were called the Seven Cantrevs of Seissyllwch. And when he made this addition, Pryderi the son of Pwyll the Chief of Annwvyn desired to take a wife. And the wife he chose was Kicva, the daughter of Gwynn Gohoyw, the son of Gloyw Wallt Lydan, the son of Prince Casnar, one of the nobles of this Island.

And thus ends this part of the Mabinogion.

Footnotes for Pwyll Prince of Dyved

1. Annwvyn – Guest notes that this is ‘Hades’, though more accurately it is the Welsh ‘Otherworld’, which is arguably more equivalent to the Christian afterlife in paradise (or heaven).

2. ‘Pryder’ – or ‘Pryderi’ – means anxiety.

The Second Branch of the Mabinogi

Branwen The Daughter Of Llyr

BENDIGEID VRAN, the son of Llyr, was the crowned king of this island, and he was exalted from the crown of London. And one afternoon he was at Harlech in Ardudwy, at his Court, and he sat upon the rock of Harlech, looking over the sea. And with him were his brother Manawyddan the son of Llyr, and his brothers by the mother’s side, Nissyen and Evnissyen, and many nobles likewise, as was fitting to see around a king. His two brothers by the mother’s side were the sons of Eurosswydd, by his mother, Penardun, the daughter of Beli son of Manogan. And one of these youths was a good youth and of gentle nature, and would make peace between his kindred, and cause his family to be friends when their wrath was at the highest; and this one was Nissyen; but the other would cause strife between his two brothers when they were most at peace. And as they sat thus, they beheld thirteen ships coming from the south of Ireland, and making towards them, and they came with a swift motion, the wind being behind them, and they neared them rapidly. “I see ships afar,” said the king, “coming swiftly towards the land. Command the men of the Court that they equip themselves, and go and learn their intent.” So the men equipped themselves and went down towards them. And when they saw the ships near, certain were they that they had never seen ships better furnished. Beautiful flags of satin were upon them. And behold one of the ships outstripped the others, and they saw a shield lifted up above the side of the ship, and the point of the shield was upwards, in token of peace. And the men drew near that they might hold converse. Then they put out boats and came towards the land. And they saluted the king. Now the king could hear them from the place where he was, upon the rock above their heads. “Heaven prosper you,” said he, “and be ye welcome. To whom do these ships belong, and who is the chief amongst you?” “Lord,” said they, “Matholwch, king of Ireland, is here, and these ships belong to him.” “Wherefore comes he?” asked the king, “and will he come to the land?” “He is a suitor unto thee, lord,” said they, “and he will not land unless he have his boon.” “And what may that be?” inquired the king. “He desires to ally himself with thee, lord,” said they, “and he comes to ask Branwen the daughter of Llyr, that, if it seem well to thee, the Island of the Mighty may be leagued with Ireland, and both become more powerful.” “Verily,” said he, “let him come to land, and we will take counsel thereupon.” And this answer was brought to Matholwch. “I will go willingly,” said he. So he landed, and they received him joyfully; and great was the throng in the palace that night, between his hosts and those of the Court; and next day they took counsel, and they resolved to bestow Branwen upon Matholwch. Now she was one of the three chief ladies of this island, and she was the fairest damsel in the world.

And they fixed upon Aberffraw as the place where she should become his bride. And they went thence, and towards Aberffraw the hosts proceeded; Matholwch and his host in their ships; Bendigeid Vran and his host by land, until they came to Aberffraw. And at Aberffraw they began the feast and sat down. And thus sat they. The King of the Island of the Mighty and Manawyddan the son of Llyr on one side, and Matholwch on the other side, and Branwen the daughter of Llyr beside him. And they were not within a house, but under tents. No house could ever contain Bendigeid Vran. And they began the banquet and caroused and discoursed. And when it was more pleasing to them to sleep than to carouse, they went to rest, and that night Branwen became Matholwch’s bride.

And next day they arose, and all they of the Court, and the officers began to equip and to range the horses and the attendants, and they ranged them in order as far as the sea.

And behold one day, Evnissyen, the quarrelsome man of whom it is spoken above, came by chance into the place, where the horses of Matholwch were, and asked whose horses they might be. “They are the horses of Matholwch king of Ireland, who is married to Branwen, thy sister; his horses are they.” “And is it thus they have done with a maiden such as she, and moreover my sister, bestowing her without my consent? They could have offered no greater insult to me than this,” said he. And thereupon he rushed under the horses and cut off their lips at the teeth, and their ears close to their heads, and their tails close to their backs, and wherever he could clutch their eyelids, he cut them to the very bone, and he disfigured the horses and rendered them useless.

And they came with these tidings unto Matholwch, saying that the horses were disfigured, and injured so that not one of them could ever be of any use again. “Verily, lord,” said one, “it was an insult unto thee, and as such was it meant.” “Of a truth, it is a marvel to me, that if they desire to insult me, they should have given me a maiden of such high rank and so much beloved of her kindred, as they have done.” “Lord,” said another, “thou seest that thus it is, and there is nothing for thee to do but to go to thy ships.” And thereupon towards his ships he set out.

And tidings came to Bendigeid Vran that Matholwch was quitting the Court without asking leave, and messengers were sent to inquire of him wherefore he did so. And the messengers that went were Iddic the son of Anarawd, and Heveydd Hir. And these overtook him and asked of him what he designed to do, and wherefore he went forth. “Of a truth,” said he, “if I had known I had not come hither. I have been altogether insulted, no one had ever worse treatment than I have had here. But one thing surprises me above all.” “What is that?” asked they. “That Branwen the daughter of Llyr, one of the three chief ladies of this island, and the daughter of the King of the Island of the Mighty, should have been given me as my bride, and that after that I should have been insulted; and I marvel that the insult was not done me before they had bestowed upon me a maiden so exalted as she.” “Truly, lord, it was not the will of any that are of the Court,” said they, “nor of any that are of the council, that thou shouldest have received this insult; and as thou hast been insulted, the dishonour is greater unto Bendigeid Vran than unto thee.” “Verily,” said he, “I think so. Nevertheless he cannot recall the insult.” These men returned with that answer to the place where Bendigeid Vran was, and they told him what reply Matholwch had given them. “Truly,” said he, “there are no means by which we may prevent his going away at enmity with us, that we will not take.” “Well, lord,” said they, “send after him another embassy.” “I will do so,” said he. “Arise, Manawyddan son of Llyr, and Heveydd Hir, and Unic Glew Ysgwyd, and go after him, and tell him that he shall have a sound horse for every one that has been injured. And beside that, as an atonement for the insult, he shall have a staff of silver, as large and as tall as himself, and a plate of gold of the breadth of his face. And show unto him who it was that did this, and that it was done against my will; but that he who did it is my brother, by the mother’s side, and therefore it would be hard for me to put him to death. And let him come and meet me,” said he, “and we will make peace in any way he may desire.”

The embassy went after Matholwch, and told him all these sayings in a friendly manner, and he listened thereunto. “Men,” said he, “I will take counsel.” So to the council he went. And in the council they considered that if they should refuse this, they were likely to have more shame rather than to obtain so great an atonement. They resolved therefore to accept it, and they returned to the Court in peace.

Then the pavilions and the tents were set in order after the fashion of a hall; and they went to meat, and as they had sat at the beginning of the feast, so sat they there. And Matholwch and Bendigeid Vran began to discourse; and behold it seemed to Bendigeid Vran, while they talked, that Matholwch was not so cheerful as he had been before. And he thought that the chieftain might be sad, because of the smallness of the atonement which he had, for the wrong that had been done him. “Oh, man,” said Bendigeid Vran, “thou dost not discourse tonight so cheerfully as thou wast wont. And if it be because of the smallness of the atonement, thou shalt add thereunto whatsoever thou mayest choose, and tomorrow I will pay thee the horses.” “Lord,” said he, “Heaven reward thee.” “And I will enhance the atonement,” said Bendigeid Vran, “for I will give unto thee a cauldron, the property of which is, that if one of thy men be slain today, and be cast therein, tomorrow he will be as well as ever he was at the best, except that he will not regain his speech.” And thereupon he gave him great thanks, and very joyful was he for that cause.

And the next morning they paid Matholwch the horses as long as the trained horses lasted. And then they journeyed into another commot, where they paid him with colts until the whole had been paid, and from thenceforth that commot was called Talebolion.

And a second night sat they together. “My lord,” said Matholwch, “whence hadst thou the cauldron which thou hast given me?” “I had it of a man who had been in thy land,” said he, “and I would not give it except to one from there.” “Who was it?” asked he. “Llassar Llaesgyvnewid; he came here from Ireland with Kymideu Kymeinvoll, his wife, who escaped from the Iron House in Ireland, when it was made red hot around them, and fled hither. And it is a marvel to me that thou shouldst know nothing concerning the matter.” “Something I do know,” said he, “and as much as I know I will tell thee. One day I was hunting in Ireland, and I came to the mound at the head of the lake, which is called the Lake of the Cauldron. And I beheld a huge yellow-haired man coming from the lake with a cauldron upon his back. And he was a man of vast size, and of horrid aspect, and a woman followed after him. And if the man was tall, twice as large as he was the woman, and they came towards me and greeted me. “Verily,” asked I, “wherefore are you journeying?” “Behold, this,” said he to me, “is the cause that we journey. At the end of a month and a fortnight this woman will have a son; and the child that will be born at the end of the month and the fortnight will be a warrior fully armed.” So I took them with me and maintained them. And they were with me for a year. And that year I had them with me not grudgingly. But thenceforth was there murmuring, because that they were with me. For, from the beginning of the fourth month they had begun to make themselves hated and to be disorderly in the land; committing outrages, and molesting and harassing the nobles and ladies; and thenceforward my people rose up and besought me to part with them, and they bade me to choose between them and my dominions. And I applied to the council of my country to know what should be done concerning them; for of their own free will they would not go, neither could they be compelled against their will, through fighting. And [the people of the country] being in this strait, they caused a chamber to be made all of iron. Now when the chamber was ready, there came there every smith that was in Ireland, and every one who owned tongs and hammer. And they caused coals to be piled up as high as the top of the chamber. And they had the man, and the woman, and the children, served with plenty of meat and drink; but when it was known that they were drunk, they began to put fire to the coals about the chamber, and they blew it with bellows until the house was red hot all around them. Then was there a council held in the centre of the floor of the chamber. And the man tarried until the plates of iron were all of a white heat; and then, by reason of the great heat, the man dashed against the plates with his shoulder and struck them out, and his wife followed him; but except him and his wife none escaped thence. And then I suppose, lord,” said Matholwch unto Bendigeid Vran, “that he came over unto thee.” “Doubtless he came here,” said he, “and gave unto me the cauldron.” “In what manner didst thou receive them?” “I dispersed them through every part of my dominions, and they have become numerous and are prospering everywhere, and they fortify the places where they are with men and arms, of the best that were ever seen.”

That night they continued to discourse as much as they would, and had minstrelsy and carousing, and when it was more pleasant to them to sleep than to sit longer, they went to rest. And thus was the banquet carried on with joyousness; and when it was finished, Matholwch journeyed towards Ireland, and Branwen with him, and they went from Aber Menei with thirteen ships, and came to Ireland. And in Ireland was there great joy because of their coming. And not one great man or noble lady visited Branwen unto whom she gave not either a clasp, or a ring, or a royal jewel to keep, such as it was honourable to be seen departing with. And in these things she spent that year in much renown, and she passed her time pleasantly, enjoying honour and friendship. And in the meanwhile it chanced that she became pregnant, and in due time a son was born unto her, and the name that they gave him was Gwern the son of Matholwch, and they put the boy out to be foster-nursed, in a place where were the best men of Ireland.

And behold in the second year a tumult arose in Ireland, on account of the insult which Matholwch had received in Cambria, and the payment made him for his horses. And his foster-brothers, and such as were nearest unto him, blamed him openly for that matter. And he might have no peace by reason of the tumult until they should revenge upon him this disgrace. And the vengeance which they took was to drive away Branwen from the same chamber with him, and to make her cook for the Court; and they caused the butcher after he had cut up the meat to come to her and give her every day a blow on the ear, and such they made her punishment.

“Verily, lord,” said his men to Matholwch, “forbid now the ships and the ferry boats and the coracles, that they go not into Cambria, and such as come over from Cambria hither, imprison them that they go not back for this thing to be known there.” And he did so; and it was thus for not less than three years.

And Branwen reared a starling in the cover of the kneading trough, and she taught it to speak, and she taught the bird what manner of man her brother was. And she wrote a letter of her woes, and the despite with which she was treated, and she bound the letter to the root of the bird’s wing, and sent it towards Britain. And the bird came to this island, and one day it found Bendigeid Vran at Caer Seiont in Arvon, conferring there, and it alighted upon his shoulder and ruffled its feathers, so that the letter was seen, and they knew that the bird had been reared in a domestic manner.

Then Bendigeid Vran took the letter and looked upon it. And when he had read the letter he grieved exceedingly at the tidings of Branwen’s woes. And immediately he began sending messengers to summon the island together. And he caused sevenscore and four countries to come unto him, and he complained to them himself of the grief that his sister endured. So they took counsel. And in the council they resolved to go to Ireland, and to leave seven men as princes here, and Caradawc, the son of Bran, as the chief of them, and their seven knights. In Edeyrnion were these men left. And for this reason were the seven knights placed in the town. Now the names of these seven men were, Caradawc the son of Bran, and Heveydd Hir, and Unic Glew Ysgwyd, and Iddic the son of Anarawc Gwalltgrwn, and Fodor the son of Ervyll, and Gwlch Minascwrn, and Llassar the son of Llaesar Llaesgygwyd, and Pendaran Dyved as a young page with them. And these abode as seven ministers to take charge of this island; and Caradawc the son of Bran was the chief amongst them.

Bendigeid Vran, with the host of which we spoke, sailed towards Ireland, and it was not far across the sea, and he came to shoal water. It was caused by two rivers; the Lli and the Archan were they called; and the nations covered the sea. Then he proceeded with what provisions he had on his own back, and approached the shore of Ireland.

Now the swineherds of Matholwch were upon the seashore, and they came to Matholwch. “Lord,” said they, “greeting be unto thee.” “Heaven protect you,” said he, “have you any news?” “Lord,” said they, “we have marvellous news, a wood have we seen upon the sea, in a place where we never yet saw a single tree.” “This is indeed a marvel,” said he; “saw you aught else?” “We saw, lord,” said they, “a vast mountain beside the wood, which moved, and there was a lofty ridge on the top of the mountain, and a lake on each side of the ridge. And the wood, and the mountain, and all these things moved.” “Verily,” said he, “there is none who can know aught concerning this, unless it be Branwen.”

Messengers then went unto Branwen. “Lady,” said they, “what thinkest thou that this is?” “The men of the Island of the Mighty, who have come hither on hearing of my ill-treatment and my woes.” “What is the forest that is seen upon the sea?” asked they. “The yards and the masts of ships,” she answered. “Alas,” said they, “what is the mountain that is seen by the side of the ships?” “Bendigeid Vran, my brother,” she replied, “coming to shoal water; there is no ship that can contain him in it.” “What is the lofty ridge with the lake on each side thereof?” “On looking towards this island he is wroth, and his two eyes, one on each side of his nose, are the two lakes beside the ridge.”

The warriors and the chief men of Ireland were brought together in haste, and they took counsel. “Lord,” said the nobles unto Matholwch, “there is no other counsel than to retreat over the Linon (a river which is in Ireland), and to keep the river between thee and him, and to break down the bridge that is across the river, for there is a loadstone at the bottom of the river that neither ship nor vessel can pass over.” So they retreated across the river, and broke down the bridge.

Bendigeid Vran came to land, and the fleet with him by the bank of the river. “Lord,” said his chieftains, “knowest thou the nature of this river, that nothing can go across it, and there is no bridge over it?” “What,” said they, “is thy counsel concerning a bridge?” “There is none,” said he, “except that he who will be chief, let him be a bridge. I will be so,” said he. And then was that saying first uttered, and it is still used as a proverb. And when he had lain down across the river, hurdles were placed upon him, and the host passed over thereby.

And as he rose up, behold the messengers of Matholwch came to him, and saluted him, and gave him greeting in the name of Matholwch, his kinsman, and showed how that of his goodwill he had merited of him nothing but good. “For Matholwch has given the kingdom of Ireland to Gwern the son of Matholwch, thy nephew and thy sister’s son. And this he places before thee, as a compensation for the wrong and despite that has been done unto Branwen. And Matholwch shall be maintained wheresoever thou wilt, either here or in the Island of the Mighty.” Said Bendigeid Vran, “Shall not I myself have the kingdom? Then peradventure I may take counsel concerning your message. From this time until then no other answer will you get from me.” “Verily,” said they, “the best message that we receive for thee, we will convey it unto thee, and do thou await our message unto him.” “I will wait,” answered he, “and do you return quickly.”

The messengers set forth and came to Matholwch. “Lord,” said they, “prepare a better message for Bendigeid Vran. He would not listen at all to the message that we bore him.” “My friends,” said Matholwch, “what may be your counsel?” “Lord,” said they, “there is no other counsel than this alone. He was never known to be within a house, make therefore a house that will contain him and the men of the Island of the Mighty on the one side, and thyself and thy host on the other; and give over thy kingdom to his will, and do him homage. So by reason of the honour thou doest him in making him a house, whereas he never before had a house to contain him, he will make peace with thee.” So the messengers went back to Bendigeid Vran, bearing him this message.

And he took counsel, and in the council it was resolved that he should accept this, and this was all done by the advice of Branwen, and lest the country should be destroyed. And this peace was made, and the house was built both vast and strong. But the Irish planned a crafty device, and the craft was that they should put brackets on each side of the hundred pillars that were in the house, and should place a leathern bag on each bracket, and an armed man in every one of them. Then Evnissyen came in before the host of the Island of the Mighty, and scanned the house with fierce and savage looks, and descried the leathern bags which were around the pillars. “What is in this bag?” asked he of one of the Irish. “Meal, good soul,” said he. And Evnissyen felt about it until he came to the man’s head, and he squeezed the head until he felt his fingers meet together in the brain through the bone. And he left that one and put his hand upon another, and asked what was therein. “Meal,” said the Irishman. So he did the like unto every one of them, until he had not left alive, of all the two hundred men, save one only; and when he came to him, he asked what was there. “Meal, good soul,” said the Irishman. And he felt about until he felt the head, and he squeezed that head as he had done the others. And, albeit he found that the head of this one was armed, he left him not until he had killed him. And then he sang an Englyn:

“There is in this bag a different sort of meal,

The ready combatant, when the assault is made

By his fellow-warriors, prepared for battle.”

Thereupon came the hosts unto the house. The men of the Island of Ireland entered the house on the one side, and the men of the Island of the Mighty on the other. And as soon as they had sat down there was concord between them; and the sovereignty was conferred upon the boy. When the peace was concluded, Bendigeid Vran called the boy unto him, and from Bendigeid Vran the boy went unto Manawyddan, and he was beloved by all that beheld him. And from Manawyddan the boy was called by Nissyen the son of Eurosswydd, and the boy went unto him lovingly. “Wherefore,” said Evnissyen, “comes not my nephew the son of my sister unto me? Though he were not king of Ireland, yet willingly would I fondle the boy.” “Cheerfully let him go to thee,” said Bendigeid Vran, and the boy went unto him cheerfully. “By my confession to Heaven,” said Evnissyen in his heart, “unthought of by the household is the slaughter that I will this instant commit.”

Then he arose and took up the boy by the feet, and before any one in the house could seize hold of him, he thrust the boy headlong into the blazing fire. And when Branwen saw her son burning in the fire, she strove to leap into the fire also, from the place where she sat between her two brothers. But Bendigeid Vran grasped her with one hand, and his shield with the other. Then they all hurried about the house, and never was there made so great a tumult by any host in one house as was made by them, as each man armed himself. Then said Morddwydtyllyon, “The gadflies of Morddwydtyllyon’s Cow!” And while they all sought their arms, Bendigeid Vran supported Branwen between his shield and his shoulder.

Then the Irish kindled a fire under the cauldron of renovation, and they cast the dead bodies into the cauldron until it was full, and the next day they came forth fighting-men as good as before, except that they were not able to speak. Then when Evnissyen saw the dead bodies of the men of the Island of the Mighty nowhere resuscitated, he said in his heart, “Alas! woe is me, that I should have been the cause of bringing the men of the Island of the Mighty into so great a strait. Evil betide me if I find not a deliverance therefrom.” And he cast himself among the dead bodies of the Irish, and two unshod Irishmen came to him, and, taking him to be one of the Irish, flung him into the cauldron. And he stretched himself out in the cauldron, so that he rent the cauldron into four pieces, and burst his own heart also.

In consequence of that the men of the Island of the Mighty obtained such success as they had; but they were not victorious, for only seven men of them all escaped, and Bendigeid Vran himself was wounded in the foot with a poisoned dart. Now the seven men that escaped were Pryderi, Manawyddan, Gluneu Eil Taran, Taliesin, Ynawc, Grudyen the son of Muryel, and Heilyn the son of Gwynn Hen.

And Bendigeid Vran commanded them that they should cut off his head. “And take you my head,” said he, “and bear it even unto the White Mount, in London, and bury it there, with the face towards France. And a long time will you be upon the road. In Harlech you will be feasting seven years, the birds of Rhiannon singing unto you the while. And all that time the head will be to you as pleasant company as it ever was when on my body. And at Gwales in Penvro you will be fourscore years, and you may remain there, and the head with you uncorrupted, until you open the door that looks towards Aber Henvelen, and towards Cornwall. And after you have opened that door, there you may no longer tarry, set forth then to London to bury the head, and go straight forward.”

So they cut off his head, and these seven went forward therewith. And Branwen was the eighth with them, and they came to land at Aber Alaw, in Talebolyon, and they sat down to rest. And Branwen looked towards Ireland and towards the Island of the Mighty, to see if she could descry them. “Alas,” said she, “woe is me that I was ever born; two islands have been destroyed because of me!” Then she uttered a loud groan, and there broke her heart. And they made her a four-sided grave, and buried her upon the banks of the Alaw.

Then the seven men journeyed forward towards Harlech, bearing the head with them; and as they went, behold there met them a multitude of men and of women. “Have you any tidings?” asked Manawyddan. “We have none,” said they, “save that Caswallawn the son of Beli has conquered the Island of the Mighty, and is crowned king in London.” “What has become,” said they, “of Caradawc the son of Bran, and the seven men who were left with him in this island?” “Caswallawn came upon them, and slew six of the men, and Caradawc’s heart broke for grief thereof; for he could see the sword that slew the men, but knew not who it was that wielded it. Caswallawn had flung upon him the Veil of Illusion, so that no one could see him slay the men, but the sword only could they see. And it liked him not to slay Caradawc, because he was his nephew, the son of his cousin. And now he was the third whose heart had broke through grief. Pendaran Dyved, who had remained as a young page with these men, escaped into the wood,” said they.

Then they went on to Harlech, and there stopped to rest, and they provided meat and liquor, and sat down to eat and to drink. And there came three birds, and began singing unto them a certain song, and all the songs they had ever heard were unpleasant compared thereto; and the birds seemed to them to be at a great distance from them over the sea, yet they appeared as distinct as if they were close by, and at this repast they continued seven years.

And at the close of the seventh year they went forth to Gwales in Penvro. And there they found a fair and regal spot overlooking the ocean; and a spacious hall was therein. And they went into the hall, and two of its doors were open, but the third door was closed, that which looked towards Cornwall. “See, yonder,” said Manawyddan, “is the door that we may not open.” And that night they regaled themselves and were joyful. And of all they had seen of food laid before them, and of all they had heard of, they remembered nothing; neither of that, nor of any sorrow whatsoever. And there they remained fourscore years, unconscious of having ever spent a time more joyous and mirthful. And they were not more weary than when first they came, neither did they, any of them, know the time they had been there. And it was not more irksome to them having the head with them, than if Bendigeid Vran had been with them himself. And because of these fourscore years, it was called “the Entertaining of the noble Head.” The entertaining of Branwen and Matholwch was in the time that they went to Ireland.

One day said Heilyn the son of Gwynn, “Evil betide me, if I do not open the door to know if that is true which is said concerning it.” So he opened the door and looked towards Cornwall and Aber Henvelen. And when they had looked, they were as conscious of all the evils they had ever sustained, and of all the friends and companions they had lost, and of all the misery that had befallen them, as if all had happened in that very spot; and especially of the fate of their lord. And because of their perturbation they could not rest, but journeyed forth with the head towards London. And they buried the head in the White Mount, and when it was buried, this was the third goodly concealment; and it was the third ill-fated disclosure when it was disinterred, inasmuch as no invasion from across the sea came to this island while the head was in that concealment.

And thus is the story related of those who journeyed over from Ireland.

In Ireland none were left alive, except five pregnant women in a cave in the Irish wilderness; and to these five women in the same night were born five sons, whom they nursed until they became grown-up youths. And they thought about wives, and they at the same time desired to possess them, and each took a wife of the mothers of their companions, and they governed the country and peopled it.

And these five divided it amongst them, and because of this partition are the five divisions of Ireland still so termed. And they examined the land where the battles had taken place, and they found gold and silver until they became wealthy.

And thus ends this portion of the Mabinogi, concerning the blow given to Branwen, which was the third unhappy blow of this island; and concerning the entertainment of Bran, when the hosts of sevenscore countries and ten went over to Ireland to revenge the blow given to Branwen; and concerning the seven years’ banquet in Harlech, and the singing of the birds of Rhiannon, and the sojourning of the head for the space of fourscore years.

And thus ends this second part of the Mabinogi.

The Third Branch of the Mabinogi

Manawyddan the Son of Llyr

WHEN THE SEVEN MEN of whom we spoke above had buried the head of Bendigeid Vran, in the White Mount an London, with its face towards France; Manawyddan gazed upon the town of London, and upon his companions, and heaved a great sigh; and much grief and heaviness came upon him. “Alas, Almighty Heaven, woe is me,” he exclaimed, “there is none save myself without a resting-place this night.” “Lord,” said Pryderi, “be not so sorrowful. Thy cousin is king of the Island of the Mighty, and though he should do thee wrong, thou hast never been a claimant of land or possessions. Thou art the third disinherited prince.” “Yea,” answered he, “but although this man is my cousin, it grieveth me to see any one in the place of my brother Bendigeid Vran, neither can I be happy in the same dwelling with him.” “Wilt thou follow the counsel of another?” said Pryderi. “I stand in need of counsel,” he answered, “and what may that counsel be?” “Seven Cantrevs remain unto me,” said Pryderi, “wherein Rhiannon my mother dwells. I will bestow her upon thee and the seven Cantrevs with her, and though thou hadst no possessions but those Cantrevs only, thou couldst not have seven Cantrevs fairer than they. Kicva, the daughter of Gwynn Gloyw, is my wife, and since the inheritance of the Cantrevs belongs to me, do thou and Rhiannon enjoy them, and if thou ever desire any possessions thou wilt take these.” “I do not, Chieftain,” said he; “Heaven reward thee for thy friendship.” “I would show thee the best friendship in the world if thou wouldst let me.” “I will, my friend,” said he, “and Heaven reward thee. I will go with thee to seek Rhiannon and to look at thy possessions.” “Thou wilt do well,” he answered. “And I believe that thou didst never hear a lady discourse better than she, and when she was in her prime none was ever fairer. Even now her aspect is not uncomely.”

They set forth, and, however long the journey, they came at length to Dyved, and a feast was prepared for them against their coming to Narberth, which Rhiannon and Kicva had provided. Then began Manawyddan and Rhiannon to sit and to talk together, and from their discourse his mind and his thoughts became warmed towards her, and he thought in his heart he had never beheld any lady more fulfilled of grace and beauty than she. “Pryderi,” said he, “I will that it be as thou didst say.” “What saying was that?” asked Rhiannon. “Lady,” said Pryderi, “I did offer thee as a wife to Manawyddan the son of Llyr.” “By that will I gladly abide,” said Rhiannon. “Right glad am I also,” said Manawyddan; “may Heaven reward him who hath shown unto me friendship so perfect as this.”

And before the feast was over she became his bride. Said Pryderi, “Tarry ye here the rest of the feast, and I will go into Lloegyr to tender my homage unto Caswallawn the son of Beli.” “Lord,” said Rhiannon, “Caswallawn is in Kent, thou mayest therefore tarry at the feast, and wait until he shall be nearer.” “We will wait,” he answered. So they finished the feast. And they began to make the circuit of Dyved, and to hunt, and to take their pleasure. And as they went through the country, they had never seen lands more pleasant to live in, nor better hunting grounds, nor greater plenty of honey and fish. And such was the friendship between those four, that they would not be parted from each other by night nor by day.

And in the midst of all this he went to Caswallawn at Oxford, and tendered his homage; and honourable was his reception there, and highly was he praised for offering his homage.

And after his return, Pryderi and Manawyddan feasted and took their ease and pleasure. And they began a feast at Narberth, for it was the chief palace; and there originated all honour. And when they had ended the first meal that night, while those who served them ate, they arose and went forth, and proceeded all four to the Gorsedd of Narberth, and their retinue with them. And as they sat thus, behold, a peal of thunder, and with the violence of the thunderstorm, lo there came a fall of mist, so thick that not one of them could see the other. And after the mist it became light all around. And when they looked towards the place where they were wont to see cattle, and herds, and dwellings, they saw nothing now, neither house, nor beast, nor smoke, nor fire, nor man, nor dwelling; but the houses of the Court empty, and desert, and uninhabited, without either man or beast within them. And truly all their companions were lost to them, without their knowing aught of what had befallen them, save those four only.

“In the name of Heaven,” cried Manawyddan, “where are they of the Court, and all my host beside these? Let us go and see.” So they came into the hall, and there was no man; and they went on to the castle and to the sleeping-place, and they saw none; and in the mead-cellar and in the kitchen there was nought but desolation. So they four feasted, and hunted, and took their pleasure. Then they began to go through the land and all the possessions that they had, and they visited the houses and dwellings, and found nothing but wild beasts. And when they had consumed their feast and all their provisions, they fed upon the prey they killed in hunting, and the honey of the wild swarms. And thus they passed the first year pleasantly, and the second; but at the last they began to be weary.

“Verily,” said Manawyddan, “we must not bide thus. Let us go into Lloegyr, and seek some craft whereby we may gain our support.” So they went into Lloegyr, and came as far as Hereford. And they betook themselves to making saddles. And Manawyddan began to make housings, and he gilded and coloured them with blue enamel, in the manner that he had seen it done by Llasar Llaesgywydd. And he made the blue enamel as it was made by the other man. And therefore is it still called Calch Lasar [blue enamel], because Llasar Llaesgywydd had wrought it.

And as long as that workmanship could be had of Manawyddan, neither saddle nor housing was bought of a saddler throughout all Hereford; till at length every one of the saddlers perceived that they were losing much of their gain, and that no man bought of them, but him who could not get what he sought from Manawyddan. Then they assembled together, and agreed to slay him and his companions.

Now they received warning of this, and took counsel whether they should leave the city. “By Heaven,” said Pryderi, “it is not my counsel that we should quit the town, but that we should slay these boors.” “Not so,” said Manawyddan, “for if we fight with them, we shall have evil fame, and shall be put in prison. It were better for us to go to another town to maintain ourselves.” So they four went to another city.

“What craft shall we take?” said Pryderi. “We will make shields,” said Manawyddan. “Do we know anything about that craft?” said Pryderi. “We will try,” answered he. There they began to make shields, and fashioned them after the shape of the good shields they had seen; and they enamelled they, as them had done the saddles. And they prospered in that place, so that not a shield was asked for in the whole town, but such as was had of them. Rapid therefore was their work, and numberless were the shields they made. But at last they were marked by the craftsmen, who came together in haste, and their fellow-townsmen with them, and agreed that they should seek to slay them. But they received warning, and heard how the men had resolved on their destruction. “Pryderi,” said Manawyddan, “these men desire to slay us.” “Let us not endure this from these boors, but let us rather fall upon them and slay them.” “Not so,” he answered; “Caswallawn and his men will hear of it, and we shall be undone. Let us go to another town.” So to another town they went.

“What craft shall we take?” said Manawyddan. “Whatsoever thou wilt that we know,” said Pryderi. “Not so,” he replied, “but let us take to making shoes, for there is not courage enough among cordwainers either to fight with us or to molest us.” “I know nothing thereof,” said Pryderi. “But I know,” answered Manawyddan; “and I will teach thee to stitch. We will not attempt to dress the leather, but we will buy it ready dressed and will make the shoes from it.”

So he began by buying the best cordwal that could be had in the town, and none other would he buy except the leather for the soles; and he associated himself with the best goldsmith in the town, and caused him to make clasps for the shoes, and to gild the clasps, and he marked how it was done until he learnt the method. And therefore was he called one of the three makers of Gold Shoes; and, when they could be had from him, not a shoe nor hose was bought of any of the cordwainers in the town. But when the cordwainers perceived that their gains were failing (for as Manawyddan shaped the work, so Pryderi stitched it), they came together and took counsel, and agreed that they would slay them.

“Pryderi,” said Manawyddan, “these men are minded to slay us.” “Wherefore should we bear this from the boorish thieves?” said Pryderi. “Rather let us slay them all.” “Not so,” said Manawyddan, “we will not slay them, neither will we remain in Lloegyr any longer. Let us set forth to Dyved and go to see it.”

So they journeyed along until they came to Dyved, and they went forward to Narberth. And there they kindled fire and supported themselves by hunting. And thus they spent a month. And they gathered their dogs around them, and tarried there one year.

And one morning Pryderi and Manawyddan rose up to hunt, and they ranged their dogs and went forth from the palace. And some of the dogs ran before them and came to a small bush which was near at hand; but as soon as they were come to the bush, they hastily drew back and returned to the men, their hair bristling up greatly. “Let us go near to the bush,” said Pryderi, “and see what is in it.” And as they came near, behold, a wild boar of a pure white colour rose up from the bush. Then the dogs, being set on by the men, rushed towards him; but he left the bush and fell back a little way from the men, and made a stand against the dogs without retreating from them, until the men had come near. And when the men came up, he fell back a second time, and betook him to flight. Then they pursued the boar until they beheld a vast and lofty castle, all newly built, in a place where they had never before seen either stone or building. And the boar ran swiftly into the castle and the dogs after him. Now when the boar and the dogs had gone into the castle, they began to wonder at finding a castle in a place where they had never before seen any building whatsoever. And from the top of the Gorsedd they looked and listened for the dogs. But so long as they were there they heard not one of the dogs nor aught concerning them.

“Lord,” said Pryderi, “I will go into the castle to get tidings of the dogs.” “Truly,” he replied, “thou wouldst be unwise to go into this castle, which thou hast never seen till now. If thou wouldst follow my counsel, thou wouldst not enter therein. Whosoever has cast a spell over this land has caused this castle to be here.” “Of a truth,” answered Pryderi, “I cannot thus give up my dogs.” And for all the counsel that Manawyddan gave him, yet to the castle he went.

When he came within the castle, neither man nor beast, nor boar nor dogs, nor house nor dwelling saw he within it. But in the centre of the castle floor he beheld a fountain with marble work around it, and on the margin of the fountain a golden bowl upon a marble slab, and chains hanging from the air, to which he saw no end.

And he was greatly pleased with the beauty of the gold, and with the rich workmanship of the bowl, and he went up to the bowl and laid hold of it. And when he had taken hold of it his hands stuck to the bowl, and his feet to the slab on which the howl was placed, and all his joyousness forsook him, so that he could not utter a word. And thus he stood.

And Manawyddan waited for him till near the close of the day. And late in the evening, being certain that he should have no tidings of Pryderi or of the dogs, he went back to the palace. And as he entered, Rhiannon looked at him. “Where,” said she, “are thy companion and thy dogs?” “Behold,” he answered, “the adventure that has befallen me.” And he related it all unto her. “An evil companion hast thou been,” said Rhiannon, “and a good companion hast thou lost.” And with that word she went out, and proceeded towards the castle according to the direction which he gave her. The gate of the castle she found open. She was nothing daunted, and she went in. And as she went in, she perceived Pryderi laying hold of the bowl, and she went towards him. “Oh, my lord,” said she, “what dust thou do here?” And she took hold of the bowl with him; and as she did so her hands became fast to the bowl, and her feet to the slab, and she was not able to utter a word. And with that, as it became night, lo, there came thunder upon them, and a fall of mist, and thereupon the castle vanished, and they with it.

When Kicva the daughter of Gwynn Gloyw saw that there was no one in the palace but herself and Manawyddan, she sorrowed so that she cared not whether she lived or died. And Manawyddan saw this. “Thou art in the wrong,” said he, “if through fear of me thou grievest thus. I call Heaven to witness that thou hast never seen friendship mere pure than that which I will bear thee, as long as Heaven will that thou shouldst be thus. I declare to thee that were I in the dawn of youth I would keep my faith unto Pryderi, and unto thee also will I keep it. Be there no fear upon thee, therefore,” said he, “for Heaven is my witness that thou shalt meet with all the friendship thou canst wish, and that it is in my power to show thee, as long as it shall please Heaven to continue us in this grief and woe.” “Heaven reward thee,” she said, “and that is what I deemed of thee.” And the damsel thereupon took courage and was glad.

“Truly, lady,” said Manawyddan, “it is not fitting for us to stay here, we have lost our dogs, and we cannot get food. Let us go into Lloegyr; it is easiest for us to find support there.” “Gladly, lord,” said she, “we will do so.” And they set forth together to Lloegyr.

“Lord,” said she, “what craft wilt thou follow? Take up one that is seemly.” “None other will I take,” answered he, “save that of making shoes, as I did formerly.” “Lord,” said she, “such a craft becomes not a man so nobly born as thou.” “By that however will I abide,” said he.

So he began his craft, and he made all his work of the finest leather he could get in the town, and, as he had done at the other place, he caused gilded clasps to be made for the shoes. And except himself all the cordwainers in the town were idle, and without work. For as long as they could be had from him, neither shoes nor hose were bought elsewhere. And thus they tarried there a year, until the cordwainers became envious, and took counsel concerning him. And he had warning thereof, and it was told him how the cordwainers had agreed together to slay him.

“Lord,” said Kicva, “wherefore should this be borne from these boors?” “Nay,” said he, “we will go back unto Dyved.” So towards Dyved they set forth.

Now Manawyddan, when he set out to return to Dyved, took with him a burden of wheat. And he proceeded towards Narberth, and there he dwelt. And never was he better pleased than when he saw Narberth again, and the lands where he had been wont to hunt with Pryderi and with Rhiannon. And he accustomed himself to fish, and to hunt the deer in their covert. And then he began to prepare some ground, and he sowed a croft, and a second, and a third. And no wheat in the world ever sprung up better. And the three crofts prospered with perfect growth, and no man ever saw fairer wheat than it.

And thus passed the seasons of the year until the harvest came. And he went to look at one of his crofts, and behold it was ripe. “I will reap this tomorrow,” said he. And that night he went back to Narberth, and on the morrow in the grey dawn he went to reap the croft, and when he came there he found nothing but the bare straw. Every one of the ears of the wheat was cut from off the stalk, and all the ears carried entirely away, and nothing but the straw left. And at this he marvelled greatly.

Then he went to look at another croft, and behold that also was ripe. “Verily,” said he, “this will I reap tomorrow.” And on the morrow he came with the intent to reap it, and when he came there he found nothing but the bare straw. “Oh, gracious Heaven,” he exclaimed, “I know that whosoever has begun my ruin is completing it, and has also destroyed the country with me.”

Then he went to look at the third croft, and when he came there, finer wheat had there never been seen, and this also was ripe. “Evil betide me,” said he, “if I watch not here tonight. Whoever carried off the other corn will come in like manner to take this. And I will know who it is.” So he took his arms, and began to watch the croft. And he told Kicva all that had befallen. “Verily,” said she, “what thinkest thou to do?” “I will watch the croft tonight,” said he.

And he went to watch the croft. And at midnight, lo, there arose the loudest tumult in the world. And he looked, and behold the mightiest host of mice in the world, which could neither be numbered nor measured. And he knew not what it was until the mice had made their way into the croft, and each of them climbing up the straw and bending it down with its weight, had cut off one of the ears of wheat, and had carried it away, leaving there the stalk, and he saw not a single stalk there that had not a mouse to it. And they all took their way, carrying the ears with them.

In wrath and anger did he rush upon the mice, but he could no more come up with them than if they had been gnats, or birds in the air, except one only, which though it was but sluggish, went so fast that a man on foot could scarce overtake it. And after this one he went, and he caught it and put it in his glove, and tied up the opening of the glove with a string, and kept it with him, and returned to the palace. Then he came to the hall where Kicva was, and he lighted a fire, and hung the glove by the string upon a peg. “What hast thou there, lord?” said Kicva. “A thief,” said he, “that I found robbing me.” “What kind of thief may it be, lord, that thou couldst put into thy glove?” said she. “Behold I will tell thee,” he answered. Then he showed her how his fields had been wasted and destroyed, and how the mice came to the last of the fields in his sight. “And one of them was less nimble than the rest, and is now in my glove; tomorrow I will hang it, and before Heaven, if I had them, I would hang them all.” “My lord,” said she, “this is marvellous; but yet it would be unseemly for a man of dignity like thee to be hanging such a reptile as this. And if thou doest right, thou wilt not meddle with the creature, but wilt let it go.” “Woe betide me,” said he, “if I would not hang them all could I catch them, and such as I have I will hang.” “Verily, lord,” said she, “there is no reason that I should succour this reptile, except to prevent discredit unto thee. Do therefore, lord, as thou wilt.” “If I knew of any cause in the world wherefore thou shouldst succour it, I would take thy counsel concerning it,” said Manawyddan, “but as I know of none, lady, I am minded to destroy it.” “Do so willingly then,” said she.

And then he went to the Gorsedd of Narberth, taking the mouse with him. And he set up two forks on the highest part of the Gorsedd. And while he was doing this, behold he saw a scholar coming towards him, in old and poor and tattered garments. And it was now seven years since he had seen in that place either man or beast, except those four persons who had remained together until two of them were lost.

“My lord,” said the scholar, “good day to thee.” “Heaven prosper thee, and my greeting be unto thee. And whence dost thou come, scholar?” asked he. “I come, lord, from singing in Lloegyr; and wherefore dost thou inquire?” “Because for the last seven years,” answered he, “I have seen no man here save four secluded persons, and thyself this moment.” “Truly, lord,” said he, “I go through this land unto mine own. And what work art thou upon, lord?” “I am hanging a thief that I caught robbing me,” said he. “What manner of thief is that?” asked the scholar. “I see a creature in thy hand like unto a mouse, and ill does it become a man of rank equal to thine to touch a reptile such as this. Let it go forth free.” “I will not let it go free, by Heaven,” said he; “I caught it robbing me, and the doom of a thief will I inflict upon it, and I will hang it.” “Lord,” said he, “rather than see a man of rank equal to thine at such a work as this, I would give thee a pound which I have received as alms, to let the reptile go forth free.” “I will not let it go free,” said he, “by Heaven, neither will I sell it.” “As thou wilt, lord,” he answered; “except that I would not see a man of rank equal to thine touching such a reptile, I care nought.” And the scholar went his way.

And as he was placing the crossbeam upon the two forks, behold a priest came towards him upon a horse covered with trappings. “Good day to thee, lord,” said he. “Heaven prosper thee,” said Manawyddan; “thy blessing.” “The blessing of Heaven be upon thee. And what, lord, art thou doing?” “I am hanging a thief that I caught robbing me,” said he. “What manner of thief, lord?” asked he. “A creature,” he answered, “in form of a mouse. It has been robbing me, and I am inflicting upon it the doom of a thief.” “Lord,” said he, “rather than see thee touch this reptile, I would purchase its freedom.” “By my confession to Heaven, neither will I sell it nor set it free.” “It is true, lord, that it is worth nothing to buy; but rather than see thee defile thyself by touching such a reptile as this, I will give thee three pounds to let it go.” “I will not, by Heaven,” said he, “take any price for at. As it ought, so shall it be hanged.” “Willingly, lord, do thy good pleasure.” And the priest went his way.

Then he noosed the string around the mouse’s neck, and as he was about to draw it up, behold, he saw a bishop’s retinue with his sumpter-horses, and his attendants. And the bishop himself came towards him. And he stayed his work. “Lord bishop,” said he, “thy blessing.” “Heaven’s blessing be unto thee,” said he; “what work art thou upon?” “Hanging a thief that I caught robbing me,” said he. “Is not that a mouse that I see in thy hand?” “Yes,” answered he. “And she has robbed me.” “Aye,” said he, “since I have come at the doom of this reptile, I will ransom it of thee. I will give thee seven pounds for it, and that rather than see a man of rank equal to thine destroying so vile a reptile as this. Let it loose and thou shalt have the money.” “I declare to Heaven that I will not set it loose.” “If thou wilt not loose it for this, I will give thee four-and-twenty pounds of ready money to set it free.” “I will not set it free, by Heaven, for as much again,” said he. “If thou wilt not set it free for this, I will give thee all the horses that thou seest in this plain, and the seven loads of baggage, and the seven horses that they are upon.” “By Heaven, I will not,” he replied. “Since for this thou wilt not, do so at what price soever thou wilt.” “I will do so,” said he. “I will that Rhiannon and Pryderi be free,” said he. “That thou shalt have,” he answered. “Not yet will I loose the mouse, by Heaven.” “What then wouldst thou?” “That the charm and the illusion be removed from the seven Cantrevs of Dyved.” “This shalt thou have also; set therefore the mouse free.” “I will not set it free, by Heaven,” said he. “I will know who the mouse may be.” “She is my wife.” “Even though she be, I will not set her free. Wherefore came she to me?” “To despoil thee,” he answered. “I am Llwyd the son of Kilcoed, and I cast the charm over the seven Cantrevs of Dyved. And it was to avenge Gwawl the son of Clud, from the friendship I had towards him, that I cast the charm. And upon Pryderi did I revenge Gwawl the son of Clud, for the game of Badger in the Bag, that Pwyll Pen Annwvyn played upon him, which he did unadvisedly in the Court of Heveydd Hên. And when it was known that thou wast come to dwell in the land, my household came and besought me to transform them into mice, that they might destroy thy corn. And it was my own household that went the first night. And the second night also they went, and they destroyed thy two crofts. And the third night came unto me my wife and the ladies of the Court, and besought me to transform them. And I transformed them. Now she is pregnant. And had she not been pregnant thou wouldst not have been able to overtake her; but since this has taken place, and she has been caught, I will restore thee Pryderi and Rhiannon; and I will take the charm and illusion from off Dyved. I have now told thee who she is. Set her therefore free.” “I will not set her free, by Heaven,” said he. “What wilt thou more?” he asked. “I will that there be no more charm upon the seven Cantrevs of Dyved, and that none shall be put upon it henceforth.” “This thou shalt have,” said he. “Now set her free.” “I will not, by my faith,” he answered. “What wilt thou furthermore?” asked he. “Behold,” said he, “this will I have; that vengeance be never taken for this, either upon Pryderi or Rhiannon, or upon me.” “All this shalt thou have. And truly thou hast done wisely in asking this. Upon thy head would have lighted all this trouble.” “Yea,” said he, “for fear thereof was it, that I required this.” “Set now my wife at liberty.” “I will not, by Heaven,” said he, “until I see Pryderi and Rhiannon with me free.” “Behold, here they come,” he answered.

And thereupon behold Pryderi and Rhiannon. And he rose up to meet them, and greeted them, and sat down beside them. “Ah, Chieftain, set now my wife at liberty,” said the bishop. “Hast thou not received all thou didst ask?” “I will release her gladly,” said he. And thereupon he set her free.

Then Llwyd struck her with a magic wand, and she was changed back into a young woman, the fairest ever seen.

“Look around upon thy land,” said he, “and then thou wilt see it all tilled and peopled, as it was in its best state.” And he rose up and looked forth. And when he looked he saw all the lands tilled, and full of herds and dwellings. “What bondage,” he inquired, “has there been upon Pryderi and Rhiannon?” “Pryderi has had the knockers of the gate of my palace about his neck, and Rhiannon has had the collars of the asses, after they have been carrying hay, about her neck.”

And such had been their bondage.

And by reason of this bondage is this story called the Mabinogi of Mynnweir and Mynord.

And thus ends this part of the Mabinogi.

The Fourth Branch of the Mabinogi

Math the Son of Mathonwy

MATH THE SON OF Mathonwy was lord over Gwynedd, and Pryderi the son of Pwyll was lord over the one-and-twenty Cantrevs of the South; and these were the seven Cantrevs of Dyved, and the seven Cantrevs of Morganwc, the four Cantrevs of Ceredigiawn, and the three of Ystrad Tywi.

At that time, Math the son of Mathonwy could not exist unless his feet were in the lap of a maiden, except only when he was prevented by the tumult of war. Now the maiden who was with him was Goewin, the daughter of Pebin of Dôl Pebin, in Arvon, and she was the fairest maiden of her time who was known there.

And Math dwelt always at Caer Dathyl, in Arvon, and was not able to go the circuit of the land, but Gilvaethwy the son of Don, and Eneyd the son of Don, his nephews, the sons of his sisters, with his household, went the circuit of the land in his stead.

Now the maiden was with Math continually, and Gilvaethwy the son of Don set his affections upon her, and loved her so that he knew not what he should do because of her, and therefrom behold his hue, and his aspect, and his spirits changed for love of her, so that it was not easy to know him.

One day his brother Gwydion gazed steadfastly upon him. “Youth,” said he, “what aileth thee?” “Why,” replied he, “what seest thou in me?” “I see,” said he, “that thou hast lost thy aspect and thy hue; what, therefore, aileth thee?” “My lord brother,” he answered, “that which aileth me, it will not profit me that I should own to any.” “What may it be, my soul?” said he. “Thou knowest,” he said, “that Math the son of Mathonwy has this property, that if men whisper together, in a tone how low soever, if the wind meet it, it becomes known unto him.” “Yes,” said Gwydion, “hold now thy peace, I know thy intent, thou lovest Goewin.”

When he found that his brother knew his intent, he gave the heaviest sigh in the world. “Be silent, my soul, and sigh not,” he said. “It is not thereby that thou wilt succeed. I will cause,” said he, “if it cannot be otherwise, the rising of Gwynedd, and Powys, and Deheubarth, to seek the maiden. Be thou of glad cheer therefore, and I will compass it.”

So they went unto Math the son of Mathonwy. “Lord,” said Gwydion, “I have heard that there have come to the South some beasts, such as were never known in this island before.” “What are they called?” he asked. “Pigs, lord.” “And what kind of animals are they?” “They are small animals, and their flesh is better than the flesh of oxen.” “They are small, then?” “And they change their names. Swine are they now called.” “Who owneth them?” “Pryderi the son of Pwyll; they were sent him from Annwvyn, by Arawn the king of Annwvyn, and still they keep that name, half hog, half pig.” “Verily,” asked he, “and by what means may they be obtained from him?” “I will go, lord, as one of twelve, in the guise of bards, to seek the swine.” “But it may be that he will refuse you,” said he. “My journey will not be evil, lord,” said he; “I will not come back without the swine.” “Gladly,” said he, “go thou forward.”

So he and Gilvaethwy went, and ten other men with them. And they came into Ceredigiawn, to the place that is now called Rhuddlan Teivi, where the palace of Pryderi was. In the guise of bards they came in, and they were received joyfully, and Gwydion was placed beside Pryderi that night.

“Of a truth,” said Pryderi, “gladly would I have a tale from some of your men yonder.” “Lord,” said Gwydion, “we have a custom that the first night that we come to the Court of a great man, the chief of song recites. Gladly will I relate a tale.” Now Gwydion was the best teller of tales in the world, and he diverted all the Court that night with pleasant discourse and with tales, so that he charmed every one in the Court, and it pleased Pryderi to talk with him.

And after this, “Lord,” said he unto Pryderi, “were it more pleasing to thee, that another should discharge my errand unto thee, than that I should tell thee myself what it is?” “No,” he answered, “ample speech hast thou.” “Behold then, lord,” said he, “my errand. It is to crave from thee the animals that were sent thee from Annwvyn.” “Verily,” he replied, “that were the easiest thing in the world to grant, were there not a covenant between me and my land concerning them. And the covenant is that they shall not go from me, until they have produced double their number in the land.” “Lord,” said he, “I can set thee free from those words, and this is the way I can do so; give me not the swine tonight, neither refuse them unto me, and tomorrow I will show thee an exchange for them.”

And that night he and his fellows went unto their lodging, and they took counsel. “Ah, my men,” said he, “we shall not have the swine for the asking.” “Well,” said they, “how may they be obtained?” “I will cause them to be obtained,” said Gwydion.

Then he betook himself to his arts, and began to work a charm. And he caused twelve chargers to appear, and twelve black greyhounds, each of them white-breasted, and having upon them twelve collars and twelve leashes, such as no one that saw them could know to be other than gold. And upon the horses twelve saddles, and every part which should have been of iron was entirely of gold, and the bridles were of the same workmanship. And with the horses and the dogs he came to Pryderi.

“Good day unto thee, lord,” said he. “Heaven prosper thee,” said the other, “and greetings be unto thee.” “Lord,” said he, “behold here is a release for thee from the word which thou spakest last evening concerning the swine; that thou wouldst neither give nor sell them. Thou mayest exchange them for that which is better. And I will give these twelve horses, all caparisoned as they are, with their saddles and their bridles, and these twelve greyhounds, with their collars and their leashes as thou seest, and the twelve gilded shields that thou beholdest yonder.” Now these he had formed of fungus. “Well,” said he, “we will take counsel.” And they consulted together, and determined to give the swine to Gwydion, and to take his horses and his dogs and his shields.

Then Gwydion and his men took their leave, and began to journey forth with the pigs. “Ah, my comrades,” said Gwydion, “it is needful that we journey with speed. The illusion will not last but from the one hour to the same tomorrow.”

And that night they journeyed as far as the upper part of Ceredigiawn, to the place which, from that cause, is called Mochdrev still. And the next day they took their course through Melenydd, and came that night to the town which is likewise for that reason called Mochdrev between Keri and Arwystli. And thence they journeyed forward; and that night they came as far as that Commot in Powys, which also upon account thereof is called Mochnant, and there tarried they that night. And they journeyed thence to the Cantrev of Rhos, and the place where they were that night is still called Mochdrev.

“My men,” said Gwydion, “we must push forward to the fastnesses of Gwynedd with these animals, for there is a gathering of hosts in pursuit of us.” So they journeyed on to the highest town of Arllechwedd, and there they made a sty for the swine, and therefore was the name of Creuwyryon given to that town. And after they had made the sty for the swine, they proceeded to Math the son of Mathonwy, at Caer Dathyl. And when they came there, the country was rising. “What news is there here?” asked Gwydion. “Pryderi is assembling one-and-twenty Cantrevs to pursue after you,” answered they. “It is marvellous that you should have journeyed so slowly.” “Where are the animals whereof you went in quest?” said Math. “They have had a sty made for them in the other Cantrev below,” said Gwydion.

Thereupon, lo, they heard the trumpets and the host in the land, and they arrayed themselves and set forward and came to Penardd in Arvon.

And at night Gwydion the son of Don, and Gilvaethwy his brother, returned to Caer Dathyl; and Gilvaethwy took Math the son of Mathonwy’s couch. And while he turned out the other damsels from the room discourteously, he made Goewin unwillingly remain.

And when they saw the day on the morrow, they went back unto the place where Math the son of Mathonwy was with his host; and when they came there, the warriors were taking counsel in what district they should await the coming of Pryderi, and the men of the South. So they went in to the council. And it was resolved to wait in the strongholds of Gwynedd, in Arvon. So within the two Maenors they took their stand, Maenor Penardd and Maenor Coed Alun. And there Pryderi attacked them, and there the combat took place. And great was the slaughter on both sides; but the men of the South were forced to flee. And they fled unto the place which is still called Nantcall. And thither did they follow them, and they made a vast slaughter of them there, so that they fled again as far as the place called Dol Pen Maen, and there they halted and sought to make peace.

And that he might have peace, Pryderi gave hostages, Gwrgi Gwastra gave he and three-and-twenty others, sons of nobles. And after this they journeyed in peace even unto Traeth Mawr; but as they went on together towards Melenryd, the men on foot could not be restrained from shooting. Pryderi dispatched unto Math an embassy to pray him to forbid his people, and to leave it between him and Gwydion the son of Don, for that he had caused all this. And the messengers came to Math. “Of a truth,” said Math, “I call Heaven to witness, if it be pleasing unto Gwydion the son of Don, I will so leave it gladly. Never will I compel any to go to fight, but that we ourselves should do our utmost.”

“Verily,” said the messengers, “Pryderi saith that it were more fair that the man who did him this wrong should oppose his own body to his, and let his people remain unscathed.” “I declare to Heaven, I will not ask the men of Gwynedd to fight because of me. If I am allowed to fight Pryderi myself, gladly will I oppose my body to his.” And this answer they took back to Pryderi. “Truly,” said Pryderi, “I shall require no one to demand my rights but myself.”

Then these two came forth and armed themselves, and they fought. And by force of strength, and fierceness, and by the magic and charms of Gwydion, Pryderi was slain. And at Maen Tyriawc, above Melenryd, was he buried, and there is his grave.

And the men of the South set forth in sorrow towards their own land; nor is it a marvel that they should grieve, seeing that they had lost their lord, and many of their best warriors, and for the most part their horses and their arms.

The men of Gwynedd went back joyful and in triumph. “Lord,” said Gwydion unto Math, “would it not be right for us to release the hostages of the men of the South, which they pledged unto us for peace? for we ought not to put them in prison.” “Let them then be set free,” saith Math. So that youth, and the other hostages that were with him, were set free to follow the men of the South.

Math himself went forward to Caer Dathyl. Gilvaethwy the son of Don, and they of the household that were with him, went to make the circuit of Gwynedd as they were wont, without coming to the Court. Math went into his chamber, and caused a place to be prepared for him whereon to recline, so that he might put his feet in the maiden’s lap. “Lord,” said Goewin, “seek now another to hold thy feet, for I am now a wife.” “What meaneth this?” said he. “An attack, lord, was made unawares upon me; but I held not my peace, and there was no one in the Court who knew not of it. Now the attack was made by thy nephews, lord, the sons of thy sister, Gwydion the son of Don, and Gilvaethwy the son of Don; unto me they did wrong, and unto thee dishonour.” “Verily,” he exclaimed, “I will do to the utmost of my power concerning this matter. But first I will cause thee to have compensation, and then will I have amends made unto myself. As for thee, I will take thee to be my wife, and the possession of my dominions will I give unto thy hands.”

And Gwydion and Gilvaethwy came not near the Court, but stayed in the confines of the land until it was forbidden to give them meat and drink. At first they came not near unto Math, but at the last they came. “Lord,” said they, “good day to thee.” “Well,” said he, “is it to make me compensation that ye are come?” “Lord,” they said, “we are at thy will.” “By my will I would not have lost my warriors, and so many arms as I have done. You cannot compensate me my shame, setting aside the death of Pryderi. But since ye come hither to be at my will, I shall begin your punishment forthwith.”

Then he took his magic wand, and struck Gilvaethwy, so that he became a deer, and he seized upon the other hastily lest he should escape from him. And he struck him with the same magic wand, and he became a deer also. “Since now ye are in bonds, I will that ye go forth together and be companions, and possess the nature of the animals whose form ye bear. And this day twelvemonth come hither unto me.”

At the end of a year from that day, lo there was a loud noise under the chamber wall, and the barking of the dogs of the palace together with the noise. “Look,” said he, “what is without.” “Lord,” said one, “I have looked; there are there two deer, and a fawn with them.” Then he arose and went out. And when he came he beheld the three animals. And he lifted up his wand. “As ye were deer last year, be ye wild hogs each and either of you, for the year that is to come.” And thereupon he struck them with the magic wand. “The young one will I take and cause to be baptized.” Now the name that he gave him was Hydwn. “Go ye and be wild swine, each and either of you, and be ye of the nature of wild swine. And this day twelvemonth be ye here under the wall.”

At the end of the year the barking of dogs was heard under the wall of the chamber. And the Court assembled, and thereupon he arose and went forth, and when he came forth he beheld three beasts. Now these were the beasts that he saw; two wild hogs of the woods, and a well-grown young one with them. And he was very large for his age. “Truly,” said Math, “this one will I take and cause to be baptized.” And he struck him with his magic wand, and he become a fine fair auburn-haired youth, and the name that he gave him was Hychdwn. “Now as for you, as ye were wild hogs last year, be ye wolves each and either of you for the year that is to come.” Thereupon he struck them with his magic wand, and they became wolves. “And be ye of like nature with the animals whose semblance ye bear, and return here this day twelvemonth beneath this wall.”

And at the same day at the end of the year, he heard a clamour and a barking of dogs under the wall of the chamber. And he rose and went forth. And when he came, behold, he saw two wolves, and a strong cub with them. “This one will I take,” said Math, “and I will cause him to be baptized; there is a name prepared for him, and that is Bleiddwn. Now these three, such are they:

The three sons of Gilvaethwy the false,

The three faithful combatants,

Bleiddwn, Hydwn, and Hychdwn the Tall.”

Then he struck the two with his magic wand, and they resumed their own nature. “Oh men,” said he, “for the wrong that ye did unto me sufficient has been your punishment and your dishonour. Prepare now precious ointment for these men, and wash their heads, and equip them.” And this was done.

And after they were equipped, they came unto him. “Oh men,” said he, “you have obtained peace, and you shall likewise have friendship. Give your counsel unto me, what maiden I shall seek.” “Lord,” said Gwydion the son of Don, “it is easy to give thee counsel; seek Arianrod, the daughter of Don, thy niece, thy sister’s daughter.”

And they brought her unto him, and the maiden came in. “Ha, damsel,” said he, “art thou the maiden?” “I know not, lord, other than that I am.” Then he took up his magic wand, and bent it. “Step over this,” said he, “and I shall know if thou art the maiden.” Then stepped she over the magic wand, and there appeared forthwith a fine chubby yellow-haired boy. And at the crying out of the boy, she went towards the door. And thereupon some small form was seen; but before any one could get a second glimpse of it, Gwydion had taken it, and had flung a scarf of velvet around it and hidden it. Now the place where he hid it was the bottom of a chest at the foot of his bed.

“Verily,” said Math the son of Mathonwy, concerning the fine yellow-haired boy, “I will cause this one to be baptized, and Dylan is the name I will give him.”

So they had the boy baptized, and as they baptized him he plunged into the sea. And immediately when he was in the sea, he took its nature, and swam as well as the best fish that was therein. And for that reason was he called Dylan, the son of the Wave. Beneath him no wave ever broke. And the blow whereby he came to his death, was struck by his uncle Govannon. The third fatal blow was it called.

As Gwydion lay one morning on his bed awake, he heard a cry in the chest at his feet; and though it was not loud, it was such that he could hear it. Then he arose in haste, and opened the chest: and when he opened it, he beheld an infant boy stretching out his arms from the folds of the scarf, and casting it aside. And he took up the boy in his arms, and carried him to a place where he knew there was a woman that could nurse him. And he agreed with the woman that she should take charge of the boy. And that year he was nursed.

And at the end of the year he seemed by his size as though he were two years old. And the second year he was a big child, and able to go to the Court by himself. And when he came to the Court, Gwydion noticed him, and the boy became familiar with him, and loved him better than any one else. Then was the boy reared at the Court until he was four years old, when he was as big as though he had been eight.

And one day Gwydion walked forth, and the boy followed him, and he went to the Castle of Arianrod, having the boy with him; and when he came into the Court, Arianrod arose to meet him, and greeted him and bade him welcome. “Heaven prosper thee,” said he. “Who is the boy that followeth thee?” she asked. “This youth, he is thy son,” he answered. “Alas,” said she, “what has come unto thee that thou shouldst shame me thus? wherefore dost thou seek my dishonour, and retain it so long as this?” “Unless thou suffer dishonour greater than that of my bringing up such a boy as this, small will be thy disgrace.” “What is the name of the boy?” said she. “Verily,” he replied, “he has not yet a name.” “Well,” she said, “I lay this destiny upon him, that he shall never have a name until he receives one from me.” “Heaven bears me witness,” answered he, “that thou art a wicked woman. But the boy shall have a name how displeasing soever it may be unto thee. As for thee, that which afflicts thee is that thou art no longer called a damsel.” And thereupon he went forth in wrath, and returned to Caer Dathyl and there he tarried that night.

And the next day he arose and took the boy with him, and went to walk on the seashore between that place and Aber Menei. And there he saw some sedges and seaweed, and he turned them into a boat. And out of dry sticks and sedges he made some Cordovan leather, and a great deal thereof, and he coloured it in such a manner that no one ever saw leather more beautiful than it. Then he made a sail to the boat, and he and the boy went in it to the port of the castle of Arianrod. And he began forming shoes and stitching them, until he was observed from the castle. And when he knew that they of the castle were observing him, he disguised his aspect, and put another semblance upon himself, and upon the boy, so that they might not be known. “What men are those in yonder boat?” said Arianrod. “They are cordwainers,” answered they. “Go and see what kind of leather they have, and what kind of work they can do.”

So they came unto them. And when they came he was colouring some Cordovan leather, and gilding it. And the messengers came and told her this. “Well,” said she, “take the measure of my foot, and desire the cordwainer to make shoes for me.” So he made the shoes for her, yet not according to the measure, but larger. The shoes then were brought unto her, and behold they were too large. “These are too large,” said she, “but he shall receive their value. Let him also make some that are smaller than they.” Then he made her others that were much smaller than her foot, and sent them unto her. “Tell him that these will not go on my feet,” said she. And they told him this. “Verily,” said he, “I will not make her any shoes, unless I see her foot.” And this was told unto her. “Truly,” she answered, “I will go unto him.”

So she went down to the boat, and when she came there, he was shaping shoes and the boy stitching them. “Ah, lady,” said he, “good day to thee.” “Heaven prosper thee,” said she. “I marvel that thou canst not manage to make shoes according to a measure.” “I could not,” he replied, “but now I shall be able.”

Thereupon behold a wren stood upon the deck of the boat, and the boy shot at it, and hit it in the leg between the sinew and the bone. Then she smiled. “Verily,” said she, “with a steady hand did the lion aim at it.” “Heaven reward thee not, but now has he got a name. And a good enough name it is. Llew Llaw Gyffes be he called henceforth.”

Then the work disappeared in seaweed and sedges, and he went on with it no further. And for that reason was he called the third Gold-shoemaker. “Of a truth,” said she, “thou wilt not thrive the better for doing evil unto me.” “I have done thee no evil yet,” said he. Then he restored the boy to his own form. “Well,” said she, “I will lay a destiny upon this boy, that he shall never have arms and armour until I invest him with them.” “By Heaven,” said he, “let thy malice be what it may, he shall have arms.”

Then they went towards Dinas Dinllev, and there he brought up Llew Llaw Gyffes, until he could manage any horse, and he was perfect in features, and strength, and stature. And then Gwydion saw that he languished through the want of horses and arms. And he called him unto him. “Ah, youth,” said he, “we will go tomorrow on an errand together. Be therefore more cheerful than thou art.” “That I will,” said the youth.

Next morning, at the dawn of day, they arose. And they took way along the sea coast, up towards Bryn Aryen. And at the top of Cevn Clydno they equipped themselves with horses, and went towards the Castle of Arianrod. And they changed their form, and pricked towards the gate in the semblance of two youths, but the aspect of Gwydion was more staid than that of the other. “Porter,” said he, “go thou in and say that there are here bards from Glamorgan.” And the porter went in. “The welcome of Heaven be unto them, let them in,” said Arianrod.

With great joy were they greeted. And the hall was arranged, and they went to meat. When meat was ended, Arianrod discoursed with Gwydion of tales and stories. Now Gwydion was an excellent teller of tales. And when it was time to leave off feasting, a chamber was prepared for them, and they went to rest.

In the early twilight Gwydion arose, and he called unto him his magic and his power. And by the time that the day dawned, there resounded through the land uproar, and trumpets and shouts. When it was now day, they heard a knocking at the door of the chamber, and therewith Arianrod asking that it might be opened. Up rose the youth and opened unto her, and she entered and a maiden with her. “Ah, good men,” she said, “in evil plight are we.” “Yes, truly,” said Gwydion, “we have heard trumpets and shouts; what thinkest thou that they may mean?” “Verily,” said she, “we cannot see the colour of the ocean by reason of all the ships, side by side. And they are making for the land with all the speed they can. And what can we do?” said she. “Lady,” said Gwydion, “there is none other counsel than to close the castle upon us, and to defend it as best we may.” “Truly,” said she, “may Heaven reward you. And do you defend it. And here may you have plenty of arms.”

And thereupon went she forth for the arms, and behold she returned, and two maidens, and suits of armour for two men, with her. “Lady,” said he, “do you accoutre this stripling, and I will arm myself with the help of thy maidens. Lo, I hear the tumult of the men approaching.” “I will do so, gladly.” So she armed him fully, and that right cheerfully. “Hast thou finished arming the youth?” said he. “I have finished,” she answered. “I likewise have finished,” said Gwydion. “Let us now take off our arms, we have no need of them.” “Wherefore?” said she. “Here is the army around the house.” “Oh, lady, there is here no army.” “Oh,” cried she, “whence then was this tumult?” “The tumult was but to break thy prophecy and to obtain arms for thy son. And now has he got arms without any thanks unto thee.” “By Heaven,” said Arianrod, “thou art a wicked man. Many a youth might have lost his life through the uproar thou hast caused in this Cantrev today. Now will I lay a destiny upon this youth,” she said, “that he shall never have a wife of the race that now inhabits this earth.” “Verily,” said he, “thou wast ever a malicious woman, and no one ought to support thee. A wife shall he have notwithstanding.”

They went thereupon unto Math the son of Mathonwy, and complained unto him most bitterly of Arianrod. Gwydion showed him also how he had procured arms for the youth. “Well,” said Math, “we will seek, I and thou, by charms and illusion, to form a wife for him out of flowers. He has now come to man’s stature, and he is the comeliest youth that was ever beheld.” So they took the blossoms of the oak, and the blossoms of the broom, and the blossoms of the meadow-sweet, and produced from them a maiden, the fairest and most graceful that man ever saw. And they baptized her, and gave her the name of Blodeuwedd.

After she had become his bride, and they had feasted, said Gwydion, “It is not easy for a man to maintain himself without possessions.” “Of a truth,” said Math, “I will give the young man the best Cantrev to hold.” “Lord,” said he, “what Cantrev is that?” “The Cantrev of Dinodig,” he answered. Now it is called at this day Eivionydd and Ardudwy. And the place in the Cantrev where he dwelt, was a palace of his in a spot called Mur y Castell, on the confines of Ardudwy. There dwelt he and reigned, and both he and his sway were beloved by all.

One day he went forth to Caer Dathyl, to visit Math the son of Mathonwy. And on the day that he set out for Caer Dathyl, Blodeuwedd walked in the Court. And she heard the sound of a horn. And after the sound of the horn, behold a tired stag went by, with dogs and huntsmen following it. And after the dogs and the huntsmen there came a crowd of men on foot. “Send a youth,” said she, “to ask who yonder host may be.” So a youth went, and inquired who they were. “Gronw Pebyr is this, the lord of Penllyn,” said they. And thus the youth told her.

Gronw Pebyr pursued the stag, and by the river Cynvael he overtook the stag and killed it. And what with flaying the stag and baiting his dogs, he was there until the night began to close in upon him. And as the day departed and the night drew near, he came to the gate of the Court. “Verily,” said Blodeuwedd, “the Chieftain will speak ill of us if we let him at this hour depart to another land without inviting him in.” “Yes, truly, lady,” said they, “it will be most fitting to invite him.”

Then went messengers to meet him and bid him in. And he accepted her bidding gladly, and came to the Court, and Blodeuwedd went to meet him, and greeted him, and bade him welcome. “Lady,” said he, “Heaven repay thee thy kindness.”

When they had disaccoutred themselves, they went to sit down. And Blodeuwedd looked upon him, and from the moment that she looked on him she became filled with his love. And he gazed on her, and the same thought came unto him as unto her, so that he could not conceal from her that he loved her, but he declared unto her that he did so. Thereupon she was very joyful. And all their discourse that night was concerning the affection and love which they felt one for the other, and which in no longer space than one evening had arisen. And that evening passed they in each other’s company.

The next day he sought to depart. But she said, “I pray thee go not from me today.” And that night he tarried also. And that night they consulted by what means they might always be together. “There is none other counsel,” said he, “but that thou strive to learn from Llew Llaw Gyffes in what manner he will meet his death. And this must thou do under the semblance of solicitude concerning him.”

The next day Gronw sought to depart. “Verily,” said she, “I will counsel thee not to go from me today.” “At thy instance will I not go,” said he, “albeit, I must say, there is danger that the chief who owns the palace may return home.” “Tomorrow,” answered she, “will I indeed permit thee to go forth.”

The next day he sought to go, and she hindered him not. “Be mindful,” said Gronw, “of what I have said unto thee, and converse with him fully, and that under the guise of the dalliance of love, and find out by what means he may come to his death.”

That night Llew Llaw Gyffes returned to his home. And the day they spent in discourse, and minstrelsy, and feasting. And at night they went to rest, and he spoke to Blodeuwedd once, and he spoke to her a second time. But, for all this, he could not get from her one word. “What aileth thee?” said he, “art thou well?” “I was thinking,” said she, “of that which thou didst never think of concerning me; for I was sorrowful as to thy death, lest thou shouldst go sooner than I.” “Heaven reward thy care for me,” said he, “but until Heaven take me I shall not easily be slain.” “For the sake of Heaven, and for mine, show me how thou mightest be slain. My memory in guarding is better than thine.” “I will tell thee gladly,” said he. “Not easily can I be slain, except by a wound. And the spear wherewith I am struck must be a year in the forming. And nothing must be done towards it except during the sacrifice on Sundays.” “Is this certain?” asked she. “It is in truth,” he answered. “And I cannot be slain within a house, nor without. I cannot be slain on horseback nor on foot.” “Verily,” said she, “in what manner then canst thou be slain?” “I will tell thee,” said he. “By making a bath for me by the side of a river, and by putting a roof over the cauldron, and thatching it well and tightly, and bringing a buck, and putting it beside the cauldron. Then if I place one foot on the buck’s back, and the other on the edge of the cauldron, whosoever strikes me thus will cause my death.” “Well,” said she, “I thank Heaven that it will be easy to avoid this.”

No sooner had she held this discourse than she sent to Gronw Pebyr. Gronw toiled at making the spear, and that day twelvemonth it was ready. And that very day he caused her to be informed thereof.

“Lord,” said Blodeuwedd unto Llew, “I have been thinking how it is possible that what thou didst tell me formerly can be true; wilt thou show me in what manner thou couldst stand at once upon the edge of a cauldron and upon a buck, if I prepare the bath for thee?” “I will show thee,” said he.

Then she sent unto Gronw, and bade him be in ambush on the hill which is now called Bryn Kyvergyr, on the bank of the river Cynvael. She caused also to be collected all the goats that were in the Cantrev, and had them brought to the other side of the river, opposite Bryn Kyvergyr.

And the next day she spoke thus. “Lord,” said she, “I have caused the roof and the bath to be prepared, and lo! they are ready.” “Well,” said Llew, “we will go gladly to look at them.”

The day after they came and looked at the bath. “Wilt thou go into the bath, lord?” said she. “Willingly will I go in,” he answered. So into the bath he went, and he anointed himself. “Lord,” said she, “behold the animals which thou didst speak of as being called bucks.” “Well,” said he, “cause one of them to be caught and brought here.” And the buck was brought. Then Llew rose out of the bath, and put on his trousers, and he placed one foot on the edge of the bath and the other on the buck’s back.

Thereupon Gronw rose up from the bill which is called Bryn Kyvergyr, and he rested on one knee, and flung the poisoned dart and struck him on the side, so that the shaft started out, but the head of the dart remained in. Then he flew up in the form of an eagle and gave a fearful scream. And thenceforth was he no more seen.

As soon as he departed Gronw and Blodeuwedd went together unto the palace that night. And the next day Gronw arose and took possession of Ardudwy. And after he had overcome the land, he ruled over it, so that Ardudwy and Penllyn were both under his sway.

Then these tidings reached Math the son of Mathonwy. And heaviness and grief came upon Math, and much more upon Gwydion than upon him. “Lord,” said Gwydion, “I shall never rest until I have tidings of my nephew.” “Verily,” said Math, “may Heaven be thy strength.” Then Gwydion set forth and began to go forward. And he went through Gwynedd and Powys to the confines. And when he had done so, he went into Arvon, and came to the house of a vassal, in Maenawr Penardd. And he alighted at the house, and stayed there that night. The man of the house and his house-hold came in, and last of all came there the swineherd. Said the man of the house to the swineherd, “Well, youth, hath thy sow come in tonight?” “She hath,” said he, “and is this instant returned to the pigs.” “Where doth this sow go to?” said Gwydion. “Every day, when the sty is opened, she goeth forth and none can catch sight of her, neither is it known whither she goeth more than if she sank into the earth.” “Wilt thou grant unto me,” said Gwydion, “not to open the sty until I am beside the sty with thee?” “This will I do, right gladly,” he answered.

That night they went to rest; and as soon as the swineherd saw the light of day, he awoke Gwydion. And Gwydion arose and dressed himself, and went with the swineherd, and stood beside the sty. Then the swineherd opened the sty. And as soon as he opened it, behold she leaped forth, and set off with great speed. And Gwydion followed her, and she went against the course of a river, and made for a brook, which is now called Nant y Llew. And there she halted and began feeding. And Gwydion came under the tree, and looked what it might be that the sow was feeding on. And he saw that she was eating putrid flesh and vermin. Then looked he up to the top of the tree, and as he looked he beheld on the top of the tree an eagle, and when the eagle shook itself, there fell vermin and putrid flesh from off it, and these the sow devoured. And it seemed to him that the eagle was Llew. And he sang an Englyn:

“Oak that grows between the two banks;

Darkened is the sky and hill!

Shall I not tell him by his wounds,

That this is Llew?”

Upon this the eagle came down until he reached the centre of the tree. And Gwydion sang another Englyn:

“Oak that grows in upland ground,

Is it not wetted by the rain? Has it not been drenched

By nine score tempests?

It bears in its branches Llew Llaw Gyffes!”

Then the eagle came down until he was on the lowest branch of the tree, and thereupon this Englyn did Gwydion sing:

“Oak that grows beneath the steep;

Stately and majestic is its aspect!

Shall I not speak it?

That Llew will come to my lap?”

And the eagle came down upon Gwydion’s knee. And Gwydion struck him with his magic wand, so that he returned to his own form. No one ever saw a more piteous sight, for he was nothing but skin and bone.

Then he went unto Caer Dathyl, and there were brought unto him good physicians that were in Gwynedd, and before the end of the year he was quite healed.

“Lord,” said he unto Math the son of Mathonwy, “it is full time now that I have retribution of him by whom I have suffered all this woe.” “Truly,” said Math, “he will never be able to maintain himself in the possession of that which is thy right.” “Well,” said Llew, “the sooner I have my right, the better shall I be pleased.”

Then they called together the whole of Gwynedd, and set forth to Ardudwy. And Gwydion went on before and proceeded to Mur y Castell. And when Blodeuwedd heard that he was coming, she took her maidens with her, and fled to the mountain. And they passed through the river Cynvael, and went towards a court that there was upon the mountain, and through fear they could not proceed except with their faces looking backwards, so that unawares they fell into the lake. And they were all drowned except Blodeuwedd herself, and her Gwydion overtook. And he said unto her, “I will not slay thee, but I will do unto thee worse than that. For I will turn thee into a bird; and because of the shame thou hast done unto Llew Llaw Gyffes, thou shalt never show thy face in the light of day henceforth; and that through fear of all the other birds. For it shall be their nature to attack thee, and to chase thee from wheresoever they may find thee. And thou shalt not lose thy name, but shalt be always called Blodeuwedd.” Now Blodeuwedd is an owl in the language of this present time, and for this reason is the owl hateful unto all birds. And even now the owl is called Blodeuwedd.

Then Gronw Pebyr withdrew unto Penllyn, and he dispatched thence an embassy. And the messengers he sent asked Llew Llaw Gyffes if he would take land, or domain, or gold, or silver, for the injury he had received. “I will not, by my confession to Heaven,” said he. “Behold this is the least that I will accept from him; that he come to the spot where I was when he wounded me with the dart, and that I stand where he did, and that with a dart I take my aim at him. And this is the very least that I will accept.”

And this was told unto Gronw Pebyr. “Verily,” said he, “is it needful for me to do thus? My faithful warriors, and my household, and my foster-brothers, is there not one among you who will stand the blow in my stead?” “There is not, verily,” answered they. And because of their refusal to suffer one stroke for their lord, they are called the third disloyal tribe even unto this day. “Well,” said he, “I will meet it.”

Then they two went forth to the banks of the river Cynvael, and Gronw stood in the place where Llew Llaw Gyffes was when he struck him, and Llew in the place where Gronw was. Then said Gronw Pebyr unto Llew, “Since it was through the wiles of a woman that I did unto thee as I have done, I adjure thee by Heaven to let me place between me and the blow, the slab thou seest yonder on the river’s bank.” “Verily,” said Llew, “I will not refuse thee this.” “Ah,” said he, “may Heaven reward thee.” So Gronw took the slab and placed it between him and the blow.

Then Llew flung the dart at him, and it pierced the slab and went through Gronw likewise, so that it pierced through his back. And thus was Gronw Pebyr slain. And there is still the slab on the bank of the river Cynvael, in Ardudwy, having the hole through it. And therefore is it even now called Llech Gronw.

A second time did Llew Llaw Gyffes take possession of the land, and prosperously did he govern it. And, as the story relates, he was lord after this over Gwynedd.

And thus ends this fourth part of the Mabinogi.

Peredur The Son Of Evrawc

EARL EVRAWC OWNED the Earldom of the North. And he had seven sons. And Evrawc maintained himself not so much by his own possessions as by attending tournaments, and wars, and combats. And, as it often befalls those who join in encounters and wars, he was slain, and six of his sons likewise. Now the name of his seventh son was Peredur, and he was the youngest of them. And he was not of an age to go to wars and encounters, otherwise he might have been slain as well as his father and brothers. His mother was a scheming and thoughtful woman, and she was very solicitous concerning this her only son and his possessions. So she took counsel with herself to leave the inhabited country, and to flee to the deserts and unfrequented wildernesses. And she permitted none to bear her company thither but women and boys, and spiritless men, who were both unaccustomed and unequal to war and fighting. And none dared to bring either horses or arms where her son was, lest he should set his mind upon them. And the youth went daily to divert himself in the forest, by flinging sticks and staves. And one day he saw his mother’s flock of goats, and near the goats two hinds were standing. And he marvelled greatly that these two should be without horns, while the others had them. And he thought they had long run wild, and on that account they had lost their horns. And by activity and swiftness of foot, he drove the hinds and the goats together into the house which there was for the goats at the extremity of the forest. Then Peredur returned to his mother. “Ah, mother,” said he, “a marvellous thing have I seen in the wood; two of thy goats have run wild, and lost their horns, through their having been so long missing in the wood. And no man had ever more trouble than I had to drive them in.” Then they all arose and went to see. And when they beheld the hinds they were greatly astonished.

And one day they saw three knights coming along the horse-road on the borders of the forest. And the three knights were Gwalchmai the son of Gwyar, and Geneir Gwystyl, and Owain the son of Urien. And Owain kept on the track of the knight who had divided the apples in Arthur’s Court, whom they were in pursuit of. “Mother,” said Peredur, “what are those yonder?” “They are angels, my son,” said she. “By my faith,” said Peredur, “I will go and become an angel with them.” And Peredur went to the road, and met them. “Tell me, good soul,” said Owain, “sawest thou a knight pass this way, either today or yesterday?” “I know not,” answered he, “what a knight is.” “Such an one as I am,” said Owain. “If thou wilt tell me what I ask thee, I will tell thee that which thou askest me.” “Gladly will I do so,” replied Owain. “What is this?” demanded Peredur, concerning the saddle. “It is a saddle,” said Owain. Then he asked about all the accoutrements which he saw upon the men, and the horses, and the arms, and what they were for, and how they were used. And Owain shewed him all these things fully, and told him what use was made of them. “Go forward,” said Peredur, “for I saw such an one as thou inquirest for, and I will follow thee.”

Then Peredur returned to his mother and her company, and he said to her, “Mother, those were not angels, but honourable knights.” Then his mother swooned away. And Peredur went to the place where they kept the horses that carried firewood, and that brought meat and drink from the inhabited country to the desert. And he took a bony piebald horse, which seemed to him the strongest of them. And he pressed a pack into the form of a saddle, and with twisted twigs he imitated the trappings which he had seen upon the horses. And when Peredur came again to his mother, the Countess had recovered from her swoon. “My son,” said she, “desirest thou to ride forth?” “Yes, with thy leave,” said he. “Wait, then, that I may counsel thee before thou goest.” “Willingly,” he answered; “speak quickly.” “Go forward, then,” she said, “to the Court of Arthur, where there are the best, and the boldest, and the most bountiful of men. And wherever thou seest a church, repeat there thy Paternoster unto it. And if thou see meat and drink, and have need of them, and none have the kindness or the courtesy to give them to thee, take them thyself. If thou hear an outcry, proceed towards it, especially if it be the outcry of a woman. If thou see a fair jewel, possess thyself of it, and give it to another, for thus thou shalt obtain praise. If thou see a fair woman, pay thy court to her, whether she will or no; for thus thou wilt render thyself a better and more esteemed man than thou wast before.”

After this discourse, Peredur mounted the horse, and taking a handful of sharp-pointed forks in his hand, he rode forth. And he journeyed two days and two nights in the woody wildernesses, and in desert places, without food and without drink. And then he came to a vast wild wood, and far within the wood he saw a fair even glade, and in the glade he saw a tent, and the tent seeming to him to be a church, he repeated his Paternoster to it. And he went towards it, and the door of the tent was open. And a golden chair was near the door. And on the chair sat a lovely auburn-haired maiden, with a golden frontlet on her forehead, and sparkling stones in the frontlet, and with a large gold ring on her hand. And Peredur dismounted, and entered the tent. And the maiden was glad at his coming, and bade him welcome. At the entrance of the tent he saw food, and two flasks full of wine, and two loaves of fine wheaten flour, and collops of the flesh of the wild boar. “My mother told me,” said Peredur, “wheresoever I saw meat and drink, to take it.” “Take the meat and welcome, chieftain,” said she. So Peredur took half of the meat and of the liquor himself, and left the rest to the maiden. And when Peredur had finished eating, he bent upon his knee before the maiden. “My mother,” said he, “told me, wheresoever I saw a fair jewel, to take it.” “Do so, my soul,” said she. So Peredur took the ring. And he mounted his horse, and proceeded on his journey.

After this, behold the knight came to whom the tent belonged; and he was the Lord of the Glade. And he saw the track of the horse, and he said to the maiden, “Tell me who has been here since I departed.” “A man,” said she, “of wonderful demeanour.” And she described to him what Peredur’s appearance and conduct had been. “Tell me,” said he, “did he offer thee any wrong?” “No,” answered the maiden, “by my faith, he harmed me not.” “By my faith, I do not believe thee; and until I can meet with him, and revenge the insult he has done me, and wreak my vengeance upon him, thou shalt not remain two nights in the same house.” And the knight arose, and set forth to seek Peredur.

Meanwhile Peredur journeyed on towards Arthur’s Court. And before he reached it, another knight had been there, who gave a ring of thick gold at the door of the gate for holding his horse, and went into the Hall where Arthur and his household, and Gwenhwyvar and her maidens, were assembled. And the page of the chamber was serving Gwenhwyvar with a golden goblet. Then the knight dashed the liquor that was therein upon her face, and upon her stomacher, and gave her a violent blow on the face, and said, “If any have the boldness to dispute this goblet with me, and to revenge the insult to Gwenhwyvar, let him follow me to the meadow, and there I will await him.” So the knight took his horse, and rode to the meadow. And all the household hung down their heads, lest any of them should be requested to go and avenge the insult to Gwenhwyvar. For it seemed to them, that no one would have ventured on so daring an outrage, unless he possessed such powers, through magic or charms, that none could be able to take vengeance upon him. Then, behold, Peredur entered the Hall, upon the bony piebald horse, with the uncouth trappings upon it; and in this way he traversed the whole length of the Hall. In the centre of the Hall stood Kai. “Tell me, tall man,” said Peredur, “is that Arthur yonder?” “What wouldest thou with Arthur?” asked Kai. “My mother told me to go to Arthur, and receive the honour of knighthood.” “By my faith,” said he, “thou art all too meanly equipped with horse and with arms.” Thereupon he was perceived by all the household, and they threw sticks at him. Then, behold, a dwarf came forward. He had already been a year at Arthur’s Court, both he and a female dwarf. They had craved harbourage of Arthur, and had obtained it; and during the whole year, neither of them had spoken a single word to any one. When the dwarf beheld Peredur, “Haha!” said he, “the welcome of Heaven be unto thee, goodly Peredur, son of Evrawc, the chief of warriors, and flower of knighthood.” “Truly,” said Kai, “thou art ill-taught to remain a year mute at Arthur’s Court, with choice of society; and now, before the face of Arthur and all his household, to call out, and declare such a man as this the chief of warriors, and the flower of knighthood.” And he gave him such a box on the ear that he fell senseless to the ground. Then exclaimed the female dwarf, “Haha! goodly Peredur, son of Evrawc; the welcome of Heaven be unto thee, flower of knights, and light of chivalry.” “Of a truth, maiden,” said Kai, “thou art ill-bred to remain mute for a year at the Court of Arthur, and then to speak as thou dost of such a man as this.” And Kai kicked her with his foot, so that she fell to the ground senseless. “Tall man,” said Peredur, “shew me which is Arthur.” “Hold thy peace,” said Kai, “and go after the knight who went hence to the meadow, and take from him the goblet, and overthrow him, and possess thyself of his horse and arms, and then thou shalt receive the order of knighthood.” “I will do so, tall man,” said Peredur. So he turned his horse’s head towards the meadow. And when he came there, the knight was riding up and down, proud of his strength, and valour, and noble mien. “Tell me,” said the knight, “didst thou see any one coming after me from the Court?” “The tall man that was there,” said he, “desired me to come, and overthrow thee, and to take from thee the goblet, and thy horse and thy armour for myself.” “Silence!” said the knight; “go back to the Court, and tell Arthur, from me, either to come himself, or to send some other to fight with me; and unless he do so quickly, I will not wait for him.” “By my faith,” said Peredur, “choose thou whether it shall be willingly or unwillingly, but I will have the horse, and the arms, and the goblet.” And upon this the knight ran at him furiously, and struck him a violent blow with the shaft of his spear, between the neck and the shoulder. “Haha! lad,” said Peredur, “my mother’s servants were not used to play with me in this wise; therefore, thus will I play with thee.” And thereupon he struck him with a sharp-pointed fork, and it hit him in the eye, and came out at the back of his neck, so that he instantly fell down lifeless.

“Verily,” said Owain the son of Urien to Kai, “thou wert ill-advised, when thou didst send that madman after the knight. For one of two things must befall him. He must either be overthrown, or slain. If he is overthrown by the knight, he will be counted by him to be an honourable person of the Court, and an eternal disgrace will it be to Arthur and his warriors. And if he is slain, the disgrace will be the same, and moreover, his sin will be upon him; therefore will I go to see what has befallen him.” So Owain went to the meadow, and he found Peredur dragging the man about. “What art thou doing thus?” said Owain. “This iron coat,” said Peredur, “will never come from off him; not by my efforts, at any rate.” And Owain unfastened his armour and his clothes. “Here, my good soul,” said he, “is a horse and armour better than thine. Take them joyfully, and come with me to Arthur, to receive the order of knighthood, for thou dost merit it.” “May I never shew my face again if I go,” said Peredur; “but take thou the goblet to Gwenhwyvar, and tell Arthur, that wherever I am, I will be his vassal, and will do him what profit and service I am able. And say that I will not come to his Court until I have encountered the tall man that is there, to revenge the injury he did to the dwarf and dwarfess.” And Owain went back to the Court, and related all these things to Arthur and Gwenhwyvar, and to all the household.

And Peredur rode forward. And as he proceeded, behold a knight met him. “Whence comest thou?” said the knight. “I come from Arthur’s Court,” said Peredur. “Art thou one of his men?” asked he. “Yes, by my faith,” he answered. “A good service, truly, is that of Arthur.” “Wherefore sayest thou so?” said Peredur. “I will tell thee,” said he; “I have always been Arthur’s enemy, and all such of his men as I have ever encountered I have slain.” And without further parlance they fought, and it was not long before Peredur brought him to the ground, over his horse’s crupper. Then the knight besought his mercy. “Mercy thou shalt have,” said Peredur, “if thou wilt make oath to me, that thou wilt go to Arthur’s Court, and tell him that it was I that overthrew thee, for the honour of his service; and say, that I will never come to the Court until I have avenged the insult offered to the dwarf and dwarfess.” The knight pledged him his faith of this, and proceeded to the Court of Arthur, and said as he had promised, and conveyed the threat to Kai.

And Peredur rode forward. And within that week he encountered sixteen knights, and overthrew them all shamefully. And they all went to Arthur’s Court, taking with them the same message which the first knight had conveyed from Peredur, and the same threat which he had sent to Kai. And thereupon Kai was reproved by Arthur; and Kai was greatly grieved thereat.

And Peredur rode forward. And he came to a vast and desert wood, on the confines of which was a lake. And on the other side was a fair castle. And on the border of the lake he saw a venerable, hoary-headed man, sitting upon a velvet cushion, and having a garment of velvet upon him. And his attendants were fishing in the lake. When the hoary-headed man beheld Peredur approaching, he arose and went towards the castle. And the old man was lame. Peredur rode to the palace, and the door was open, and he entered the hall. And there was the hoary-headed man sitting on a cushion, and a large blazing fire burning before him. And the household and the company arose to meet Peredur, and disarrayed him. And the man asked the youth to sit on the cushion; and they sat down, and conversed together. When it was time, the tables were laid, and they went to meat. And when they had finished their meal, the man inquired of Peredur if he knew well how to fight with the sword. “I know not,” said Peredur, “but were I to be taught, doubtless I should.” “Whoever can play well with the cudgel and shield, will also be able to fight with a sword.” And the man had two sons; the one had yellow hair, and the other auburn. “Arise, youths,” said he, “and play with the cudgel and the shield.” And so did they. “Tell me, my soul,” said the man, “which of the youths thinkest thou plays best.” “I think,” said Peredur, “that the yellow-haired youth could draw blood from the other, if he chose.” “Arise thou, my life, and take the cudgel and the shield from the hand of the youth with the auburn hair, and draw blood from the yellow-haired youth if thou canst.” So Peredur arose, and went to play with the yellow-haired youth; and he lifted up his arm, and struck him such a mighty blow, that his brow fell over his eye, and the blood flowed forth. “Ah, my life,” said the man, “come now, and sit down, for thou wilt become the best fighter with the sword of any in this island; and I am thy uncle, thy mother’s brother. And with me shalt thou remain a space, in order to learn the manners and customs of different countries, and courtesy, and gentleness, and noble bearing. Leave, then, the habits and the discourse of thy mother, and I will be thy teacher; and I will raise thee to the rank of knight from this time forward. And thus do thou. If thou seest aught to cause thee wonder, ask not the meaning of it; if no one has the courtesy to inform thee, the reproach will not fall upon thee, but upon me that am thy teacher.” And they had abundance of honour and service. And when it was time they went to sleep. At the break of day, Peredur arose, and took his horse, and with his uncle’s permission he rode forth. And he came to a vast desert wood, and at the further end of the wood was a meadow, and on the other side of the meadow he saw a large castle. And thitherward Peredur bent his way, and he found the gate open, and he proceeded to the hall. And he beheld a stately hoary-headed man sitting on one side of the hall, and many pages around him, who arose to receive and to honour Peredur. And they placed him by the side of the owner of the palace. Then they discoursed together; and when it was time to eat, they caused Peredur to sit beside the nobleman during the repast. And when they had eaten and drunk as much as they desired, the nobleman asked Peredur whether he could fight with a sword? “Were I to receive instruction,” said Peredur, “I think I could.” Now, there was on the floor of the hall a huge staple, as large as a warrior could grasp. “Take yonder sword,” said the man to Peredur, “and strike the iron staple.” So Peredur arose and struck the staple, so that he cut it in two; and the sword broke into two parts also. “Place the two parts together, and reunite them,” and Peredur placed them together, and they became entire as they were before. And a second time he struck upon the staple, so that both it and the sword broke in two, and as before they reunited. And the third time he gave a like blow, and placed the broken parts together, and neither the staple nor the sword would unite as before. “Youth,” said the nobleman, “come now, and sit down, and my blessing be upon thee. Thou fightest best with the sword of any man in the kingdom. Thou hast arrived at two-thirds of thy strength, and the other third thou hast not yet obtained; and when thou attainest to thy full power, none will be able to contend with thee. I am thy uncle, thy mother’s brother, and I am brother to the man in whose house thou wast last night.” Then Peredur and his uncle discoursed together, and he beheld two youths enter the hall, and proceed up to the chamber, bearing a spear of mighty size, with three streams of blood flowing from the point to the ground. And when all the company saw this, they began wailing and lamenting. But for all that, the man did not break off his discourse with Peredur. And as he did not tell Peredur the meaning of what he saw, he forbore to ask him concerning it. And when the clamour had a little subsided, behold two maidens entered, with a large salver between them, in which was a man’s head, surrounded by a profusion of blood. And thereupon the company of the court made so great an outcry, that it was irksome to be in the same hall with them. But at length they were silent. And when time was that they should sleep, Peredur was brought into a fair chamber.

And the next day, with his uncle’s permission, he rode forth. And he came to a wood, and far within the wood he heard a loud cry, and he saw a beautiful woman with auburn hair, and a horse with a saddle upon it, standing near her, and a corpse by her side. And as she strove to place the corpse upon the horse, it fell to the ground, and thereupon she made a great lamentation. “Tell me, sister,” said Peredur, “wherefore art thou bewailing?” “Oh! accursed Peredur, little pity has my ill-fortune ever met with from thee.” “Wherefore,” said Peredur, “am I accursed?” “Because thou wast the cause of thy mother’s death; for when thou didst ride forth against her will, anguish seized upon her heart, so that she died; and therefore art thou accursed. And the dwarf and the dwarfess that thou sawest at Arthur’s Court were the dwarfs of thy father and mother; and I am thy foster-sister, and this was my wedded husband, and he was slain by the knight that is in the glade in the wood; and do not thou go near him, lest thou shouldest be slain by him likewise.” “My sister, thou dost reproach me wrongfully; through my having so long remained amongst you, I shall scarcely vanquish him; and had I continued longer, it would, indeed, be difficult for me to succeed. Cease, therefore, thy lamenting, for it is of no avail, and I will bury the body, and then I will go in quest of the knight, and see if I can do vengeance upon him.” And when he had buried the body, they went to the place where the knight was, and found him riding proudly along the glade; and he inquired of Peredur whence he came. “I come from Arthur’s Court.” “And art thou one of Arthur’s men?” “Yes, by my faith.” “A profitable alliance, truly, is that of Arthur.” And without further parlance, they encountered one another, and immediately Peredur overthrew the knight, and he besought mercy of Peredur. “Mercy shalt thou have,” said he, “upon these terms, that thou take this woman in marriage, and do her all the honour and reverence in thy power, seeing thou hast, without cause, slain her wedded husband; and that thou go to Arthur’s Court, and shew him that it was I that overthrew thee, to do him honour and service; and that thou tell him that I will never come to his Court again until I have met with the tall man that is there, to take vengeance upon him for his insult to the dwarf and dwarfess.” And he took the knight’s assurance, that he would perform all this. Then the knight provided the lady with a horse and garments that were suitable for her, and took her with him to Arthur’s Court. And he told Arthur all that had occurred, and gave the defiance to Kai. And Arthur and all his household reproved Kai, for having driven such a youth as Peredur from his Court.

Said Owain the son of Urien, “This youth will never come into the Court until Kai has gone forth from it.” “By my faith,” said Arthur, “I will search all the deserts in the Island of Britain, until I find Peredur, and then let him and his adversary do their utmost to each other.”

Then Peredur rode forward. And he came to a desert wood, where he saw not the track either of men or animals, and where there was nothing but bushes and weeds. And at the upper end of the wood he saw a vast castle, wherein were many strong towers; and when he came near the gate, he found the weeds taller than he had seen them elsewhere. And he struck the gate with the shaft of his lance, and thereupon behold a lean, auburn-haired youth came to an opening in the battlements. “Choose thou, chieftain,” said he, “whether shall I open the gate unto thee, or shall I announce unto those that are chief, that thou art at the gateway?” “Say that I am here,” said Peredur, “and if it is desired that I should enter, I will go in.” And the youth came back, and opened the gate for Peredur. And when he went into the hall, he beheld eighteen youths, lean and red-headed, of the same height, and of the same aspect, and of the same dress, and of the same age as the one who had opened the gate for him. And they were well skilled in courtesy and in service. And they disarrayed him. Then they sat down to discourse. Thereupon, behold five maidens came from the chamber into the hall. And Peredur was certain that he had never seen another of so fair an aspect as the chief of the maidens. And she had an old garment of satin upon her, which had once been handsome, but was then so tattered, that her skin could be seen through it. And whiter was her skin than the bloom of crystal, and her hair and her two eyebrows were blacker than jet, and on her cheeks were two red spots, redder than whatever is reddest. And the maiden welcomed Peredur, and put her arms about his neck, and made him sit down beside her. Not long after this he saw two nuns enter, and a flask full of wine was borne by one, and six loaves of white bread by the other. “Lady,” said they, “Heaven is witness, that there is not so much of food and liquor as this left in yonder Convent this night.” Then they went to meat, and Peredur observed that the maiden wished to give more of the food and of the liquor to him than to any of the others. “My sister,” said Peredur, “I will share out the food and the liquor.” “Not so, my soul,” said she. “By my faith but I will.” So Peredur took the bread, and he gave an equal portion of it to each alike, as well as a cup full of the liquor. And when it was time for them to sleep, a chamber was prepared for Peredur, and he went to rest.

“Behold, sister,” said the youths to the fairest and most exalted of the maidens, “we have counsel for thee.” “What may it be?” she inquired. “Go to the youth that is in the upper chamber, and offer to become his wife, or the lady of his love, if it seem well to him.” “That were indeed unfitting,” said she. “Hitherto I have not been the lady-love of any knight, and to make him such an offer before I am wooed by him, that, truly, can I not do.” “By our confession to Heaven, unless thou actest thus, we will leave thee here to thy enemies, to do as they will with thee.” And through fear of this, the maiden went forth; and shedding tears, she proceeded to the chamber. And with the noise of the door opening, Peredur awoke; and the maiden was weeping and lamenting. “Tell me, my sister,” said Peredur, “wherefore dost thou weep?” “I will tell thee, lord,” said she. “My father possessed these dominions as their chief, and this palace was his, and with it he held the best earldom in the kingdom; then the son of another earl sought me of my father, and I was not willing to be given unto him, and my father would not give me against my will, either to him or any earl in the world. And my father had no child except myself. And after my father’s death, these dominions came into my own hands, and then was I less willing to accept him than before. So he made war upon me, and conquered all my possessions, except this one house. And through the valour of the men whom thou hast seen, who are my foster-brothers, and the strength of the house, it can never be taken while food and drink remain. And now our provisions are exhausted; but, as thou hast seen, we have been fed by the nuns, to whom the country is free. And at length they also are without supply of food or liquor. And at no later date than tomorrow, the earl will come against this place with all his forces; and if I fall into his power, my fate will be no better than to be given over to the grooms of his horses. Therefore, lord, I am come to offer to place myself in thy hands, that thou mayest succour me, either by taking me hence, or by defending me here, whichever may seem best unto thee.” “Go, my sister,” said he, “and sleep; nor will I depart from thee until I do that which thou requirest, or prove whether I can assist thee or not.” The maiden went again to rest; and the next morning she came to Peredur, and saluted him. “Heaven prosper thee, my soul, and what tidings dost thou bring?” “None other, than that the earl and all his forces have alighted at the gate, and I never beheld any place so covered with tents, and thronged with knights challenging others to the combat.” “Truly,” said Peredur, “let my horse be made ready.” So his horse was accoutred, and he arose and sallied forth to the meadow. And there was a knight riding proudly along the meadow, having raised the signal for battle. And they encountered, and Peredur threw the knight over his horse’s crupper to the ground. And at the close of the day, one of the chief knights came to fight with him, and he overthrew him also, so that he besought his mercy. “Who art thou?” said Peredur. “Verily,” said he, “I am Master of the Household to the earl.” “And how much of the countess’s possessions is there in thy power?” “The third part, verily,” answered he. “Then,” said Peredur, “restore to her the third of her possessions in full, and all the profit thou hast made by them, and bring meat and drink for a hundred men, with their horses and arms, to her court this night. And thou shalt remain her captive, unless she wish to take thy life.” And this he did forthwith. And that night the maiden was right joyful, and they fared plenteously.

And the next day Peredur rode forth to the meadow; and that day he vanquished a multitude of the host. And at the close of the day, there came a proud and stately knight, and Peredur overthrew him, and he besought his mercy. “Who art thou?” said Peredur. “I am Steward of the Palace,” said he. “And how much of the maiden’s possessions are under thy control?” “One-third part,” answered he. “Verily,” said Peredur, “thou shalt fully restore to the maiden her possessions, and, moreover, thou shalt give her meat and drink for two hundred men, and their horses and their arms. And for thyself, thou shalt be her captive.” And immediately it was so done.

And the third day Peredur rode forth to the meadow; and he vanquished more that day than on either of the preceding. And at the close of the day, an earl came to encounter him, and he overthrew him, and he besought his mercy. “Who art thou?” said Peredur. “I am the earl,” said he. “I will not conceal it from thee.” “Verily,” said Peredur, “thou shalt restore the whole of the maiden’s earldom, and shalt give her thine own earldom in addition thereto, and meat and drink for three hundred men, and their horses and arms, and thou thyself shalt remain in her power.” And thus it was fulfilled. And Peredur tarried three weeks in the country, causing tribute and obedience to be paid to the maiden, and the government to be placed in her hands. “With thy leave,” said Peredur, “I will go hence.” “Verily, my brother, desirest thou this?” “Yes, by my faith; and had it not been for love of thee, I should not have been here thus long.” “My soul,” said she, “who art thou?” “I am Peredur the son of Evrawc from the North; and if ever thou art in trouble or in danger, acquaint me therewith, and if I can, I will protect thee.”

So Peredur rode forth. And far thence there met him a lady, mounted on a horse that was lean, and covered with sweat; and she saluted the youth. “Whence comest thou, my sister?” Then she told him the cause of her journey. Now she was the wife of the Lord of the Glade. “Behold,” said he, “I am the knight through whom thou art in trouble, and he shall repent it, who has treated thee thus.” Thereupon, behold a knight rode up, and he inquired of Peredur, if he had seen a knight such as he was seeking. “Hold thy peace,” said Peredur, “I am he whom thou seekest; and by my faith, thou deservest ill of thy household for thy treatment of the maiden, for she is innocent concerning me.” So they encountered, and they were not long in combat ere Peredur overthrew the knight, and he besought his mercy. “Mercy thou shalt have,” said Peredur, “so thou wilt return by the way thou camest, and declare that thou holdest the maiden innocent, and so that thou wilt acknowledge unto her the reverse thou hast sustained at my hands.” And the knight plighted him his faith thereto.

Then Peredur rode forward. And above him he beheld a castle, and thitherward he went. And he struck upon the gate with his lance, and then, behold, a comely auburn-haired youth opened the gate, and he had the stature of a warrior, and the years of a boy. And when Peredur came into the hall, there was a tall and stately lady sitting in a chair, and many handmaidens around her; and the lady rejoiced at his coming. And when it was time, they went to meat. And after their repast was finished, “It were well for thee, chieftain,” said she, “to go elsewhere to sleep.” “Wherefore can I not sleep here?” said Peredur. “Nine sorceresses are here, my soul, of the sorceresses of Gloucester, and their father and their mother are with them; and unless we can make our escape before daybreak, we shall be slain; and already they have conquered and laid waste all the country, except this one dwelling.” “Behold,” said Peredur, “I will remain here tonight, and if you are in trouble, I will do you what service I can; but harm shall you not receive from me.” So they went to rest. And with the break of day, Peredur heard a dreadful outcry. And he hastily arose, and went forth in his vest and his doublet, with his sword about his neck, and he saw a sorceress overtake one of the watch, who cried out violently. Peredur attacked the sorceress, and struck her upon the head with his sword, so that he flattened her helmet and her head-piece like a dish upon her head. “Thy mercy, goodly Peredur, son of Evrawc, and the mercy of Heaven.” “How knowest thou, hag, that I am Peredur?” “By destiny, and the foreknowledge that I should suffer harm from thee. And thou shalt take a horse and armour of me; and with me thou shalt go to learn chivalry and the use of thy arms.” Said Peredur, “Thou shalt have mercy, if thou pledge thy faith thou wilt never more injure the dominions of the Countess.” And Peredur took surety of this, and with permission of the Countess, he set forth with the sorceress to the palace of the sorceresses. And there he remained for three weeks, and then he made choice of a horse and arms, and went his way.

And in the evening he entered a valley, and at the head of the valley he came to a hermit’s cell, and the hermit welcomed him gladly, and there he spent the night. And in the morning he arose, and when he went forth, behold a shower of snow had fallen the night before, and a hawk had killed a wild fowl in front of the cell. And the noise of the horse scared the hawk away, and a raven alighted upon the bird. And Peredur stood, and compared the blackness of the raven and the whiteness of the snow, and the redness of the blood, to the hair of the lady that best he loved, which was blacker than jet, and to her skin which was whiter than the snow, and to the two red spots upon her cheeks, which were redder than the blood upon the snow appeared to be.

Now Arthur and his household were in search of Peredur. “Know ye,” said Arthur, “who is the knight with the long spear that stands by the brook up yonder?” “Lord,” said one of them, “I will go and learn who he is.” So the youth came to the place where Peredur was, and asked him what he did thus, and who he was. And from the intensity with which he thought upon the lady whom best he loved, he gave him no answer. Then the youth thrust at Peredur with his lance, and Peredur turned upon him, and struck him over his horse’s crupper to the ground. And after this, four-and-twenty youths came to him, and he did not answer one more than another, but gave the same reception to all, bringing them with one single thrust to the ground. And then came Kai, and spoke to Peredur rudely and angrily; and Peredur took him with his lance under the jaw, and cast him from him with a thrust, so that he broke his arm and his shoulder-blade, and he rode over him one-and-twenty times. And while he lay thus, stunned with the violence of the pain that he had suffered, his horse returned back at a wild and prancing pace. And when the household saw the horse come back without his rider, they rode forth in haste to the place where the encounter had been. And when they first came there, they thought that Kai was slain; but they found that if he had a skilful physician, he yet might live. And Peredur moved not from his meditation, on seeing the concourse that was around Kai. And Kai was brought to Arthur’s tent, and Arthur caused skilful physicians to come to him. And Arthur was grieved that Kai had met with this reverse, for he loved him greatly.

“Then,” said Gwalchmai, “it is not fitting that any should disturb an honourable knight from his thought unadvisedly; for either he is pondering some damage that he has sustained, or he is thinking of the lady whom best he loves. And through such ill-advised proceeding, perchance this misadventure has befallen him who last met with him. And if it seem well to thee, lord, I will go and see if this knight hath changed from his thought; and if he has, I will ask him courteously to come and visit thee.” Then Kai was wroth, and he spoke angry and spiteful words. “Gwalchmai,” said he, “I know that thou wilt bring him because he is fatigued. Little praise and honour, nevertheless, wilt thou have from vanquishing a weary knight, who is tired with fighting. Yet thus hast thou gained the advantage over many. And while thy speech and thy soft words last, a coat of thin linen were armour sufficient for thee, and thou wilt not need to break either lance or sword in fighting with the knight in the state he is in.” Then said Gwalchmai to Kai, “Thou mightest use more pleasant words, wert thou so minded: and it behoves thee not upon me to wreak thy wrath and thy displeasure. Methinks I shall bring the knight hither with me without breaking either my arm or my shoulder.” Then said Arthur to Gwalchmai, “Thou speakest like a wise and prudent man; go, and take enough of armour about thee, and choose thy horse.” And Gwalchmai accoutred himself and rode forward hastily to the place where Peredur was.

And Peredur was resting on the shaft of his spear, pondering the same thought, and Gwalchmai came to him without any signs of hostility, and said to him, “If I thought that it would be as agreeable to thee as it would be to me, I would converse with thee. I have also a message from Arthur unto thee, to pray thee to come and visit him. And two men have been before on this errand.” “That is true,” said Peredur, “and uncourteously they came. They attacked me, and I was annoyed thereat, for it was not pleasing to me to be drawn from the thought that I was in, for I was thinking of the lady whom best I love, and thus was she brought to my mind: I was looking upon the snow, and upon the raven, and upon the drops of the blood of the bird that the hawk had killed upon the snow. And I bethought me that her whiteness was like that of the snow, and that the blackness of her hair and her eyebrows like that of the raven, and that the two red spots upon her cheeks were like the two drops of blood.” Said Gwalchmai, “This was not an ungentle thought, and I should marvel if it were pleasant to thee to be drawn from it.” “Tell me,” said Peredur, “is Kai in Arthur’s Court?” “He is,” said he, “and behold he is the knight that fought with thee last; and it would have been better for him had he not come, for his arm and his shoulder-blade were broken with the fall which he had from thy spear.” “Verily,” said Peredur, “I am not sorry to have thus begun to avenge the insult to the dwarf and dwarfess.” Then Gwalchmai marvelled to hear him speak of the dwarf and the dwarfess; and he approached him, and threw his arms around his neck, and asked him what was his name. “Peredur the son of Evrawc am I called,” said he; “and thou, Who art thou?” “I am called Gwalchmai,” he replied. “I am right glad to meet with thee,” said Peredur, “for in every country where I have been I have heard of thy fame for prowess and uprightness, and I solicit thy fellowship.” “Thou shalt have it, by my faith, and grant me thine,” said he, “Gladly will I do so,” answered Peredur.

So they rode forth together joyfully towards the place where Arthur was, and when Kai saw them coming, he said, “I knew that Gwalchmai needed not to fight the knight. And it is no wonder that he should gain fame; more can he do by his fair words than I by the strength of my arm.” And Peredur went with Gwalchmai to his tent, and they took off their armour. And Peredur put on garments like those that Gwalchmai wore, and they went together unto Arthur, and saluted him. “Behold, lord,” said Gwalchmai, “him whom thou hast sought so long.” “Welcome unto thee, chieftain,” said Arthur. “With me thou shalt remain; and had I known thy valour had been such, thou shouldst not have left me as thou didst; nevertheless, this was predicted of thee by the dwarf and the dwarfess, whom Kai ill-treated and whom thou hast avenged.” And hereupon, behold there came the Queen and her handmaidens, and Peredur saluted them. And they were rejoiced to see him, and bade him welcome. And Arthur did him great honour and respect, and they returned towards Caerlleon.

And the first night Peredur came to Caerlleon to Arthur’s Court, and as he walked in the city after his repast, behold, there met him Angharad Law Eurawc. “By my faith, sister,” said Peredur, “thou art a beauteous and lovely maiden; and, were it pleasing to thee, I could love thee above all women.” “I pledge my faith,” said she, “that I do not love thee, nor will I ever do so.” “I also pledge my faith,” said Peredur, “that I will never speak a word to any Christian again, until thou come to love me above all men.”

The next day Peredur went forth by the high road, along a mountain-ridge, and he saw a valley of a circular form, the confines of which were rocky and wooded. And the flat part of the valley was in meadows, and there were fields betwixt the meadows and the wood. And in the bosom of the wood he saw large black houses of uncouth workmanship. And he dismounted, and led his horse towards the wood. And a little way within the wood he saw a rocky ledge, along which the road lay. And upon the ledge was a lion bound by a chain, and sleeping. And beneath the lion he saw a deep pit of immense size, full of the bones of men and animals. And Peredur drew his sword and struck the lion, so that he fell into the mouth of the pit and hung there by the chain; and with a second blow he struck the chain and broke it, and the lion fell into the pit; and Peredur led his horse over the rocky ledge, until he came into the valley. And in the centre of the valley he saw a fair castle, and he went towards it. And in the meadow by the castle he beheld a huge grey man sitting, who was larger than any man he had ever before seen. And two young pages were shooting the hilts of their daggers, of the bone of the sea-horse. And one of the pages had red hair, and the other auburn. And they went before him to the place where the grey man was, and Peredur saluted him. And the grey man said, “Disgrace to the beard of my porter.” Then Peredur understood that the porter was the lion. – And the grey man and the pages went together into the castle, and Peredur accompanied them; and he found it a fair and noble place. And they proceeded to the hall, and the tables were already laid, and upon them was abundance of food and liquor. And thereupon he saw an aged woman and a young woman come from the chamber; and they were the most stately women he had ever seen. Then they washed and went to meat, and the grey man sat in the upper seat at the head of the table, and the aged woman next to him. And Peredur and the maiden were placed together, and the two young pages served them. And the maiden gazed sorrowfully upon Peredur, and Peredur asked the maiden wherefore she was sad. “For thee, my soul; for, from when I first beheld thee, I have loved thee above all men. And it pains me to know that so gentle a youth as thou should have such a doom as awaits thee tomorrow. Sawest thou the numerous black houses in the bosom of the wood? All these belong to the vassals of the grey man yonder, who is my father. And they are all giants. And tomorrow they will rise up against thee, and will slay thee. And the Round Valley is this valley called.” “Listen, fair maiden, wilt thou contrive that my horse and arms be in the same lodging with me tonight?” “Gladly will I cause it so to be, by Heaven, if I can.”

And when it was time for them to sleep rather than to carouse, they went to rest. And the maiden caused Peredur’s horse and arms to be in the same lodging with him. And the next morning Peredur heard a great tumult of men and horses around the castle. And Peredur arose, and armed himself and his horse, and went to the meadow. Then the aged woman and the maiden came to the grey man: “Lord,” said they, “take the word of the youth, that he will never disclose what he has seen in this place, and we will be his sureties that he keep it.” “I will not do so, by my faith,” said the grey man. So Peredur fought with the host, and towards evening he had slain the one-third of them without receiving any hurt himself. Then said the aged woman, “Behold, many of thy host have been slain by the youth; do thou, therefore, grant him mercy.” “I will not grant it, by my faith,” said he. And the aged woman and the fair maiden were upon the battlements of the castle, looking forth. And at that juncture, Peredur encountered the yellow-haired youth and slew him. “Lord,” said the maiden, “grant the young man mercy.” “That will I not do, by Heaven,” he replied; and thereupon Peredur attacked the auburn-haired youth, and slew him likewise. “It were better that thou hadst accorded mercy to the youth before he had slain thy two sons; for now scarcely wilt thou thyself escape from him.” “Go, maiden, and beseech the youth to grant mercy unto us, for we yield ourselves into his hands.” So the maiden came to the place where Peredur was, and besought mercy for her father, and for all such of his vassals as had escaped alive. “Thou shalt have it, on condition that thy father and all that are under him go and render homage to Arthur, and tell him that it was his vassal Peredur that did him this service.” “This will we do willingly, by Heaven.” “And you shall also receive baptism; and I will send to Arthur, and beseech him to bestow this valley upon thee and upon thy heirs after thee for ever.” Then they went in, and the grey man and the tall woman saluted Peredur. And the grey man said unto him, “Since I have possessed this valley I have not seen any Christian depart with his life, save thyself. And we will go to do homage to Arthur, and to embrace the faith and be baptized.” Then said Peredur, “To Heaven I render thanks that I have not broken my vow to the lady that best I love, which was, that I would not speak one word unto any Christian.”

That night they tarried there. And the next day, in the morning, the grey man, with his company, set forth to Arthur’s Court; and they did homage unto Arthur, and he caused them to be baptized. And the grey man told Arthur that it was Peredur that had vanquished them. And Arthur gave the valley to the grey man and his company, to hold it of him as Peredur had besought. And with Arthur’s permission, the grey man went back to the Round Valley.

Peredur rode forward next day, and he traversed a vast tract of desert, in which no dwellings were. And at length he came to a habitation, mean and small. And there he heard that there was a serpent that lay upon a gold ring, and suffered none to inhabit the country for seven miles around. And Peredur came to the place where he heard the serpent was. And angrily, furiously, and desperately fought he with the serpent; and at last he killed it, and took away the ring. And thus he was for a long time without speaking a word to any Christian. And therefrom he lost his colour and his aspect, through extreme longing after the Court of Arthur, and the society of the lady whom best he loved, and of his companions. Then he proceeded forward to Arthur’s Court, and on the road there met him Arthur’s household going on a particular errand, with Kai at their head. And Peredur knew them all, but none of the household recognized him. “Whence comest thou, chieftain?” said Kai. And this he asked him twice and three times, and he answered him not. And Kai thrust him through the thigh with his lance. And lest he should be compelled to speak, and to break his vow, he went on without stopping. “Then,” said Gwalchmai, “I declare to Heaven, Kai, that thou hast acted ill in committing such an outrage on a youth like this, who cannot speak.”

And Gwalchmai returned back to Arthur’s Court. “Lady,” said he to Gwenhwyvar, “seest thou how wicked an outrage Kai has committed upon this youth who cannot speak; for Heaven’s sake, and for mine, cause him to have medical care before I come back, and I will repay thee the charge.”

And before the men returned from their errand, a knight came to the meadow beside Arthur’s Palace, to dare some one to the encounter. And his challenge was accepted; and Peredur fought with him, and overthrew him. And for a week he overthrew one knight every day.

And one day, Arthur and his household were going to Church, and they beheld a knight who had raised the signal for combat. “Verily,” said Arthur, “by the valour of men, I will not go hence until I have my horse and my arms to overthrow yonder boor.” Then went the attendants to fetch Arthur’s horse and arms. And Peredur met the attendants as they were going back, and he took the horse and arms from them, and proceeded to the meadow; and all those who saw him arise and go to do battle with the knight, went upon the tops of the houses, and the mounds, and the high places, to behold the combat. And Peredur beckoned with his hand to the knight to commence the fight. And the knight thrust at him, but he was not thereby moved from where he stood. And Peredur spurred his horse, and ran at him wrathfully, furiously, fiercely, desperately, and with mighty rage, and he gave him a thrust, deadly-wounding, severe, furious, adroit, and strong, under his jaw, and raised him out of his saddle, and cast him a long way from him. And Peredur went back, and left the horse and the arms with the attendant as before, and he went on foot to the Palace.

Then Peredur went by the name of the Dumb Youth. And behold, Angharad Law Eurawc met him. “I declare to Heaven, chieftain,” said she, “woful is it that thou canst not speak; for couldst thou speak, I would love thee best of all men; and by my faith, although thou canst not, I do love thee above all.” “Heaven reward thee, my sister,” said Peredur, “by my faith I also do love thee.” Thereupon it was known that he was Peredur. And then he held fellowship with Gwalchmai, and Owain the son of Urien, and all the household, and he remained in Arthur’s Court.

* * *

Arthur was in Caerlleon upon Usk; and he went to hunt, and Peredur went with him. And Peredur let loose his dog upon a hart, and the dog killed the hart in a desert place. And a short space from him he saw signs of a dwelling, and towards the dwelling he went, and he beheld a hall, and at the door of the hall he found bald swarthy youths playing at chess. And when he entered, he beheld three maidens sitting on a bench, and they were all clothed alike, as became persons of high rank. And he came, and sat by them upon the bench; and one of the maidens looked steadfastly upon Peredur, and wept. And Peredur asked her wherefore she was weeping. “Through grief, that I should see so fair a youth as thou art, slain.” “Who will slay me?” inquired Peredur. “If thou art so daring as to remain here tonight, I will tell thee.” “How great soever my danger may be from remaining here, I will listen unto thee.” “This Palace is owned by him who is my father,” said the maiden, “and he slays every one who comes hither without his leave.” “What sort of a man is thy father, that he is able to slay every one thus?” “A man who does violence and wrong unto his neighbours, and who renders justice unto none.” And hereupon he saw the youths arise and clear the chessmen from the board. And he heard a great tumult; and after the tumult there came in a huge black one-eyed man, and the maidens arose to meet him. And they disarrayed him, and he went and sat down; and after he had rested and pondered awhile, he looked at Peredur, and asked who the knight was. “Lord,” said one of the maidens, “he is the fairest and gentlest youth that ever thou didst see. And for the sake of Heaven, and of thine own dignity, have patience with him.” “For thy sake I will have patience, and I will grant him his life this night.” Then Peredur came towards them to the fire, and partook of food and liquor, and entered into discourse with the ladies. And being elated with the liquor, he said to the black man, “It is a marvel to me, so mighty as thou sayest thou art, who could have put out thine eye.” “It is one of my habits,” said the black man, “that whosoever puts to me the question which thou hast asked, shall not escape with his life, either as a free gift or for a price.” “Lord,” said the maiden, “whatsoever he may say to thee in jest, and through the excitement of liquor, make good that which thou saidst and didst promise me just now.” “I will do so, gladly, for thy sake,” said he. “Willingly will I grant him his life this night.” And that night thus they remained.

And the next day the black man got up, and put on his armour, and said to Peredur, “Arise, man, and suffer death.” And Peredur said unto him, “Do one of two things, black man; if thou wilt fight with me, either throw off thy own armour, or give arms to me, that I may encounter thee.” “Ha, man,” said he, “couldst thou fight, if thou hadst arms? Take, then, what arms thou dost choose.” And thereupon the maiden came to Peredur with such arms as pleased him; and he fought with the black man, and forced him to crave his mercy. “Black man, thou shalt have mercy, provided thou tell me who thou art, and who put out thine eye.” “Lord, I will tell thee; I lost it in fighting with the Black Serpent of the Carn. There is a mound, which is called the Mound of Mourning; and on the mound there is a carn, and in the carn there is a serpent, and on the tail of the serpent there is a stone, and the virtues of the stone are such, that whosoever should hold it in one hand, in the other he will have as much gold as he may desire. And in fighting with this serpent was it that I lost my eye. And the Black Oppressor am I called. And for this reason I am called the Black Oppressor, that there is not a single man around me whom I have not oppressed, and justice have I done unto none.” “Tell me,” said Peredur, “how far is it hence?” “The same day that thou settest forth, thou wilt come to the Palace of the Sons of the King of the Tortures.” “Wherefore are they called thus?” “The Addanc of the Lake slays them once every day. When thou goest thence, thou wilt come to the Court of the Countess of the Achievements.” “What achievements are there?” asked Peredur. “Three hundred men there are in her household, and unto every stranger that comes to the Court, the achievements of her household are related. And this is the manner of it, – the three hundred men of the household sit next unto the Lady; and that not through disrespect unto the guests, but that they may relate the achievements of the household. And the day that thou goest thence, thou wilt reach the Mound of Mourning, and round about the mound there are the owners of three hundred tents guarding the serpent.” “Since thou hast, indeed, been an oppressor so long,” said Peredur, “I will cause that thou continue so no longer.” So he slew him.

Then the maiden spoke, and began to converse with him. “If thou wast poor when thou camest here, henceforth thou wilt be rich through the treasure of the black man whom thou hast slain. Thou seest the many lovely maidens that there are in this Court; thou shalt have her whom thou best likest for the lady of thy love.” “Lady, I came not hither from my country to woo; but match yourselves as it liketh you with the comely youths I see here; and none of your goods do I desire, for I need them not.” Then Peredur rode forward, and he came to the Palace of the Sons of the King of the Tortures; and when he entered the Palace, he saw none but women; and they rose up, and were joyful at his coming; and as they began to discourse with him, he beheld a charger arrive, with a saddle upon it, and a corpse in the saddle. And one of the women arose, and took the corpse from the saddle, and anointed it in a vessel of warm water, which was below the door, and placed precious balsam upon it; and the man rose up alive, and came to the place where Peredur was, and greeted him, and was joyful to see him. And two other men came in upon their saddles, and the maiden treated these two in the same manner as she had done the first. Then Peredur asked the chieftain wherefore it was thus. And they told him, that there was an Addanc in a cave, which slew them once every day. And thus they remained that night.

And next morning the youths arose to sally forth, and Peredur besought them, for the sake of the ladies of their love, to permit him to go with them; but they refused him, saying, “If thou shouldst be slain there, thou hast none to bring thee back to life again.” And they rode forward, and Peredur followed after them; and, after they had disappeared out of his sight, he came to a mound, whereon sat the fairest lady he had ever beheld. “I know thy quest,” said she; “thou art going to encounter the Addanc, and he will slay thee, and that not by courage, but by craft. He has a cave, and at the entrance of the cave there is a stone pillar, and he sees every one that enters, and none see him; and from behind the pillar he slays every one with a poisonous dart. And if thou wouldst pledge me thy faith to love me above all women, I would give thee a stone, by which thou shouldst see him when thou goest in, and he should not see thee.” “I will, by my troth,” said Peredur, “for when first I beheld thee I loved thee; and where shall I seek thee?” “When thou seekest me, seek towards India.” And the maiden vanished, after placing the stone in Peredur’s hand.

And he came towards a valley, through which ran a river; and the borders of the valley were wooded, and on each side of the river were level meadows. And on one side of the river he saw a flock of white sheep, and on the other a flock of black sheep. And whenever one of the white sheep bleated, one of the black sheep would cross over and become white; and when one of the black sheep bleated, one of the white sheep would cross over and become black. And he saw a tall tree by the side of the river, one half of which was in flames from the root to the top, and the other half was green and in full leaf. And nigh thereto he saw a youth sitting upon a mound, and two greyhounds, white-breasted and spotted, in leashes, lying by his side. And certain was he that he had never seen a youth of so royal a bearing as he. And in the wood opposite he heard hounds raising a herd of deer. And Peredur saluted the youth, and the youth greeted him in return. And there were three roads leading from the mound; two of them were wide roads, and the third was more narrow. And Peredur inquired where the three roads went. “One of them goes to my palace,” said the youth; “and one of two things I counsel thee to do; either to proceed to my palace, which is before thee, and where thou wilt find my wife, or else to remain here to see the hounds chasing the roused deer from the wood to the plain. And thou shalt see the best greyhounds thou didst ever behold, and the boldest in the chase, kill them by the water beside us; and when it is time to go to meat, my page will come with my horse to meet me, and thou shalt rest in my palace tonight.” “Heaven reward thee; but I cannot tarry, for onward must I go.” “The other road leads to the town, which is near here, and wherein food and liquor may be bought; and the road which is narrower than the others goes towards the cave of the Addanc.” “With thy permission, young man, I will go that way.”

And Peredur went towards the cave. And he took the stone in his left hand, and his lance in his right. And as he went in he perceived the Addanc, and he pierced him through with his lance, and cut off his head. And as he came from the cave, behold the three companions were at the entrance; and they saluted Peredur, and told him that there was a prediction that he should slay that monster. And Peredur gave the head to the young men, and they offered him in marriage whichever of the three sisters he might choose, and half their kingdom with her. “I came not hither to woo,” said Peredur, “but if peradventure I took a wife, I should prefer your sister to all others.” And Peredur rode forward, and he heard a noise behind him. And he looked back, and saw a man upon a red horse, with red armour upon him; and the man rode up by his side, and saluted him, and wished him the favour of Heaven and of man. And Peredur greeted the youth kindly. “Lord, I come to make a request unto thee.” “What wouldest thou?” “That thou shouldest take me as thine attendant.” “Whom then should I take as my attendant, if I did so?” “I will not conceal from thee what kindred I am of. Etlym Gleddyv Coch am I called, an Earl from the East Country.” “I marvel that thou shouldest offer to become attendant to a man whose possessions are no greater than thine own; for I have but an earldom like thyself. But since thou desirest to be my attendant, I will take thee joyfully.”

And they went forward to the Court of the Countess, and all they of the Court were glad at their coming; and they were told it was not through disrespect they were placed below the household, but that such was the usage of the Court. For, whoever should overthrow the three hundred men of her household, would sit next the Countess, and she would love him above all men. And Peredur having overthrown the three hundred men of her household, sat down beside her, and the Countess said, “I thank Heaven that I have a youth so fair and so valiant as thou, since I have not obtained the man whom best I love.” “Who is he whom best thou lovest?” “By my faith, Etlym Gleddyv Coch is the man whom I love best, and I have never seen him.” “Of a truth, Etlym is my companion; and behold here he is, and for his sake did I come to joust with thy household. And he could have done so better than I, had it pleased him. And I do give thee unto him.” “Heaven reward thee, fair youth, and I will take the man whom I love above all others.” And the Countess became Etlym’s bride from that moment.

And the next day Peredur set forth towards the Mound of Mourning. “By thy hand, lord, but I will go with thee,” said Etlym. Then they went forwards till they came in sight of the mound and the tents. “Go unto yonder men,” said Peredur to Etlym, “and desire them to come and do me homage.” So Etlym went unto them, and said unto them thus, – “Come and do homage to my lord.” “Who is thy lord?” said they. “Peredur with the long lance is my lord,” said Etlym. “Were it permitted to slay a messenger, thou shouldest not go back to thy lord alive, for making unto Kings, and Earls, and Barons so arrogant a demand as to go and do him homage.” Peredur desired him to go back to them, and to give them their choice, either to do him homage, or to do battle with him. And they chose rather to do battle. And that day Peredur overthrew the owners of a hundred tents; and the next day he overthrew the owners of a hundred more; and the third day the remaining hundred took counsel to do homage to Peredur. And Peredur inquired of them, wherefore they were there. And they told him they were guarding the serpent until he should die. “For then should we fight for the stone among ourselves, and whoever should be conqueror among us would have the stone.” “Await here,” said Peredur, “and I will go to encounter the serpent.” “Not so, lord,” said they; “we will go altogether to encounter the serpent.” “Verily,” said Peredur, “that will I not permit; for if the serpent be slain, I shall derive no more fame therefrom than one of you.” Then he went to the place where the serpent was, and slew it, and came back to them, and said, “Reckon up what you have spent since you have been here, and I will repay you to the full.” And he paid to each what he said was his claim. And he required of them only that they should acknowledge themselves his vassals. And he said to Etlym, “Go back unto her whom thou lovest best, and I will go forwards, and I will reward thee for having been my attendant.” And he gave Etlym the stone. “Heaven repay thee and prosper thee,” said Etlym.

And Peredur rode thence, and he came to the fairest valley he had ever seen, through which ran a river; and there he beheld many tents of various colours. And he marvelled still more at the number of water-mills and of wind-mills that he saw. And there rode up with him a tall auburn-haired man, in workman’s garb, and Peredur inquired of him who he was. “I am the chief miller,” said he, “of all the mills yonder.” “Wilt thou give me lodging?” said Peredur. “I will, gladly,” he answered. And Peredur came to the miller’s house, and the miller had a fair and pleasant dwelling. And Peredur asked money as a loan from the miller, that he might buy meat and liquor for himself and for the household, and he promised that he would pay him again ere he went thence. And he inquired of the miller, wherefore such a multitude was there assembled. Said the miller to Peredur, “One thing is certain: either thou art a man from afar, or thou art beside thyself. The Empress of Cristinobyl the Great is here; and she will have no one but the man who is most valiant; for riches does she not require. And it was impossible to bring food for so many thousands as are here, therefore were all these mills constructed.” And that night they took their rest.

And the next day Peredur arose, and he equipped himself and his horse for the tournament. And among the other tents he beheld one, which was the fairest he had ever seen. And he saw a beauteous maiden leaning her head out of a window of the tent, and he had never seen a maiden more lovely than she. And upon her was a garment of satin. And he gazed fixedly on the maiden, and began to love her greatly. And he remained there, gazing upon the maiden from morning until midday, and from midday until evening; and then the tournament was ended and he went to his lodging and drew off his armour. Then he asked money of the miller as a loan, and the miller’s wife was wroth with Peredur; nevertheless, the miller lent him the money. And the next day he did in like manner as he had done the day before. And at night he came to his lodging, and took money as a loan from the miller. And the third day, as he was in the same place, gazing upon the maiden, he felt a hard blow between the neck and the shoulder, from the edge of an axe. And when he looked behind him, he saw that it was the miller; and the miller said to him, “Do one of two things: either turn thy head from hence, or go to the tournament.” And Peredur smiled on the miller, and went to the tournament; and all that encountered him that day he overthrew. And as many as he vanquished he sent as a gift to the Empress, and their horses and arms he sent as a gift to the wife of the miller, in payment of the borrowed money. Peredur attended the tournament until all were overthrown, and he sent all the men to the prison of the Empress, and the horses and arms to the wife of the miller, in payment of the borrowed money. And the Empress sent to the Knight of the Mill, to ask him to come and visit her. And Peredur went not for the first nor for the second message. And the third time she sent a hundred knights to bring him against his will, and they went to him and told him their mission from the Empress. And Peredur fought well with them, and caused them to be bound like stags, and thrown into the mill-dyke. And the Empress sought advice of a wise man who was in her counsel; and he said to her, “With thy permission, I will go to him myself.” So he came to Peredur, and saluted him, and besought him, for the sake of the lady of his love, to come and visit the Empress. And they went, together with the miller. And Peredur went and sat down in the outer chamber of the tent, and she came and placed herself by his side. And there was but little discourse between them. And Peredur took his leave, and went to his lodging.

And the next day he came to visit her, and when he came into the tent there was no one chamber less decorated than the others. And they knew not where he would sit. And Peredur went and sat beside the Empress, and discoursed with her courteously. And while they were thus, they beheld a black man enter with a goblet full of wine in his hand. And he dropped upon his knee before the Empress, and besought her to give it to no one who would not fight with him for it. And she looked upon Peredur. “Lady,” said he, “bestow on me the goblet.” And Peredur drank the wine, and gave the goblet to the miller’s wife. And while they were thus, behold there entered a black man of larger stature than the other, with a wild beast’s claw in his hand, wrought into the form of a goblet and filled with wine. And he presented it to the Empress, and besought her to give it to no one but the man who would fight with him. “Lady,” said Peredur, “bestow it on me.” And she gave it to him. And Peredur drank the wine, and sent the goblet to the wife of the miller. And while they were thus, behold a rough-looking, crisp-haired man, taller than either of the others, came in with a bowl in his hand full of wine; and he bent upon his knee, and gave it into the hands of the Empress, and he besought her to give it to none but him who would fight with him for it; and she gave it to Peredur, and he sent it to the miller’s wife. And that night Peredur returned to his lodging; and the next day he accoutred himself and his horse, and went to the meadow and slew the three men. Then Peredur proceeded to the tent, and the Empress said to him, “Goodly Peredur, remember the faith thou didst pledge me when I gave thee the stone, and thou didst kill the Addanc.” “Lady,” answered he, “thou sayest truth, I do remember it.” And Peredur was entertained by the Empress fourteen years, as the story relates.

* * *

Arthur was at Caerlleon upon Usk, his principal palace; and in the centre of the floor of the hall were four men sitting on a carpet of velvet, Owain the son of Urien, and Gwalchmai the son of Gwyar, and Howel the son of Emyr Llydaw, and Peredur of the long lance. And thereupon they saw a black curly-headed maiden enter, riding upon a yellow mule, with jagged thongs in her hand to urge it on; and having a rough and hideous aspect. Blacker were her face and her two hands than the blackest iron covered with pitch; and her hue was not more frightful than her form. High cheeks had she, and a face lengthened downwards, and a short nose with distended nostrils. And one eye was of a piercing mottled grey, and the other was as black as jet, deep-sunk in her head. And her teeth were long and yellow, more yellow were they than the flower of the broom. And her stomach rose from the breast-bone, higher than her chin. And her back was in the shape of a crook, and her legs were large and bony. And her figure was very thin and spare, except her feet and her legs, which were of huge size. And she greeted Arthur and all his household except Peredur. And to Peredur she spoke harsh and angry words. “Peredur, I greet thee not, seeing that thou dost not merit it. Blind was fate in giving thee fame and favour. When thou wast in the Court of the Lame King, and didst see there the youth bearing the streaming spear, from the points of which were drops of blood flowing in streams, even to the hand of the youth, and many other wonders likewise, thou didst not inquire their meaning nor their cause. Hadst thou done so, the King would have been restored to health, and his dominions to peace. Whereas from henceforth, he will have to endure battles and conflicts, and his knights will perish, and wives will be widowed, and maidens will be left portionless, and all this is because of thee.” Then said she unto Arthur, “May it please thee, lord, my dwelling is far hence, in the stately castle of which thou hast heard, and therein are five hundred and sixty-six knights of the order of Chivalry, and the lady whom best he loves with each; and whoever would acquire fame in arms, and encounters, and conflicts, he will gain it there, if he deserve it. And whoso would reach the summit of fame and of honour, I know where he may find it. There is a castle on a lofty mountain, and there is a maiden therein, and she is detained a prisoner there, and whoever shall set her free will attain the summit of the fame of the world.” And thereupon she rode away.

Said Gwalchmai, “By my faith, I will not rest tranquilly until I have proved if I can release the maiden.” And many of Arthur’s household joined themselves with him. Then, likewise, said Peredur, “By my faith, I will not rest tranquilly until I know the story and the meaning of the lance whereof the black maiden spoke.” And while they were equipping themselves, behold a knight came to the gate. And he had the size and the strength of a warrior, and was equipped with arms and habiliments. And he went forward, and saluted Arthur and all his household, except Gwalchmai. And the knight had upon his shoulder a shield, ingrained with gold, with a fesse of azure blue upon it, and his whole armour was of the same hue. And he said to Gwalchmai, “Thou didst slay my lord by thy treachery and deceit, and that will I prove upon thee.” Then Gwalchmai rose up. “Behold,” said he, “here is my gage against thee, to maintain, either in this place or wherever else thou wilt, that I am not a traitor or deceiver.” “Before the King whom I obey, will I that my encounter with thee take place,” said the knight. “Willingly,” said Gwalchmai; “go forward, and I will follow thee.” So the knight went forth, and Gwalchmai accoutred himself, and there was offered unto him abundance of armour, but he would take none but his own. And when Gwalchmai and Peredur were equipped, they set forth to follow him, by reason of their fellowship and of the great friendship that was between them. And they did not go after him in company together, but each went his own way.

At the dawn of day Gwalchmai came to a valley, and in the valley he saw a fortress, and within the fortress a vast palace and lofty towers around it. And he beheld a knight coming out to hunt from the other side, mounted on a spirited black snorting palfrey, that advanced at a prancing pace, proudly stepping, and nimbly bounding, and sure of foot; and this was the man to whom the palace belonged. And Gwalchmai saluted him. “Heaven prosper thee, chieftain,” said he, “and whence comest thou?” “I come,” answered Gwalchmai, “from the Court of Arthur.” “And art thou Arthur’s vassal?” “Yes, by my faith,” said Gwalchmai. “I will give thee good counsel,” said the knight. “I see that thou art tired and weary; go unto my palace, if it may please thee, and tarry there tonight.” “Willingly, lord,” said he, “and Heaven reward thee.” “Take this ring as a token to the porter, and go forward to yonder tower, and therein thou wilt find my sister.” And Gwalchmai went to the gate, and showed the ring, and proceeded to the tower. And on entering he beheld a large blazing fire, burning without smoke and with a bright and lofty flame, and a beauteous and stately maiden was sitting on a chair by the fire. And the maiden was glad at his coming, and welcomed him, and advanced to meet him. And he went and sat beside the maiden, and they took their repast. And when their repast was over, they discoursed pleasantly together. And while they were thus, behold there entered a venerable hoary-headed man. “Ah! base girl,” said he, “if thou didst think it was right for thee to entertain and to sit by yonder man, thou wouldest not do so.” And he withdrew his head, and went forth. “Ah! chieftain,” said the maiden, “if thou wilt do as I counsel thee, thou wilt shut the door, lest the man should have a plot against thee.” Upon that Gwalchmai arose, and when he came near unto the door, the man, with sixty others, fully armed, were ascending the tower. And Gwalchmai defended the door with a chessboard, that none might enter until the man should return from the chase. And thereupon, behold the Earl arrived. “What is all this?” asked he. “It is a sad thing,” said the hoary-headed man; “the young girl yonder has been sitting and eating with him who slew your father. He is Gwalchmai, the son of Gwyar.” “Hold thy peace, then,” said the Earl, “I will go in.” And the Earl was joyful concerning Gwalchmai. “Ha! chieftain,” said he, “it was wrong of thee to come to my court, when thou knewest that thou didst slay my father; and though we cannot avenge him, Heaven will avenge him upon thee.” “My soul,” said Gwalchmai, “thus it is: I came not here either to acknowledge or to deny having slain thy father; but I am on a message from Arthur, and therefore do I crave the space of a year until I shall return from my embassy, and then, upon my faith, I will come back unto this palace, and do one of two things, either acknowledge it, or deny it.” And the time was granted him willingly; and he remained there that night. And the next morning he rode forth. And the story relates nothing further of Gwalchmai respecting this adventure.

And Peredur rode forward. And he wandered over the whole island, seeking tidings of the black maiden, and he could meet with none. And he came to an unknown land, in the centre of a valley, watered by a river. And as he traversed the valley he beheld a horseman coming towards him, and wearing the garments of a priest; and he besought his blessing. “Wretched man,” said he, “thou meritest no blessing, and thou wouldest not be profited by one, seeing that thou art clad in armour on such a day as this.” “And what day is today?” said Peredur. “Today is Good Friday,” he answered. “Chide me not that I knew not this, seeing that it is a year today since I journeyed forth from my country.” Then he dismounted, and led his horse in his hand. And he had not proceeded far along the high road before he came to a cross road, and the cross road traversed a wood. And on the other side of the wood he saw an unfortified castle, which appeared to be inhabited. And at the gate of the castle there met him the priest whom he had seen before, and he asked his blessing. “The blessing of Heaven be unto thee,” said he, “it is more fitting to travel in thy present guise than as thou wast erewhile; and this night thou shalt tarry with me.” So he remained there that night.

And the next day Peredur sought to go forth. “Today may no one journey. Thou shalt remain with me today and tomorrow, and the day following, and I will direct thee as best I may to the place which thou art seeking.” And the fourth day Peredur sought to go forth, and he entreated the priest to tell him how he should find the Castle of Wonders. “What I know thereof I will tell thee,” he replied. “Go over yonder mountain, and on the other side of the mountain thou wilt come to a river, and in the valley wherein the river runs is a King’s palace, wherein the King sojourned during Easter. And if thou mayest have tidings anywhere of the Castle of Wonders, thou wilt have them there.”

Then Peredur rode forward. And he came to the valley in which was the river, and there met him a number of men going to hunt, and in the midst of them was a man of exalted rank, and Peredur saluted him. “Choose, chieftain,” said the man, “whether thou wilt go with me to the chase, or wilt proceed to my palace, and I will dispatch one of my household to commend thee to my daughter, who is there, and who will entertain thee with food and liquor until I return from hunting; and whatever may be thine errand, such as I can obtain for thee thou shalt gladly have.” And the King sent a little yellow page with him as an attendant; and when they came to the palace the lady had arisen, and was about to wash before meat. Peredur went forward, and she saluted him joyfully, and placed him by her side. And they took their repast. And whatsoever Peredur said unto her, she laughed loudly, so that all in the palace could hear. Then spoke the yellow page to the lady. “By my faith,” said he, “this youth is already thy husband; or if he be not, thy mind and thy thoughts are set upon him.” And the little yellow page went unto the King, and told him that it seemed to him that the youth whom he had met with was his daughter’s husband, or if he were not so already that he would shortly become so unless he were cautious. “What is thy counsel in this matter, youth?” said the King. “My counsel is,” he replied, “that thou set strong men upon him, to seize him, until thou hast ascertained the truth respecting this.” So he set strong men upon Peredur, who seized him and cast him into prison. And the maiden went before her father, and asked him wherefore he had caused the youth from Arthur’s Court to be imprisoned. “In truth,” he answered, “he shall not be free tonight, nor tomorrow, nor the day following, and he shall not come from where he is.” She replied not to what the King had said, but she went to the youth. “Is it unpleasant to thee to be here?” said she. “I should not care if I were not,” he replied. “Thy couch and thy treatment shall be in no wise inferior to that of the King himself, and thou shalt have the best entertainment that the palace affords. And if it were more pleasing to thee that my couch should be here, that I might discourse with thee, it should be so, cheerfully.” “This can I not refuse,” said Peredur. And he remained in prison that night. And the maiden provided all that she had promised him.

And the next day Peredur heard a tumult in the town. “Tell me, fair maiden, what is that tumult?” said Peredur. “All the King’s hosts and his forces have come to the town today.” “And what seek they here?” he inquired. “There is an Earl near this place who possesses two Earldoms, and is as powerful as a King; and an engagement will take place between them today.” “I beseech thee,” said Peredur, “to cause a horse and arms to be brought, that I may view the encounter, and I promise to come back to my prison again.” “Gladly,” said she, “will I provide thee with horse and arms.” So she gave him a horse and arms, and a bright scarlet robe of honour over his armour, and a yellow shield upon his shoulder. And he went to the combat; and as many of the Earl’s men as encountered him that day he overthrew; and he returned to his prison. And the maiden asked tidings of Peredur, and he answered her not a word. And she went and asked tidings of her father, and inquired who had acquitted himself best of the household. And he said that he knew not, but that it was a man with a scarlet robe of honour over his armour, and a yellow shield upon his shoulder. Then she smiled, and returned to where Peredur was, and did him great honour that night. And for three days did Peredur slay the Earl’s men; and before any one could know who he was, he returned to his prison. And the fourth day Peredur slew the Earl himself. And the maiden went unto her father, and inquired of him the news. “I have good news for thee,” said the King; “the Earl is slain, and I am the owner of his two Earldoms.” “Knowest thou, lord, who slew him?” “I do not know,” said the King. “It was the knight with the scarlet robe of honour and the yellow shield.” “Lord,” said she, “I know who that is.” “By Heaven!” he exclaimed, “who is he?” “Lord,” she replied, “he is the knight whom thou hast imprisoned.” Then he went unto Peredur, and saluted him, and told him that he would reward the service he had done him, in any way he might desire. And when they went to meat, Peredur was placed beside the King, and the maiden on the other side of Peredur. “I will give thee,” said the King, “my daughter in marriage, and half my kingdom with her, and the two Earldoms as a gift.” “Heaven reward thee, lord,” said Peredur, “but I came not here to woo.” “What seekest thou then, chieftain?” “I am seeking tidings of the Castle of Wonders.” “Thy enterprise is greater, chieftain, than thou wilt wish to pursue,” said the maiden, “nevertheless, tidings shalt thou have of the Castle, and thou shalt have a guide through my father’s dominions, and a sufficiency of provisions for thy journey, for thou art, O chieftain, the man whom best I love.” Then she said to him, “Go over yonder mountain, and thou wilt find a lake, and in the middle of the lake there is a Castle, and that is the Castle that is called the Castle of Wonders; and we know not what wonders are therein, but thus is it called.”

And Peredur proceeded towards the Castle, and the gate of the Castle was open. And when he came to the hall, the door was open, and he entered. And he beheld a chessboard in the hall, and the chessmen were playing against each other, by themselves. And the side that he favoured lost the game, and thereupon the others set up a shout, as though they had been living men. And Peredur was wroth, and took the chessmen in his lap, and cast the chessboard into the lake. And when he had done thus, behold the black maiden came in, and she said to him, “The welcome of Heaven be not unto thee. Thou hadst rather do evil than good.” “What complaint hast thou against me, maiden?” said Peredur. “That thou hast occasioned unto the Empress the loss of her chessboard, which she would not have lost for all her empire. And the way in which thou mayest recover the chessboard is, to repair to the Castle of Ysbidinongyl, where is a black man, who lays waste the dominions of the Empress; and if thou canst slay him, thou wilt recover the chessboard. But if thou goest there, thou wilt not return alive.” “Wilt thou direct me thither?” said Peredur. “I will show thee the way,” she replied. So he went to the Castle of Ysbidinongyl, and he fought with the black man. And the black man besought mercy of Peredur. “Mercy will I grant thee,” said he, “on condition that thou cause the chessboard to be restored to the place where it was when I entered the hall.” Then the maiden came to him, and said, “The malediction of Heaven attend thee for thy work, since thou hast left that monster alive, who lays waste all the possessions of the Empress.” “I granted him his life,” said Peredur, “that he might cause the chessboard to be restored.” “The chessboard is not in the place where thou didst find it; go back, therefore, and slay him,” answered she. So Peredur went back, and slew the black man. And when he returned to the palace, he found the black maiden there. “Ah! maiden,” said Peredur, “where is the Empress?” “I declare to Heaven that thou wilt not see her now, unless thou dost slay the monster that is in yonder forest.” “What monster is there?” “It is a stag that is as swift as the swiftest bird; and he has one horn in his forehead, as long as the shaft of a spear, and as sharp as whatever is sharpest. And he destroys the branches of the best trees in the forest, and he kills every animal that he meets with therein; and those that he doth not slay perish of hunger. And what is worse than that, he comes every night, and drinks up the fish-pond, and leaves the fishes exposed, so that for the most part they die before the water returns again.” “Maiden,” said Peredur, “wilt thou come and show me this animal?” “Not so,” said the maiden, “for he has not permitted any mortal to enter the forest for above a twelvemonth. Behold, here is a little dog belonging to the Empress, which will rouse the stag, and will chase him towards thee, and the stag will attack thee.” Then the little dog went as a guide to Peredur, and roused the stag, and brought him towards the place where Peredur was. And the stag attacked Peredur, and he let him pass by him, and as he did so, he smote off his head with his sword. And while he was looking at the head of the stag, he saw a lady on horseback coming towards him. And she took the little dog in the lappet of her cap, and the head and the body of the stag lay before her. And around the stag’s neck was a golden collar. “Ha! chieftain,” said she, “uncourteously hast thou acted in slaying the fairest jewel that was in my dominions.” “I was entreated so to do; and is there any way by which I can obtain thy friendship?” “There is,” she replied. “Go thou forward unto yonder mountain, and there thou wilt find a grove; and in the grove there is a cromlech; do thou there challenge a man three times to fight, and thou shalt have my friendship.”

So Peredur proceeded onward, and came to the side of the grove, and challenged any man to fight. And a black man arose from beneath the cromlech, mounted upon a bony horse, and both he and his horse were clad in huge rusty armour. And they fought. And as often as Peredur cast the black man to the earth, he would jump again into his saddle. And Peredur dismounted, and drew his sword; and thereupon the black man disappeared with Peredur’s horse and his own, so that he could not gain sight of him a second time. And Peredur went along the mountain, and on the other side of the mountain he beheld a castle in the valley, wherein was a river. And he went to the castle; and as he entered it, he saw a hall, and the door of the hall was open, and he went in. And there he saw a lame grey-headed man sitting on one side of the hall, with Gwalchmai beside him. And Peredur beheld his horse, which the black man had taken, in the same stall with that of Gwalchmai. And they were glad concerning Peredur. And he went and seated himself on the other side of the hoary-headed man. Then, behold a yellow-haired youth came, and bent upon the knee before Peredur, and besought his friendship. “Lord,” said the youth, “it was I that came in the form of the black maiden to Arthur’s Court, and when thou didst throw down the chessboard, and when thou didst slay the black man of Ysbidinongyl, and when thou didst slay the stag, and when thou didst go to fight the black man of the cromlech. And I came with the bloody head in the salver, and with the lance that streamed with blood from the point to the hand, all along the shaft; and the head was thy cousin’s, and he was killed by the sorceresses of Gloucester, who also lamed thine uncle; and I am thy cousin. And there is a prediction that thou art to avenge these things.” Then Peredur and Gwalchmai took counsel, and sent to Arthur and his household, to beseech them to come against the sorceresses. And they began to fight with them; and one of the sorceresses slew one of Arthur’s men before Peredur’s face, and Peredur bade her forbear. And the sorceress slew a man before Peredur’s face a second time, and a second time he forbad her. And the third time the sorceress slew a man before the face of Peredur; and then Peredur drew his sword, and smote the sorceress on the helmet; and all her head-armour was split in two parts. And she set up a cry, and desired the other sorceresses to flee, and told them that this was Peredur, the man who had learnt Chivalry with them, and by whom they were destined to be slain. Then Arthur and his household fell upon the sorceresses, and slew the sorceresses of Gloucester every one. And thus is it related concerning the Castle of Wonders.

The Dream Of Maxen Wledig

MAXEN WLEDIG WAS emperor of Rome, and he was a comelier man, and a better and a wiser than any emperor that had been before him. And one day he held a council of kings, and he said to his friends, “I desire to go tomorrow to hunt.” And the next day in the morning he set forth with his retinue, and came to the valley of the river that flowed towards Rome. And he hunted through the valley until midday. And with him also were two-and-thirty crowned kings, that were his vassals; not for the delight of hunting went the emperor with them, but to put himself on equal terms with those kings.

And the sun was high in the sky over their heads and the heat was great. And sleep came upon Maxen Wledig. And his attendants stood and set up their shields around him upon the shafts of their spears to protect him from the sun, and they placed a gold enamelled shield under his head; and so Maxen slept.

And he saw a dream. And this is the dream that he saw. He was journeying along the valley of the river towards its source; and he came to the highest mountain in the world. And he thought that the mountain was as high as the sky; and when he came over the mountain, it seemed to him that he went through the fairest and most level regions that man ever yet beheld, on the other side of the mountain. And he saw large and mighty rivers descending from the mountain to the sea, and towards the mouths of the rivers he proceeded. And as he journeyed thus, he came to the mouth of the largest river ever seen. And he beheld a great city at the entrance of the river, and a vast castle in the city, and he saw many high towers of various colours in the castle. And he saw a fleet at the mouth of the river, the largest ever seen. And he saw one ship among the fleet; larger was it by far, and fairer than all the others. Of such part of the ship as he could see above the water, one plank was gilded and the other silvered over. He saw a bridge of the bone of a whale from the ship to the land, and he thought that he went along the bridge, and came into the ship. And a sail was hoisted on the ship, and along the sea and the ocean was it borne. Then it seemed that he came to the fairest island in the whole world, and he traversed the island from sea to sea, even to the furthest shore of the island. Valleys he saw, and steeps, and rocks of wondrous height, and rugged precipices. Never yet saw he the like. And thence he beheld an island in the sea, facing this rugged land. And between him and this island was a country of which the plain was as large as the sea, the mountain as vast as the wood. And from the mountain he saw a river that flowed through the land and fell into the sea. And at the mouth of the river he beheld a castle, the fairest that man ever saw, and the gate of the castle was open, and he went into the castle. And in the castle he saw a fair hall, of which the roof seemed to be all gold, the walls of the hall seemed to be entirely of glittering precious gems, the doors all seemed to be of gold. Golden seats he saw in the hall, and silver tables. And on a seat opposite to him he beheld two auburn-haired youths playing at chess. He saw a silver board for the chess, and golden pieces thereon. The garments of the youths were of jet-black satin, and chaplets of ruddy gold bound their hair, whereon were sparkling jewels of great price, rubies, and gems, alternately with imperial stones. Buskins of new Cordovan leather on their feet, fastened by slides of red gold.

And beside a pillar in the hall he saw a hoary-headed man, in a chair of ivory, with the figures of two eagles of ruddy gold thereon. Bracelets of gold were upon his arms, and many rings were on his hands, and a golden torque about his neck; and his hair was bound with a golden diadem. He was of powerful aspect. A chessboard of gold was before him, and a rod of gold, and a steel file in his hand. And he was carving out chessmen.

And he saw a maiden sitting before him in a chair of ruddy gold. Not more easy than to gaze upon the sun when brightest, was it to look upon her by reason of her beauty. A vest of white silk was upon the maiden, with clasps of red gold at the breast; and a surcoat of gold tissue upon her, and a frontlet of red gold upon her head, and rubies and gems were in the frontlet, alternating with pearls and imperial stones. And a girdle of ruddy gold was around her. She was the fairest sight that man ever beheld.

The maiden arose from her chair before him, and he threw his arms about the neck of the maiden, and they two sat down together in the chair of gold: and the chair was not less roomy for them both, than for the maiden alone. And as he had his arms about the maiden’s neck, and his cheek by her cheek, behold, through the chafing of the dogs at their leashing, and the clashing of the shields as they struck against each other, and the beating together of the shafts of the spears, and the neighing of the horses and their prancing, the emperor awoke.

And when he awoke, nor spirit nor existence was left him, because of the maiden whom he had seen in his sleep, for the love of the maiden pervaded his whole frame. Then his household spake unto him. “Lord,” said they, “is it not past the time for thee to take thy food?” Thereupon the emperor mounted his palfrey, the saddest man that mortal ever saw, and went forth towards Rome.

And thus he was during the space of a week. When they of the household went to drink wine and mead out of golden vessels, he went not with any of them. When they went to listen to songs and tales, he went not with them there; neither could he be persuaded to do anything but sleep. And as often as he slept, he beheld in his dreams the maiden he loved best; but except when he slept he saw nothing of her, for he knew not where in the world she was.

One day the page of the chamber spake unto him; now, although he was page of the chamber, he was king of the Romans. “Lord,” said he, “all the people revile thee.” “Wherefore do they revile me?” asked the emperor. “Because they can get neither message nor answer from thee as men should have from their lord. This is the cause why thou art spoken evil of.” “Youth,” said the emperor, “do thou bring unto me the wise men of Rome, and I will tell them wherefore I am sorrowful.”

Then the wise men of Rome were brought to the emperor, and he spake to them. “Sages of Rome,” said he, “I have seen a dream. And in the dream I beheld a maiden, and because of the maiden is there neither life, nor spirit, nor existence within me.” “Lord,” they answered, “since thou judgest us worthy to counsel thee, we will give thee counsel. And this is our counsel; that thou send messengers for three years to the three parts of the world to seek for thy dream. And as thou knowest not what day or what night good news may come to thee, the hope thereof will support thee.”

So the messengers journeyed for the space of a year, wandering about the world, and seeking tidings concerning his dream. But when they came back at the end of the year, they knew not one word more than they did the day they set forth. And then was the emperor exceeding sorrowful, for he thought that he should never have tidings of her whom best he loved.

Then spoke the king of the Romans unto the emperor. “Lord,” said he, “go forth to hunt by the way thou didst seem to go, whether it were to the east, or to the west.” So the emperor went forth to the hunt, and he came to the bank of the river. “Behold,” said he, “this is where I was when I saw the dream, and I went towards the source of the river westward.”

And thereupon thirteen messengers of the emperor’s set forth, and before them they saw a high mountain, which seemed to them to touch the sky. Now this was the guise in which the messengers journeyed; one sleeve was on the cap of each of them in front, as a sign that they were messengers, in order that through what hostile land soever they might pass no harm might be done them. And when they were come over this mountain, they beheld vast plains, and large rivers flowing there through.

“Behold,” said they, “the land which our master saw.”

And they went along the mouths of the rivers, until they came to the mighty river which they saw flowing to the sea, and the vast city, and the many-coloured high towers in the castle. They saw the largest fleet in the world, in the harbour of the river, and one ship that was larger than any of the others. “Behold again,” said they, “the dream that our master saw.” And in the great ship they crossed the sea, and came to the Island of Britain. And they traversed the island until they came to Snowdon. “Behold,” said they, “the rugged land that our master saw.” And they went forward until they saw Anglesey before them, and until they saw Arvon likewise. “Behold,” said they, “the land our master saw in his sleep.” And they saw Aber Sain, and a castle at the mouth of the river. The portal of the castle saw they open, and into the castle they went, and they saw a hall in the castle. Then said they, “Behold, the hall which he saw in his sleep.” They went into the hall, and they beheld two youths playing at chess on the golden bench. And they beheld the hoary-headed man beside the pillar, in the ivory chair, carving chessmen. And they beheld the maiden sitting on a chair of ruddy gold.

The messengers bent down upon their knees. “Empress of Rome, all hail!” “Ha, gentles,” said the maiden, “ye bear the seeming of honourable men, and the badge of envoys, what mockery is this ye do to me?” “We mock thee not, lady; but the Emperor of Rome hath seen thee in his sleep, and he has neither life nor spirit left because of thee. Thou shalt have of us therefore the choice, lady, whether thou wilt go with us and be made empress of Rome, or that the emperor come hither and take thee for his wife?” “Ha, lords,” said the maiden, “I will not deny what ye say, neither will I believe it too well. If the emperor love me, let him come here to seek me.”

And by day and night the messengers hied them back. And when their horses failed, they bought other fresh ones. And when they came to Rome, they saluted the emperor, and asked their boon, which was given to them according as they named it. “We will be thy guides, lord,” said they, “over sea and over land, to the place where is the woman whom best thou lovest, for we know her name, and her kindred, and her race.”

And immediately the emperor set forth with his army. And these men were his guides. Towards the Island of Britain they went over the sea and the deep. And he conquered the Island from Beli the son of Manogan, and his sons, and drove them to the sea, and went forward even unto Arvon. And the emperor knew the land when he saw it. And when he beheld the castle of Aber Sain, “Look yonder,” said he, “there is the castle wherein I saw the damsel whom I best love.” And he went forward into the castle and into the hall, and there he saw Kynan the son of Eudav, and Adeon the son of Eudav, playing at chess. And he saw Eudav the son of Caradawc, sitting on a chair of ivory carving chessmen. And the maiden whom he had beheld in his sleep, he saw sitting on a chair of gold. “Empress of Rome,” said he, “all hail!” And the emperor threw his arms about her neck; and that night she became his bride.

And the next day in the morning, the damsel asked her maiden portion. And he told her to name what she would. And she asked to have the Island of Britain for her father, from the Channel to the Irish Sea, together with the three adjacent Islands, to hold under the empress of Rome; and to have three chief castles made for her, an whatever places she might choose in the Island of Britain. And she chose to have the highest castle made at Arvon. And they brought thither earth from Rome that it might be more healthful for the emperor to sleep, and sit, and walk upon. After that the two other castles were made for her, which were Caerlleon and Caermarthen.

And one day the emperor went to hunt at Caermarthen, and he came so far as the top of Brevi Vawr, and there the emperor pitched his tent. And that encamping place is called Cadeir Maxen, even to this day. And because that he built the castle with a myriad of men, he called it Caervyrddin. Then Helen bethought her to make high roads from one castle to another throughout the Island of Britain. And the roads were made. And for this cause are they called the roads of Helen Luyddawc, that she was sprung from a native of this island, and the men of the Island of Britain would not have made these great roads for any save for her.

Seven years did the emperor tarry in this Island. Now, at that time, the men of Rome had a custom, that whatsoever emperor should remain in other lands more than seven years should remain to his own overthrow, and should never return to Rome again.

So they made a new emperor. And this one wrote a letter of threat to Maxen. There was nought in the letter but only this. ‘If thou comest, and if thou ever comest to Rome.’ And even unto Caerlleon came this letter to Maxen, and these tidings. Then sent he a letter to the man who styled himself emperor in Rome. There was nought in that letter also but only this. ‘If I come to Rome, and if I come.’

And thereupon Maxen set forth towards Rome with his army, and vanquished France and Bugundy, and every land on the way, and sat down before the city of Rome.

A year was the emperor before the city, and he was no nearer taking it than the first day. And after him there came the brothers of Helen Luyddawc from the Island of Britain, and a small host with them, and better warriors were in that small host than twice as many Romans. And the emperor was told that a host was seen, halting close to his army and encamping, and no man ever saw a fairer or better appointed host for its size, nor more handsome standards.

And Helen went to see the hosts, and she knew the standards of her brothers. Then came Kynan the son of Eudav, and Adeon the son of Eudav, to meet the emperor. And the emperor was glad because of them, and embraced them.

Then they looked at the Romans as they attacked the city. Said Kynan to his brother, “We will try to attack the city more expertly than this.” So they measured by night the height of the wall, and they sent their carpenters to the wood, and a ladder was made for every four men of their number. Now when these were ready, every day at midday the emperors went to meat, and they ceased to fight on both sides till all had finished eating. And in the morning the men of Britain took their food and they drank until they were invigorated. And while the two emperors were at meat, the Britons came to the city, and placed their ladders against it, and forthwith they came in through the city.

The new emperor had no time to arm himself when they fell upon him, and slew him, and many others with him. And three nights and three days were they subduing the men that were in the city and taking the castle. And others of them kept the city, lest any of the host of Maxen should come therein, until they had subjected all to their will.

Then spake Maxen to Helen Luyddawc. “I marvel, lady,” said he, “that thy brothers have not conquered this city for me.” “Lord, emperor,” she answered, “the wisest youths in the world are my brothers. Go thou thither and ask the city of them, and if it be in their possession thou shalt have it gladly.” So the emperor and Helen went and demanded the city. And they told the emperor that none had taken the city, and that none could give it him, but the men of the Island of Britain. Then the gates of the city of Rome were opened, and the emperor sat on the throne, and all the men of Rome submitted them selves unto him.

The emperor then said unto Kynan and Adeon, “Lords,” said he, “I have now had possession of the whole of my empire. This host give I unto you to vanquish whatever region ye may desire in the world.”

So they set forth and conquered lands, and castles, and cities. And they slew all the men, but the women they kept alive. And thus they continued until the young men that had come with them were grown grey-headed, from the length of time they were upon this conquest.

Then spoke Kynan unto Adeon his brother, “Whether wilt thou rather,” said he, “tarry in this land, or go back into the land whence thou didst come forth?” Now he chose to go back to his own land, and many with him. But Kynan tarried there with the other part and dwelt there.

And they took counsel and cut out the tongues of the women, lest they should corrupt their speech. And because of the silence of the women from their own speech, the men of Armorica are called Britons. From that time there came frequently, and still comes, that language from the Island of Britain.

And this dream is called the Dream of Maxen Wledig, emperor of Rome. And here it ends.

The Story Of Lludd And Llevelys

BELI THE GREAT, the son of Manogan, had three sons, Lludd, and Caswallawn, and Nynyaw; and according to the story he had a fourth son called Llevelys. And after the death of Beli, the kingdom of the Island of Britain fell into the hands of Llud his eldest son; and Lludd ruled prosperously, and rebuilt the walls of London, and encompassed it about with numberless towers. And after that he bade the citizens build houses therein, such as no houses in the kingdoms could equal. And moreover he was a mighty warrior, and generous and liberal in giving meat and drink to all that sought them. And though he had many castles and cities this one loved he more than any. And he dwelt therein most part of the year, and therefore was it called Caer Lludd, and at last Caer London. And after the stranger-race came there, it was called London, or Lwndrys.

Lludd loved Llevelys best of all his brothers, because he was a wise and discreet man. Having heard that the king of France had died, leaving no heir except a daughter, and that he had left all his possessions in her hands, he came to Lludd his brother, to beseech his counsel and aid. And that not so much for his own welfare, as to seek to add to the glory and honour and dignity of his kindred, if he might go to France to woo the maiden for his wife. And forthwith his brother conferred with him, and this counsel was pleasing unto him.

So he prepared ships and filled them with armed knights, and set forth towards France. And as soon as they had landed, they sent messengers to show the nobles of France the cause of the embassy. And by the joint counsel of the nobles of France and of the princes, the maiden was given to Llevelys, and the crown of the kingdom with her. And thenceforth he ruled the land discreetly, and wisely, and happily, as long as his life lasted.

After a space of time had passed, three plagues fell on the Island of Britain, such as none in the islands had ever seen the like of. The first was a certain race that came, and was called the Coranians; and so great was their knowledge, that there was no discourse upon the face of the Island, however low it might be spoken, but what, if the wind met it, it was known to them. And through this they could not be injured.

The second plague was a shriek which came on every May-eve, over every hearth in the Island of Britain. And this went through people’s hearts, and so scared them, that the men lost their hue and their strength, and the women their children, and the young men and the maidens lost their senses, and all the animals and trees and the earth and the waters, were left barren.

The third plague was, that however much of provisions and food might be prepared in the king’s courts, were there even so much as a year’s provision of meat and drink, none of it could ever be found, except what was consumed in the first night. And two of these plagues, no one ever knew their cause, therefore was there better hope of being freed from the first than from the second and third.

And thereupon King Lludd felt great sorrow and care, because that he knew not how he might be freed from these plagues. And he called to him all the nobles of his kingdom, and asked counsel of them what they should do against these afflictions. And by the common counsel of the nobles, Lludd the son of Beli went to Llevelys his brother, king of France, for he was a man great of counsel and wisdom, to seek his advice.

And they made ready a fleet, and that in secret and in silence, lest that race should know the cause of their errand, or any besides the king and his counsellors. And when they were made ready, they went into their ships, Lludd and those whom he chose with him. And they began to cleave the seas towards France.

And when these tidings came to Llevelys, seeing that he knew not the cause of his brother’s ships, he came on the other side to meet him, and with him was a fleet vast of size. And when Lludd saw this, he left all the ships out upon the sea except one only; and in that one he came to meet his brother, and he likewise with a single ship came to meet him. And when they were come together, each put his arms about the other’s neck, and they welcomed each other with brotherly love.

After that Lludd had shown his brother the cause of his errand, Llevelys said that he himself knew the cause of the coming to those lands. And they took counsel together to discourse on the matter otherwise than thus, in order that the wind might not catch their words, nor the Coranians know what they might say. Then Llevelys caused a long horn to be made of brass, and through this horn they discoursed. But whatsoever words they spoke through this horn, one to the other, neither of them could hear any other but harsh and hostile words. And when Llevelys saw this, and that there was a demon thwarting them and disturbing through this horn, he caused wine to be put therein to wash it. And through the virtue of the wine the demon was driven out of the horn. And when their discourse was unobstructed, Llevelys told his brother that he would give him some insects whereof he should keep some to breed, lest by chance the like affliction might come a second time. And other of these insects he should take and bruise in water. And he assured him that it would have power to destroy the race of the Coranians. That is to say, that when he came home to his kingdom he should call together all the people both of his own race and of the race of the Coranians for a conference, as though with the intent of making peace between them; and that when they were all together, he should take this charmed water, and cast it over all alike. And he assured him that the water would poison the race of the Coranians, but that it would not slay or harm those of his own race.

“And the second plague,” said he, “that is in thy dominion, behold it is a dragon. And another dragon of a foreign race is fighting with it, and striving to overcome it. And therefore does your dragon make a fearful outcry. And on this wise mayest thou come to know this. After thou hast returned home, cause the Island to be measured in its length and breadth, and in the place where thou dost find the exact central point, there cause a pit to be dug, and cause a cauldron full of the best mead that can be made to be put in the pit, with a covering of satin over the face of the cauldron. And then, in thine own person do thou remain there watching, and thou wilt see the dragon fighting in the form of terrific animals. And at length they will take the form of dragons in the air. And last of all, after wearying themselves with fierce and furious fighting, they will fall in the form of two pigs upon the covering, and they will sink in, and the covering with them, and they will draw it down to the very bottom of the cauldron. And they will drink up the whole of the mead; and after that they will sleep. Thereupon do thou immediately fold the covering around them, and bury them in a kistvaen, in the strongest place thou hast in thy dominions, and hide them in the earth. And as long as they shall bide in that strong place no plague shall come to the Island of Britain from elsewhere.

“The cause of the third plague,” said he, “is a mighty man of magic, who take thy meat and thy drink and thy store. And he through illusions and charms causes every one to sleep. Therefore it is needful for thee in thy own person to watch thy food and thy provisions. And lest he should overcome thee with sleep, be there a cauldron of cold water by thy side, and when thou art oppressed with sleep, plunge into the cauldron.”

Then Lludd returned back unto his land. And immediately he summoned to him the whole of his own race and of the Coranians. And as Llevelys had taught him, he bruised the insects in water, the which he cast over them all together, and forthwith it destroyed the whole tribe of the Coranians, without hurt to any of the Britons.

And some time after this, Lludd caused the Island to be measured in its length and in its breadth. And in Oxford he found the central point, and in that place he caused the earth to be dug, and in that pit a cauldron to be set, full of the best mead that could be made, and a covering of satin over the face of it. And he himself watched that night. And while he was there, he beheld the dragons fighting. And when they were weary they fell, and came down upon the top of the satin, and drew it with them to the bottom of the cauldron. And when they had drunk the mead they slept. And in their sleep, Lludd folded the covering around them, and in the securest place he had in Snowdon, he hid them in a kistvaen. Now after that this spot was called Dinas Emreis, but before that, Dinas Ffaraon. And thus the fierce outcry ceased in his dominions.

And when this was ended, King Lludd caused an exceeding great banquet to be prepared. And when it was ready, he placed a vessel of cold water by his side, and he in his own proper person watched it. And as he abode thus clad with arms, about the third watch of the night, lo, he heard many surpassing fascinations and various songs. And drowsiness urged him to sleep. Upon this, lest he should be hindered from his purpose and be overcome by sleep, he went often into the water. And at last, behold, a man of vast size, clad in strong, heavy armour, came in, bearing a hamper. And, as he was wont, he put all the food and provisions of meat and drink into the hamper, and proceeded to go with it forth. And nothing was ever more wonderful to Lludd, than that the hamper should hold so much.

And thereupon King Lludd went after him and spoke unto him thus. “Stop, stop,” said he, “though thou hast done many insults and much spoil erewhile, thou shalt not do so any more, unless thy skill in arms and thy prowess be greater than mine.”

Then he instantly put down the hamper on the floor, and awaited him. And a fierce encounter was between them, so that the glittering fire flew out from their arms. And at the last Lludd grappled with him, and fate bestowed the victory on Lludd. And he threw the plague to the earth. And after he had overcome him by strength and might, he besought his mercy. “How can I grant thee mercy,” said the king, “after all the many injuries and wrongs that thou hast done me?” “All the losses that ever I have caused thee,” said he, “I will make thee atonement for, equal to what I have taken. And I will never do the like from this time forth. But thy faithful vassal will I be.” And the king accepted this from him.

And thus Lludd freed the Island of Britain from the three plagues. And from thenceforth until the end of his life, in prosperous peace did Lludd the son of Beli rule the Island of Britain. And this Tale is called the Story of Lludd and Llevelys. And thus it ends.

The Lady Of The Fountain

KING ARTHUR WAS at Caerlleon upon Usk; and one day he sat in his chamber; and with him were Owain the son of Urien, and Kynon the son of Clydno, and Kai the son of Kyner; and Gwenhwyvar and her handmaidens at needlework by the window. And if it should be said that there was a porter at Arthur’s palace, there was none. Glewlwyd Gavaelvawr was there, acting as porter, to welcome guests and strangers, and to receive them with honour, and to inform them of the manners and customs of the Court; and to direct those who came to the Hall or to the presence-chamber, and those who came to take up their lodging.

In the centre of the chamber King Arthur sat upon a seat of green rushes, over which was spread a covering of flame-coloured satin, and a cushion of red satin was under his elbow.

Then Arthur spoke, “If I thought you would not disparage me,” said he, “I would sleep while I wait for my repast; and you can entertain one another with relating tales, and can obtain a flagon of mead and some meat from Kai.” And the King went to sleep. And Kynon the son of Clydno asked Kai for that which Arthur had promised them. “I, too, will have the good tale which he promised to me,” said Kai. “Nay,” answered Kynon, “fairer will it be for thee to fulfill Arthur’s behest, in the first place, and then we will tell thee the best tale that we know.” So Kai went to the kitchen and to the mead-cellar, and returned bearing a flagon of mead and a golden goblet, and a handful of skewers, upon which were broiled collops of meat. Then they ate the collops and began to drink the mead. “Now,” said Kai, “it is time for you to give me my story.” “Kynon,” said Owain, “do thou pay to Kai the tale that is his due.” “Truly,” said Kynon, “thou are older, and art a better teller of tales, and hast seen more marvellous things than I; do thou therefore pay Kai his tale.” “Begin thyself,” quoth Owain, “with the best that thou knowest.” “I will do so,” answered Kynon.

“I was the only son of my mother and father, and I was exceedingly aspiring, and my daring was very great. I thought there was no enterprise in the world too mighty for me, and after I had achieved all the adventures that were in my own country, I equipped myself, and set forth to journey through deserts and distant regions. And at length it chanced that I came to the fairest valley in the world, wherein were trees of equal growth; and a river ran through the valley, and a path was by the side of the river. And I followed the path until midday, and continued my journey along the remainder of the valley until the evening; and at the extremity of a plain I came to a large and lustrous Castle, at the foot of which was a torrent. And I approached the Castle, and there I beheld two youths with yellow curling hair, each with a frontlet of gold upon his head, and clad in a garment of yellow satin, and they had gold clasps upon their insteps. In the hand of each of them was an ivory bow, strung with the sinews of the stag; and their arrows had shafts of the bone of the whale, and were winged with peacock’s feathers; the shafts also had golden heads. And they had daggers with blades of gold, and with hilts of the bone of the whale. And they were shooting their daggers.

“And a little way from them I saw a man in the prime of life, with his beard newly shorn, clad in a robe and a mantle of yellow satin; and round the top of his mantle was a band of gold lace. On his feet were shoes of variegated leather, fastened by two bosses of gold. When I saw him, I went towards him and saluted him, and such was his courtesy that he no sooner received my greeting than he returned it. And he went with me towards the Castle. Now there were no dwellers in the Castle except those who were in one hall. And there I saw four-and-twenty damsels, embroidering satin at a window. And this I tell thee, Kai, that the least fair of them was fairer than the fairest maid thou hast ever beheld in the Island of Britain, and the least lovely of them was more lovely than Gwenhwyvar, the wife of Arthur, when she has appeared loveliest at the Offering, on the day of the Nativity, or at the feast of Easter. They rose up at my coming, and six of them took my horse, and divested me of my armour; and six others took my arms, and washed them in a vessel until they were perfectly bright. And the third six spread cloths upon the tables and prepared meat. And the fourth six took off my soiled garments, and placed others upon me; namely, an under-vest and a doublet of fine linen, and a robe, and a surcoat, and a mantle of yellow satin with a broad gold band upon the mantle. And they placed cushions both beneath and around me, with coverings of red linen; and I sat down. Now the six maidens who had taken my horse, unharnessed him, as well as if they had been the best squires in the Island of Britain. Then, behold, they brought bowls of silver wherein was water to wash, and towels of linen, some green and some white; and I washed. And in a little while the man sat down to the table. And I sat next to him, and below me sat all the maidens, except those who waited on us. And the table was of silver, and the cloths upon the table were of linen; and no vessel was served upon the table that was not either of gold or of silver, or of buffalo-horn. And our meat was brought to us. And verily, Kai, I saw there every sort of meat and every sort of liquor that I have ever seen elsewhere; but the meat and the liquor were better served there than I have ever seen them in any other place.

“Until the repast was half over, neither the man nor any one of the damsels spoke a single word to me; but when the man perceived that it would be more agreeable to me to converse than to eat any more, he began to inquire of me who I was. I said I was glad to find that there was some one who would discourse with me, and that it was not considered so great a crime at that Court for people to hold converse together. “Chieftain,” said the man, “we would have talked to thee sooner, but we feared to disturb thee during thy repast; now, however, we will discourse.” Then I told the man who I was, and what was the cause of my journey; and said that I was seeking whether any one was superior to me, or whether I could gain the mastery over all. The man looked upon me, and he smiled and said, “If I did not fear to distress thee too much, I would show thee that which thou seekest.” Upon this I became anxious and sorrowful, and when the man perceived it, he said, “If thou wouldest rather that I should show thee thy disadvantage than thine advantage, I will do so. Sleep here tonight, and in the morning arise early, and take the road upwards through the valley until thou reachest the wood through which thou camest hither. A little way within the wood thou wilt meet with a road branching off to the right, by which thou must proceed, until thou comest to a large sheltered glade with a mound in the centre. And thou wilt see a black man of great stature on the top of the mound. He is not smaller in size than two of the men of this world. He has but one foot; and one eye in the middle of his forehead. And he has a club of iron, and it is certain that there are no two men in the world who would not find their burden in that club. And he is not a comely man, but on the contrary he is exceedingly ill-favoured; and he is the woodward of that wood. And thou wilt see a thousand wild animals grazing around him. Inquire of him the way out of the glade, and he will reply to thee briefly, and will point out the road by which thou shalt find that which thou art in quest of.”

“And long seemed that night to me. And the next morning I arose and equipped myself, and mounted my horse, and proceeded straight through the valley to the wood; and I followed the cross-road which the man had pointed out to me, till at length I arrived at the glade. And there was I three times more astonished at the number of wild animals that I beheld, than the man had said I should be. And the black man was there, sitting upon the top of the mound. Huge of stature as the man had told me that he was, I found him to exceed by far the description he had given me of him. As for the iron club which the man had told me was a burden for two men, I am certain, Kai, that it would be a heavy weight for four warriors to lift; and this was in the black man’s hand. And he only spoke to me in answer to my questions. Then I asked him what power he held over those animals. ‘I will show thee, little man,’ said he. And he took his club in his hand, and with it he struck a stag a great blow so that he brayed vehemently, and at his braying the animals came together, as numerous as the stars in the sky, so that it was difficult for me to find room in the glade to stand among them. There were serpents, and dragons, and divers sorts of animals. And he looked at them, and bade them go and feed; and they bowed their heads, and did him homage as vassals to their lord.

“Then the black man said to me, ‘Seest thou now, little man, what power I hold over these animals?’ Then I inquired of him the way, and he became very rough in his manner to me; however, he asked me whither I would go? And when I told him who I was and what I sought, he directed me. ‘Take,’ said he, ‘that path that leads towards the head of the glade, and ascend the wooded steep until thou comest to its summit; and there thou wilt find an open space like to a large valley, and in the midst of it a tall tree, whose branches are greener than the greenest pine-trees. Under this tree is a fountain, and by the side of the fountain a marble slab, and on the marble slab a silver bowl, attached by a chain of silver, so that it may not be carried away. Take the bowl and throw a bowlful of water upon the slab, and thou wilt hear a mighty peal of thunder, so that thou wilt think that heaven and earth are trembling with its fury. With the thunder there will come a shower so severe that it will be scarce possible for thee to endure it and live. And the shower will be of hailstones; and after the shower, the weather will become fair, but every leaf that was upon the tree will have been carried away by the shower. Then a flight of birds will come and alight upon the tree; and in thine own country thou didst never hear a strain so sweet as that which they will sing. And at the moment thou art most delighted with the song of the birds, thou wilt hear a murmuring and complaining coming towards thee along the valley. And thou wilt see a knight upon a coal-black horse, clothed in black velvet, and with a pennon of black linen upon his lance; and he will ride unto thee to encounter thee with the utmost speed. If thou fleest from him he will overtake thee, and if thou abidest there, as sure as thou art a mounted knight, he will leave thee on foot. And if thou dost not find trouble in that adventure, thou needest not seek it during the rest of thy life.’

“So I journeyed on, until I reached the summit of the steep, and there I found everything as the black man had described it to me. And I went up to the tree, and beneath it I saw the fountain, and by its side the marble slab, and the silver bowl fastened by the chain. Then I took the bowl, and cast a bowlful of water upon the slab; and thereupon, behold, the thunder came, much more violent than the black man had led me to expect; and after the thunder came the shower; and of a truth I tell thee, Kai, that there is neither man nor beast that can endure that shower and live. For not one of those hailstones would be stopped, either by the flesh or by the skin, until it had reached the bone. I turned my horse’s flank towards the shower, and placed the beak of my shield over his head and neck, while I held the upper part of it over my own head. And thus I withstood the shower. When I looked on the tree there was not a single leaf upon it, and then the sky became clear, and with that, behold the birds lighted upon the tree, and sang. And truly, Kai, I never heard any melody equal to that, either before or since. And when I was most charmed with listening to the birds, lo, a murmuring voice was heard through the valley, approaching me and saying, ‘Oh, Knight, what has brought thee hither? What evil have I done to thee, that thou shouldst act towards me and my possessions as thou hast this day? Dost thou not know that the shower today has left in my dominions neither man nor beast alive that was exposed to it?’ And thereupon, behold, a Knight on a black horse appeared, clothed in jet-black velvet, and with a tabard of black linen about him. And we charged each other, and, as the onset was furious, it was not long before I was overthrown. Then the Knight passed the shaft of his lance through the bridle rein of my horse, and rode off with the two horses, leaving me where I was. And he did not even bestow so much notice upon me as to imprison me, nor did he despoil me of my arms. So I returned along the road by which I had come. And when I reached the glade where the black man was, I confess to thee, Kai, it is a marvel that I did not melt down into a liquid pool, through the shame that I felt at the black man’s derision. And that night I came to the same castle where I had spent the night preceding. And I was more agreeably entertained that night than I had been the night before; and I was better feasted, and I conversed freely with the inmates of the castle, and none of them alluded to my expedition to the fountain, neither did I mention it to any; and I remained there that night. When I arose on the morrow, I found, ready saddled, a dark bay palfrey, with nostrils as red as scarlet; and after putting on my armour, and leaving there my blessing, I returned to my own Court. And that horse I still possess, and he is in the stable yonder. And I declare that I would not part with him for the best palfrey in the Island of Britain.

“Now of a truth, Kai, no man ever before confessed to an adventure so much to his own discredit, and verily it seems strange to me, that neither before nor since have I heard of any person besides myself who knew of this adventure, and that the subject of it should exist within King Arthur’s dominions, without any other person lighting upon it.”

“Now,” quoth Owain, “would it not be well to go and endeavour to discover that place?”

“By the hand of my friend,” said Kai, “often dost thou utter that with thy tongue which thou wouldst not make good with thy deeds.”

“In very truth,” said Gwenhwyvar, “it were better thou wert hanged, Kai, than to use such uncourteous speech towards a man like Owain.”

“By the hand of my friend, good Lady,” said Kai, “thy praise of Owain is not greater than mine.”

With that Arthur awoke, and asked if he had not been sleeping a little.

“Yes, Lord,” answered Owain, “thou hast slept awhile.”

“Is it time for us to go to meat?”

“It is, Lord,” said Owain.

Then the horn for washing was sounded, and the King and all his household sat down to eat. And when the meal was ended, Owain withdrew to his lodging, and made ready his horse and his arms.

On the morrow, with the dawn of day, he put on his armour, and mounted his charger, and travelled through distant lands and over desert mountains. And at length he arrived at the valley which Kynon had described to him; and he was certain that it was the same that he sought. And journeying along the valley by the side of the river, he followed its course till he came to the plain and within sight of the Castle. When he approached the Castle, he saw the youths shooting their daggers in the place where Kynon had seen them, and the yellow man, to whom the Castle belonged, standing hard by. And no sooner had Owain saluted the yellow man than he was saluted by him in return.

And he went forward towards the Castle, and there he saw the chamber, and when he had entered the chamber he beheld the maidens working at satin embroidery, in chairs of gold. And their beauty and their comeliness seemed to Owain far greater than Kynon had represented to him. And they rose to wait upon Owain, as they had done to Kynon, and the meal which they set before him gave more satisfaction to Owain than it had done to Kynon.

About the middle of the repast, the yellow man asked Owain the object of his journey. And Owain made it known to him, and said, “I am in quest of the Knight who guards the fountain.” Upon this the yellow man smiled, and said that he was as loth to point out that adventure to Owain as he had been to Kynon. However, he described the whole to Owain, and they retired to rest.

The next morning Owain found his horse made ready for him by the damsels, and he set forward and came to the glade where the black man was. And the stature of the black man seemed more wonderful to Owain than it had done to Kynon, and Owain asked of him his road, and he showed it to him. And Owain followed the road, as Kynon had done, till he came to the green tree; and he beheld the fountain, and the slab beside the fountain, with the bowl upon it. And Owain took the bowl, and threw a bowlful of water upon the slab. And, lo, the thunder was heard, and after the thunder came the shower, much more violent than Kynon had described, and after the shower the sky became bright. And when Owain looked at the tree, there was not one leaf upon it. And immediately the birds came, and settled upon the tree, and sang. And when their song was most pleasing to Owain, he beheld a Knight coming towards him through the valley, and he prepared to receive him; and encountered him violently. Having broken both their lances, they drew their swords, and fought blade to blade. Then Owain struck the Knight a blow through his helmet, head-piece and visor, and through the skin, and the flesh, and the bone, until it wounded the very brain. Then the black Knight felt that he had received a mortal wound, upon which he turned his horse’s head, and fled. And Owain pursued him, and followed close upon him, although he was not near enough to strike him with his sword. Thereupon Owain descried a vast and resplendent Castle. And they came to the Castle gate. And the black Knight was allowed to enter, and the portcullis was let fall upon Owain; and it struck his horse behind the saddle, and cut him in two, and carried away the rowels of the spurs that were upon Owain’s heels. And the portcullis descended to the floor. And the rowels of the spurs and part of the horse were without, and Owain with the other part of the horse remained between the two gates, and the inner gate was closed, so that Owain could not go thence; and Owain was in a perplexing situation. And while he was in this state, he could see through an aperture in the gate, a street facing him, with a row of houses on each side. And he beheld a maiden, with yellow curling hair, and a frontlet of gold upon her head; and she was clad in a dress of yellow satin, and on her feet were shoes of variegated leather. And she approached the gate, and desired that it should be opened. “Heaven knows, Lady,” said Owain, “it is no more possible for me to open to thee from hence, than it is for thee to set me free.” “Truly,” said the damsel, “it is very sad that thou canst not be released, and every woman ought to succour thee, for I never saw one more faithful in the service of ladies than thou. As a friend thou art the most sincere, and as a lover the most devoted. Therefore,” quoth she, “whatever is in my power to do for thy release, I will do it. Take this ring and put it on thy finger, with the stone inside thy hand; and close thy hand upon the stone. And as long as thou concealest it, it will conceal thee. When they have consulted together, they will come forth to fetch thee, in order to put thee to death; and they will be much grieved that they cannot find thee. And I will await thee on the horseblock yonder; and thou wilt be able to see me, though I cannot see thee; therefore come and place thy hand upon my shoulder, that I may know that thou art near me. And by the way that I go hence, do thou accompany me.”

Then she went away from Owain, and he did all that the maiden had told him. And the people of the Castle came to seek Owain, to put him to death, and when they found nothing but the half of his horse, they were sorely grieved.

And Owain vanished from among them, and went to the maiden, and placed his hand upon her shoulder; whereupon she set off, and Owain followed her, until they came to the door of a large and beautiful chamber, and the maiden opened it, and they went in, and closed the door. And Owain looked around the chamber, and behold there was not even a single nail in it that was not painted with gorgeous colours; and there was not a single panel that had not sundry images in gold portrayed upon it.

The maiden kindled a fire, and took water in a silver bowl, and put a towel of white linen on her shoulder, and gave Owain water to wash. Then she placed before him a silver table, inlaid with gold; upon which was a cloth of yellow linen; and she brought him food. And of a truth, Owain had never seen any kind of meat that was not there in abundance, but it was better cooked there than he had ever found it in any other place. Nor did he ever see so excellent a display of meat and drink, as there. And there was not one vessel from which he was served, that was not of gold or of silver. And Owain ate and drank, until late in the afternoon, when lo, they heard a mighty clamour in the Castle; and Owain asked the maiden what that outcry was. “They are administering extreme unction,” said she, “to the Nobleman who owns the Castle.” And Owain went to sleep.

The couch which the maiden had prepared for him was meet for Arthur himself; it was of scarlet, and fur, and satin, and sendal, and fine linen. In the middle of the night they heard a woful outcry. “What outcry again is this?” said Owain. “The Nobleman who owned the Castle is now dead,” said the maiden. And a little after daybreak, they heard an exceeding loud clamour and wailing. And Owain asked the maiden what was the cause of it. “They are bearing to the church the body of the Nobleman who owned the Castle.”

And Owain rose up, and clothed himself, and opened a window of the chamber, and looked towards the Castle; and he could see neither the bounds, nor the extent of the hosts that filled the streets. And they were fully armed; and a vast number of women were with them, both on horseback and on foot; and all the ecclesiastics in the city, singing. And it seemed to Owain that the sky resounded with the vehemence of their cries, and with the noise of the trumpets, and with the singing of the ecclesiastics. In the midst of the throng, he beheld the bier, over which was a veil of white linen; and wax tapers were burning beside and around it, and none that supported the bier was lower in rank than a powerful Baron.

Never did Owain see an assemblage so gorgeous with satin, and silk, and sendal. And following the train, he beheld a lady with yellow hair falling over her shoulders, and stained with blood; and about her a dress of yellow satin, which was torn. Upon her feet were shoes of variegated leather. And it was a marvel that the ends of her fingers were not bruised, from the violence with which she smote her hands together. Truly she would have been the fairest lady Owain ever saw, had she been in her usual guise. And her cry was louder than the shout of the men, or the clamour of the trumpets. No sooner had he beheld the lady, than he became inflamed with her love, so that it took entire possession of him.

Then he inquired of the maiden who the lady was. “Heaven knows,” replied the maiden, “she may be said to be the fairest, and the most chaste, and the most liberal, and the wisest, and the most noble of women. And she is my mistress; and she is called the Countess of the Fountain, the wife of him whom thou didst slay yesterday.” “Verily,” said Owain, “she is the woman that I love best.” “Verily,” said the maiden, “she shall also love thee not a little.”

And with that the maid arose, and kindled a fire, and filled a pot with water, and placed it to warm; and she brought a towel of white linen, and placed it around Owain’s neck; and she took a goblet of ivory, and a silver basin, and filled them with warm water, wherewith she washed Owain’s head. Then she opened a wooden casket, and drew forth a razor, whose haft was of ivory, and upon which were two rivets of gold. And she shaved his beard, and she dried his head, and his throat, with the towel. Then she rose up from before Owain, and brought him to eat. And truly Owain had never so good a meal, nor was he ever so well served.

When he had finished his repast, the maiden arranged his couch. “Come here,” said she, “and sleep, and I will go and woo for thee.” And Owain went to sleep, and the maiden shut the door of the chamber after her, and went towards the Castle. When she came there, she found nothing but mourning, and sorrow; and the Countess in her chamber could not bear the sight of any one through grief. Luned came and saluted her, but the Countess answered her not. And the maiden bent down towards her, and said, “What aileth thee, that thou answerest no one today?” “Luned,” said the Countess, “what change hath befallen thee, that thou hast not come to visit me in my grief? It was wrong in thee, and I having made thee rich; it was wrong in thee that thou didst not come to see me in my distress. That was wrong in thee.” “Truly,” said Luned, “I thought thy good sense was greater than I find it to be. Is it well for thee to mourn after that good man, or for anything else, that thou canst not have?” “I declare to heaven,” said the Countess, “that in the whole world there is not a man equal to him.” “Not so,” said Luned, “for an ugly man would be as good as, or better than he.” “I declare to heaven,” said the Countess, “that were it not repugnant to me to cause to be put to death one whom I have brought up, I would have thee executed, for making such a comparison to me. As it is, I will banish thee.” “I am glad,” said Luned, “that thou hast no other cause to do so, than that I would have been of service to thee where thou didst not know what was to thine advantage. And henceforth evil betide whichever of us shall make the first advance towards reconciliation to the other; whether I should seek an invitation from thee, or thou of thine own accord shouldst send to invite me.”

With that Luned went forth: and the Countess arose and followed her to the door of the chamber, and began coughing loudly. And when Luned looked back, the Countess beckoned to her; and she returned to the Countess. “In truth,” said the Countess, “evil is thy disposition; but if thou knowest what is to my advantage, declare it to me.” “I will do so,” quoth she.

“Thou knowest that except by warfare and arms it is impossible for thee to preserve thy possessions; delay not, therefore, to seek some one who can defend them.” “And how can I do that?” said the Countess. “I will tell thee,” said Luned. “Unless thou canst defend the fountain, thou canst not maintain thy dominions; and no one can defend the fountain, except it be a knight of Arthur’s household; and I will go to Arthur’s Court, and ill betide me, if I return thence without a warrior who can guard the fountain as well as, or even better than, he who defended it formerly.” “That will be hard to perform,” said the Countess. “Go, however, and make proof of that which thou hast promised.”

Luned set out, under the pretence of going to Arthur’s Court; but she went back to the chamber where she had left Owain; and she tarried there with him as long as it might have taken her to have travelled to the Court of King Arthur. And at the end of that time, she apparelled herself and went to visit the Countess. And the Countess was much rejoiced when she saw her, and inquired what news she brought from the Court. “I bring thee the best of news,” said Luned, “for I have compassed the object of my mission. When wilt thou, that I should present to thee the chieftain who has come with me hither?” “Bring him here to visit me tomorrow, at midday,” said the Countess, “and I will cause the town to be assembled by that time.”

And Luned returned home. And the next day, at noon, Owain arrayed himself in a coat, and a surcoat, and a mantle of yellow satin, upon which was a broad band of gold lace; and on his feet were high shoes of variegated leather, which were fastened by golden clasps, in the form of lions. And they proceeded to the chamber of the Countess.

Right glad was the Countess of their coming, and she gazed steadfastly upon Owain, and said, “Luned, this knight has not the look of a traveller.” “What harm is there in that, lady?” said Luned. “I am certain,” said the Countess, “that no other man than this chased the soul from the body of my lord.” “So much the better for thee, lady,” said Luned, “for had he not been stronger than thy lord he could not have deprived him of life. There is no remedy for that which is past, be it as it may.” “Go back to thine abode,” said the Countess, “and I will take counsel.”

The next day the Countess caused all her subjects to assemble, and showed them that her earldom was left defenceless, and that it could not be protected but with horse and arms, and military skill. “Therefore,” said she, “this is what I offer for your choice: either let one of you take me, or give your consent for me to take a husband from elsewhere to defend my dominions.”

So they came to the determination that it was better that she should have permission to marry some one from elsewhere; and, thereupon, she sent for the bishops and archbishops to celebrate her nuptials with Owain. And the men of the earldom did Owain homage.

And Owain defended the Fountain with lance and sword. And this is the manner in which he defended it: Whensoever a knight came there he overthrew him, and sold him for his full worth, and what he thus gained he divided among his barons and his knights; and no man in the whole world could be more beloved than he was by his subjects. And it was thus for the space of three years.

* * *

It befell that as Gwalchmai went forth one day with King Arthur, he perceived him to be very sad and sorrowful. And Gwalchmai was much grieved to see Arthur in this state; and he questioned him, saying, “Oh, my lord! what has befallen thee?” “In sooth, Gwalchmai,” said Arthur, “I am grieved concerning Owain, whom I have lost these three years, and I shall certainly die if the fourth year passes without my seeing him. Now I am sure, that it is through the tale which Kynon the son of Clydno related, that I have lost Owain.” “There is no need for thee,” said Gwalchmai, “to summon to arms thy whole dominions on this account, for thou thyself and the men of thy household will be able to avenge Owain, if he be slain; or to set him free, if he be in prison; and, if alive, to bring him back with thee.” And it was settled according to what Gwalchmai had said.

Then Arthur and the men of his household prepared to go and seek Owain, and their number was three thousand, besides their attendants. And Kynon the son of Clydno acted as their guide. And Arthur came to the Castle where Kynon had been before, and when he came there the youths were shooting in the same place, and the yellow man was standing hard by. When the yellow man saw Arthur he greeted him, and invited him to the Castle; and Arthur accepted his invitation, and they entered the Castle together. And great as was the number of his retinue, their presence was scarcely observed in the Castle, so vast was its extent. And the maidens rose up to wait on them, and the service of the maidens appeared to them all to excel any attendance they had ever met with; and even the pages who had charge of the horses were no worse served, that night, than Arthur himself would have been in his own palace.

The next morning Arthur set out thence, with Kynon for his guide, and came to the place where the black man was. And the stature of the black man was more surprising to Arthur than it had been represented to him. And they came to the top of the wooded steep, and traversed the valley till they reached the green tree, where they saw the fountain, and the bowl, and the slab. And upon that, Kai came to Arthur and spoke to him. “My lord,” said he, “I know the meaning of all this, and my request is, that thou wilt permit me to throw the water on the slab, and to receive the first adventure that may befall.” And Arthur gave him leave.

Then Kai threw a bowlful of water upon the slab, and immediately there came the thunder, and after the thunder the shower. And such a thunderstorm they had never known before, and many of the attendants who were in Arthur’s train were killed by the shower. After the shower had ceased the sky became clear; and on looking at the tree they beheld it completely leafless. Then the birds descended upon the tree, and the song of the birds was far sweeter than any strain they had ever heard before. Then they beheld a knight on a coal-black horse, clothed in black satin, coming rapidly towards them. And Kai met him and encountered him, and it was not long before Kai was overthrown. And the knight withdrew, and Arthur and his host encamped for the night.

And when they arose in the morning, they perceived the signal of combat upon the lance of the Knight. And Kai came to Arthur, and spoke to him: “My lord,” said he, “though I was overthrown yesterday, if it seem good to thee, I would gladly meet the Knight again today.” “Thou mayst do so,” said Arthur. And Kai went towards the Knight. And on the spot he overthrew Kai, and struck him with the head of his lance in the forehead, so that it broke his helmet and the head-piece, and pierced the skin and the flesh, the breadth of the spear-head, even to the bone. And Kai returned to his companions.

After this, all the household of Arthur went forth, one after the other, to combat the Knight, until there was not one that was not overthrown by him, except Arthur and Gwalchmai. And Arthur armed himself to encounter the Knight. “Oh, my lord,” said Gwalchmai, “permit me to fight with him first.” And Arthur permitted him. And he went forth to meet the Knight, having over himself and his horse a satin robe of honour which had been sent him by the daughter of the Earl of Rhangyw, and in this dress he was not known by any of the host. And they charged each other, and fought all that day until the evening, and neither of them was able to unhorse the other.

The next day they fought with strong lances, and neither of them could obtain the mastery.

And the third day they fought with exceeding strong lances. And they were incensed with rage, and fought furiously, even until noon. And they gave each other such a shock that the girths of their horses were broken, so that they fell over their horses’ cruppers to the ground. And they rose up speedily, and drew their swords, and resumed the combat; and the multitude that witnessed their encounter felt assured that they had never before seen two men so valiant or so powerful. And had it been midnight, it would have been light from the fire that flashed from their weapons. And the Knight gave Gwalchmai a blow that turned his helmet from off his face, so that the Knight knew that it was Gwalchmai. Then Owain said, “My lord Gwalchmai, I did not know thee for my cousin, owing to the robe of honour that enveloped thee; take my sword and my arms.” Said Gwalchmai, “Thou, Owain, art the victor; take thou my sword.” And with that Arthur saw that they were conversing, and advanced towards them. “My lord Arthur,” said Gwalchmai, “here is Owain, who has vanquished me, and will not take my arms.” “My lord,” said Owain, “it is he that has vanquished me, and he will not take my sword.” “Give me your swords,” said Arthur, “and then neither of you has vanquished the other.” Then Owain put his arms around Arthur’s neck, and they embraced. And all the host hurried forward to see Owain, and to embrace him; and there was nigh being a loss of life, so great was the press.

And they retired that night, and the next day Arthur prepared to depart. “My lord,” said Owain, “this is not well of thee; for I have been absent from thee these three years, and during all that time, up to this very day, I have been preparing a banquet for thee, knowing that thou wouldst come to seek me. Tarry with me, therefore, until thou and thy attendants have recovered the fatigues of the journey, and have been anointed.”

And they all proceeded to the Castle of the Countess of the Fountain, and the banquet which had been three years preparing was consumed in three months. Never had they a more delicious or agreeable banquet. And Arthur prepared to depart. Then he sent an embassy to the Countess, to beseech her to permit Owain to go with him for the space of three months, that he might show him to the nobles and the fair dames of the Island of Britain. And the Countess gave her consent, although it was very painful to her. So Owain came with Arthur to the Island of Britain. And when he was once more amongst his kindred and friends, he remained three years, instead of three months, with them.

* * *

And as Owain one day sat at meat, in the city of Caerlleon upon Usk, behold a damsel entered upon a bay horse, with a curling mane and covered with foam, and the bridle and so much as was seen of the saddle were of gold. And the damsel was arrayed in a dress of yellow satin. And she came up to Owain, and took the ring from off his hand. “Thus,” said she, “shall be treated the deceiver, the traitor, the faithless, the disgraced, and the beardless.” And she turned her horse’s head and departed.

Then his adventure came to Owain’s remembrance, and he was sorrowful; and having finished eating he went to his own abode and made preparations that night. And the next day he arose but did not go to the Court, but wandered to the distant parts of the earth and to uncultivated mountains. And he remained there until all his apparel was worn out, and his body was wasted away, and his hair was grown long. And he went about with the wild beasts and fed with them, until they became familiar with him; but at length he grew so weak that he could no longer bear them company. Then he descended from the mountains to the valley, and came to a park that was the fairest in the world, and belonged to a widowed Countess.

One day the Countess and her maidens went forth to walk by a lake, that was in the middle of the park. And they saw the form of a man. And they were terrified. Nevertheless they went near him, and touched him, and looked at him. And they saw that there was life in him, though he was exhausted by the heat of the sun. And the Countess returned to the Castle, and took a flask full of precious ointment, and gave it to one of her maidens. “Go with this,” said she, “and take with thee yonder horse and clothing, and place them near the man we saw just now. And anoint him with this balsam, near his heart; and if there is life in him, he will arise through the efficacy of this balsam. Then watch what he will do.”

And the maiden departed from her, and poured the whole of the balsam upon Owain, and left the horse and the garments hard by, and went a little way off, and hid herself to watch him. In a short time she saw him begin to move his arms; and he rose up, and looked at his person, and became ashamed of the unseemliness of his appearance. Then he perceived the horse and the garments that were near him. And he crept forward till he was able to draw the garments to him from off the saddle. And he clothed himself, and with difficulty mounted the horse. Then the damsel discovered herself to him, and saluted him. And he was rejoiced when he saw her, and inquired of her, what land and what territory that was. “Truly,” said the maiden, “a widowed Countess owns yonder Castle; at the death of her husband, he left her two Earldoms, but at this day she has but this one dwelling that has not been wrested from her by a young Earl, who is her neighbour, because she refused to become his wife.” “That is pity,” said Owain. And he and the maiden proceeded to the Castle; and he alighted there, and the maiden conducted him to a pleasant chamber, and kindled a fire and left him.

And the maiden came to the Countess, and gave the flask into her hand. “Ha! maiden,” said the Countess, “where is all the balsam?” “Have I not used it all?” said she. “Oh, maiden,” said the Countess, “I cannot easily forgive thee this; it is sad for me to have wasted seven-score pounds’ worth of precious ointment upon a stranger whom I know not. However, maiden, wait thou upon him, until he is quite recovered.”

And the maiden did so, and furnished him with meat and drink, and fire, and lodging, and medicaments, until he was well again. And in three months he was restored to his former guise, and became even more comely than he had ever been before.

One day Owain heard a great tumult, and a sound of arms in the Castle, and he inquired of the maiden the cause thereof. “The Earl,” said she, “whom I mentioned to thee, has come before the Castle, with a numerous army, to subdue the Countess.” And Owain inquired of her whether the Countess had a horse and arms in her possession. “She has the best in the world,” said the maiden. “Wilt thou go and request the loan of a horse and arms for me,” said Owain, “that I may go and look at this army?” “I will,” said the maiden.

And she came to the Countess, and told her what Owain had said. And the Countess laughed. “Truly,” said she, “I will even give him a horse and arms for ever; such a horse and such arms had he never yet, and I am glad that they should be taken by him today, lest my enemies should have them against my will tomorrow. Yet I know not what he would do with them.”

The Countess bade them bring out a beautiful black steed, upon which was a beechen saddle, and a suit of armour, for man and horse. And Owain armed himself, and mounted the horse, and went forth, attended by two pages completely equipped, with horses and arms. And when they came near to the Earl’s army, they could see neither its extent nor its extremity. And Owain asked the pages in which troop the Earl was. “In yonder troop,” said they, “in which are four yellow standards. Two of them are before, and two behind him.” “Now,” said Owain, “do you return and await me near the portal of the Castle.” So they returned, and Owain pressed forward until he met the Earl. And Owain drew him completely out of his saddle, and turned his horse’s head towards the Castle, and though it was with difficulty, he brought the Earl to the portal, where the pages awaited him. And in they came. And Owain presented the Earl as a gift to the Countess. And said to her, “Behold a requital to thee for thy blessed balsam.”

The army encamped around the Castle. And the Earl restored to the Countess the two Earldoms he had taken from her, as a ransom for his life; and for his freedom he gave her the half of his own dominions, and all his gold, and his silver, and his jewels, besides hostages.

And Owain took his departure. And the Countess and all her subjects besought him to remain, but Owain chose rather to wander through distant lands and deserts.

And as he journeyed, he heard a loud yelling in a wood. And it was repeated a second and a third time. And Owain went towards the spot, and beheld a huge craggy mound, in the middle of the wood; on the side of which was a grey rock. And there was a cleft in the rock, and a serpent was within the cleft. And near the rock stood a black lion, and every time the lion sought to go thence, the serpent darted towards him to attack him. And Owain unsheathed his sword, and drew near to the rock; and as the serpent sprang out, he struck him with his sword, and cut him in two. And he dried his sword, and went on his way, as before. But behold the lion followed him, and played about him, as though it had been a greyhound that he had reared.

They proceeded thus throughout the day, until the evening. And when it was time for Owain to take his rest, he dismounted, and turned his horse loose in a flat and wooded meadow. And he struck fire, and when the fire was kindled, the lion brought him fuel enough to last for three nights. And the lion disappeared. And presently the lion returned, bearing a fine large roebuck. And he threw it down before Owain, who went towards the fire with it.

And Owain took the roebuck, and skinned it, and placed collops of its flesh upon skewers, around the fire. The rest of the buck he gave to the lion to devour. While he was doing this, he heard a deep sigh near him, and a second, and a third. And Owain called out to know whether the sigh he heard proceeded from a mortal; and he received answer that it did. “Who art thou?” said Owain. “Truly,” said the voice, “I am Luned, the handmaiden of the Countess of the Fountain.” “And what dost thou here?” said Owain. “I am imprisoned,” said she, “on account of the knight who came from Arthur’s Court, and married the Countess. And he stayed a short time with her, but he afterwards departed for the Court of Arthur, and has not returned since. And he was the friend I loved best in the world. And two of the pages in the Countess’s chamber traduced him, and called him a deceiver. And I told them that they two were not a match for him alone. So they imprisoned me in the stone vault, and said that I should be put to death, unless he came himself to deliver me, by a certain day; and that is no further off than the day after tomorrow. And I have no one to send to seek him for me. And his name is Owain the son of Urien.” “And art thou certain that if that knight knew all this, he would come to thy rescue?” “I am most certain of it,” said she.

When the collops were cooked, Owain divided them into two parts, between himself and the maiden; and after they had eaten, they talked together, until the day dawned. And the next morning Owain inquired of the damsel, if there was any place where he could get food and entertainment for that night. “There is, Lord,” said she; “cross over yonder, and go along the side of the river, and in a short time thou wilt see a great Castle, in which are many towers, and the Earl who owns that Castle is the most hospitable man in the world. There thou mayst spend the night.”

Never did sentinel keep stricter watch over his lord, than the lion that night over Owain.

And Owain accoutred his horse, and passed across by the ford, and came in sight of the Castle. And he entered it, and was honourably received. And his horse was well cared for, and plenty of fodder was placed before him. Then the lion went and lay down in the horse’s manger; so that none of the people of the Castle dared to approach him. The treatment which Owain met with there was such as he had never known elsewhere, for every one was as sorrowful as though death had been upon him. And they went to meat; and the Earl sat upon one side of Owain, and on the other side his only daughter. And Owain had never seen any more lovely than she. Then the lion came and placed himself between Owain’s feet, and he fed him with every kind of food that he took himself. And he never saw anything equal to the sadness of the people.

In the middle of the repast the Earl began to bid Owain welcome. “Then,” said Owain, “behold, it is time for thee to be cheerful.” “Heaven knows,” said the Earl, “that it is not thy coming that makes us sorrowful, but we have cause enough for sadness and care.” “What is that?” said Owain. “I have two sons,” replied the Earl, “and yesterday they went to the mountains to hunt. Now there is on the mountain a monster who kills men and devours them, and he seized my sons; and tomorrow is the time he has fixed to be here, and he threatens that he will then slay my sons before my eyes, unless I will deliver into his hands this my daughter. He has the form of a man, but in stature he is no less than a giant.”

“Truly,” said Owain, “that is lamentable. And which wilt thou do?” “Heaven knows,” said the Earl, “it will be better that my sons should be slain against my will, than that I should voluntarily give up my daughter to him to ill-treat and destroy.” Then they talked about other things, and Owain stayed there that night.

The next morning they heard an exceeding great clamour, which was caused by the coming of the giant with the two youths. And the Earl was anxious both to protect his Castle and to release his two sons. Then Owain put on his armour and went forth to encounter the giant, and the lion followed him. And when the giant saw that Owain was armed, he rushed towards him and attacked him. And the lion fought with the giant much more fiercely than Owain did. “Truly,” said the giant, “I should find no difficulty in fighting with thee, were it not for the animal that is with thee.” Upon that Owain took the lion back to the Castle and shut the gate upon him, and then he returned to fight the giant, as before. And the lion roared very loud, for he heard that it went hard with Owain. And he climbed up till he reached the top of the Earl’s hall, and thence he got to the top of the Castle, and he sprang down from the walls and went and joined Owain. And the lion gave the giant a stroke with his paw, which tore him from his shoulder to his hip, and his heart was laid bare, and the giant fell down dead. Then Owain restored the two youths to their father.

The Earl besought Owain to remain with him, and he would not, but set forward towards the meadow where Luned was. And when he came there he saw a great fire kindled, and two youths with beautiful curling auburn hair were leading the maiden to cast her into the fire. And Owain asked them what charge they had against her. And they told him of the compact that was between them, as the maiden had done the night before. “And,” said they, “Owain has failed her, therefore we are taking her to be burnt.” “Truly,” said Owain, “he is a good knight, and if he knew that the maiden was in such peril, I marvel that he came not to her rescue; but if you will accept me in his stead, I will do battle with you.” “We will,” said the youths, “by him who made us.”

And they attacked Owain, and he was hard beset by them. And with that the lion came to Owain’s assistance, and they two got the better of the young men. And they said to him, “Chieftain, it was not agreed that we should fight save with thyself alone, and it is harder for us to contend with yonder animal than with thee.” And Owain put the lion in the place where the maiden had been imprisoned, and blocked up the door with stones, and he went to fight with the young men, as before. But Owain had not his usual strength, and the two youths pressed hard upon him. And the lion roared incessantly at seeing Owain in trouble; and he burst through the wall until he found a way out, and rushed upon the young men, and instantly slew them. So Luned was saved from being burned.

Then Owain returned with Luned to the dominions of the Countess of the Fountain. And when he went thence he took the Countess with him to Arthur’s Court, and she was his wife as long as she lived.

* * *

And then he took the road that led to the Court of the savage black man, and Owain fought with him, and the lion did not quit Owain until he had vanquished him. And when he reached the Court of the savage black man he entered the hall, and beheld four-and-twenty ladies, the fairest that could be seen. And the garments which they had on were not worth four-and twenty pence, and they were as sorrowful as death. And Owain asked them the cause of their sadness. And they said, “We are the daughters of Earls, and we all came here with our husbands, whom we dearly loved. And we were received with honour and rejoicing. And we were thrown into a state of stupor, and while we were thus, the demon who owns this Castle slew all our husbands, and took from us our horses, and our raiment, and our gold, and our silver; and the corpses of our husbands are still in this house, and many others with them. And this, Chieftain, is the cause of our grief, and we are sorry that thou art come hither, lest harm should befall thee.”

And Owain was grieved when he heard this. And he went forth from the Castle, and he beheld a knight approaching him, who saluted him in a friendly and cheerful manner, as if he had been a brother. And this was the savage black man. “In very sooth,” said Owain, “it is not to seek thy friendship that I am here.” “In sooth,” said he, “thou shalt not find it then.” And with that they charged each other, and fought furiously. And Owain overcame him, and bound his hands behind his back. Then the black savage besought Owain to spare his life, and spoke thus: “My lord Owain,” said he, “it was foretold that thou shouldst come hither and vanquish me, and thou hast done so. I was a robber here, and my house was a house of spoil; but grant me my life, and I will become the keeper of an Hospice, and I will maintain this house as an Hospice for weak and for strong, as long as I live, for the good of thy soul.” And Owain accepted this proposal of him, and remained there that night.

And the next day he took the four-and-twenty ladies, and their horses, and their raiment, and what they possessed of goods and jewels, and proceeded with them to Arthur’s Court. And if Arthur was rejoiced when he saw him, after he had lost him the first time, his joy was now much greater. And of those ladies, such as wished to remain in Arthur’s Court remained there, and such as wished to depart departed.

And thenceforward Owain dwelt at Arthur’s Court greatly beloved, as the head of his household, until he went away with his followers; and those were the army of three hundred ravens which Kenverchyn had left him. And wherever Owain went with these he was victorious.

And this is the tale of The Lady of The Fountain.

Geraint The Son of Erbin

ARTHUR WAS ACCUSTOMED to hold his Court at Caerlleon upon Usk. And there he held it seven Easters and five Christmases. And once upon a time he held his Court there at Whitsuntide. For Caerlleon was the place most easy of access in his dominions, both by sea and by land. And there were assembled nine crowned kings, who were his tributaries, and likewise earls and barons. For they were his invited guests at all the high festivals, unless they were prevented by any great hindrance. And when he was at Caerlleon, holding his Court, thirteen churches were set apart for mass. And thus were they appointed: one church for Arthur, and his kings, and his guests; and the second for Gwenhwyvar and her ladies; and the third for the Steward of the Household and the suitors; and the fourth for the Franks and the other officers; and the other nine churches were for the nine Masters of the Household and chiefly for Cwalchmai; for he, from the eminence of his warlike fame, and from the nobleness of his birth, was the most exalted of the nine. And there was no other arrangement respecting the churches than that which we have mentioned above.

Glewlwyd Gavaelvawr was the chief porter; but he did not himself perform the office, except at one of the three high festivals, for he had seven men to serve him, and they divided the year amongst them. They were Grynn, and Pen Pighon, and Llaes Cymyn, and Gogyfwlch, and Gwrdnei with cat’s eyes, who could see as well by night as by day, and Drem the son of Dremhitid, and Clust the son of Clustveinyd; and these were Arthur’s guards. And on Whit-Tuesday, as the King sat at the banquet, lo! there entered a tall, fair-headed youth, clad in a coat and a surcoat of diapered satin, and a golden-hilted sword about his neck, and low shoes of leather upon his feet. And he came, and stood before Arthur. “Hail to thee, Lord!” said he. “Heaven prosper thee,” he answered, “and be thou welcome. Dost thou bring any new tidings?” “I do, Lord,” he said. “I know thee not,” said Arthur. “It is a marvel to me that thou dost not know me. I am one of thy foresters, Lord, in the Forest of Dean, and my name is Madawc, the son of Twrgadarn.” “Tell me thine errand,” said Arthur. “I will do so, Lord,” said he. “In the Forest I saw a stag, the like of which beheld I never yet.” “What is there about him,” asked Arthur, “that thou never yet didst see his like?” “He is of pure white, Lord, and he does not herd with any other animal through stateliness and pride, so royal is his bearing. And I come to seek thy counsel, Lord, and to know thy will concerning him.” “It seems best to me,” said Arthur, “to go and hunt him tomorrow at break of day; and to cause general notice thereof to be given tonight in all quarters of the Court.” And Arryfuerys was Arthur’s chief huntsman, and Arelivri was his chief page. And all received notice; and thus it was arranged. And they sent the youth before them. Then Gwenhwyvar said to Arthur, “Wilt thou permit me, Lord,” said she, “to go tomorrow to see and hear the hunt of the stag of which the young man spoke?” “I will gladly,” said Arthur. “Then will I go,” said she. And Gwalchmai said to Arthur, “Lord, if it seem well to thee, permit that into whose hunt soever the stag shall come, that one, be he a knight, or one on foot, may cut off his head, and give it to whom he pleases, whether to his own lady-love, or to the lady of his friend.” “I grant it gladly,” said Arthur, “and let the Steward of the Household be chastised, if all are not ready tomorrow for the chase.”

And they passed the night with songs, and diversions, and discourse, and ample entertainment. And when it was time for them all to go to sleep, they went. And when the next day came, they arose; and Arthur called the attendants, who guarded his couch. And these were four pages, whose names were Cadyrnerth the son of Porthawr Gandwy, and Ambreu the son of Bedwor, and Amhar the son of Arthur, and Goreu the son of Custennin. And these men came to Arthur and saluted him, and arrayed him in his garments. And Arthur wondered that Gwenhwyvar did not awake, and did not move in her bed; and the attendants wished to awaken her. “Disturb her not,” said Arthur, “for she had rather sleep than go to see the hunting.”

Then Arthur went forth, and he heard two horns sounding, one from near the lodging of the chief huntsman, and the other from near that of the chief page. And the whole assembly of the multitudes came to Arthur, and they took the road to the Forest.

And after Arthur had gone forth from the palace, Gwenhwyvar awoke, and called to her maidens, and apparelled herself. “Maidens,” said she, “I had leave last night to go and see the hunt. Go one of you to the stable, and order hither a horse such as a woman may ride.” And one of them went, and she found but two horses in the stable, and Gwenhwyvar and one of her maidens mounted them, and went through the Usk, and followed the track of the men and the horses. And as they rode thus, they heard a loud and rushing sound; and they looked behind them, and beheld a knight upon a hunter foal of mighty size; and the rider was a fair-haired youth, bare-legged, and of princely mien, and a golden-hilted sword was at his side, and a robe and a surcoat of satin were upon him, and two low shoes of leather upon his feet; and around him was a scarf of blue purple, at each corner of which was a golden apple. And his horse stepped stately, and swift, and proud; and he overtook Gwenhwyvar, and saluted her. “Heaven prosper thee, Geraint,” said she, “I knew thee when first I saw thee just now. And the welcome of Heaven be unto thee. And why didst thou not go with thy lord to hunt?” “Because I knew not when he went,” said he. “I marvel, too,” said she, “how he could go unknown to me.” “Indeed, lady,” said he. “I was asleep, and knew not when he went; but thou, O young man, art the most agreeable companion I could have in the whole kingdom; and it may be, that I shall be more amused with the hunting than they; for we shall hear the horns when they sound, and we shall hear the dogs when they are let loose, and begin to cry.” So they went to the edge of the Forest, and there they stood. “From this place,” said she, “we shall hear when the dogs are let loose.” And thereupon, they heard a loud noise, and they looked towards the spot whence it came, and they beheld a dwarf riding upon a horse, stately, and foaming, and prancing, and strong, and spirited. And in the hand of the dwarf was a whip. And near the dwarf they saw a lady upon a beautiful white horse, of steady and stately pace; and she was clothed in a garment of gold brocade. And near her was a knight upon a warhorse of large size, with heavy and bright armour both upon himself and upon his horse. And truly they never before saw a knight, or a horse, or armour, of such remarkable size. And they were all near to each other.

“Geraint,” said Gwenhwyvar, “knowest thou the name of that tall knight yonder?” “I know him not,” said he, “and the strange armour that he wears prevents my either seeing his face or his features.” “Go, maiden,” said Gwenhwyvar, “and ask the dwarf who that knight is.” Then the maiden went up to the dwarf; and the dwarf waited for the maiden, when he saw her coming towards him. And the maiden inquired of the dwarf who the knight was. “I will not tell thee,” he answered. “Since thou art so churlish as not to tell me,” said she, “I will ask him himself.” “Thou shalt not ask him, by my faith,” said he. “Wherefore?” said she. “Because thou art not of honour sufficient to befit thee to speak to my Lord.” Then the maiden turned her horse’s head towards the knight, upon which the dwarf struck her with the whip that was in his hand across the face and the eyes, until the blood flowed forth. And the maiden, through the hurt she received from the blow, returned to Gwenhwyvar, complaining of the pain. “Very rudely has the dwarf treated thee,” said Geraint. “I will go myself to know who the knight is.” “Go,” said Gwenhwyvar. And Geraint went up to the dwarf. “Who is yonder knight?” said Geraint. “I will not tell thee,” said the dwarf. “Then will I ask him himself,” said he. “That wilt thou not, by my faith,” said the dwarf, “thou art not honourable enough to speak with my Lord.” Said Geraint, “I have spoken with men of equal rank with him.” And he turned his horse’s head towards the knight; but the dwarf overtook him, and struck him as he had done the maiden, so that the blood coloured the scarf that Geraint wore. Then Geraint put his hand upon the hilt of his sword, but he took counsel with himself, and considered that it would be no vengeance for him to slay the dwarf, and to be attacked unarmed by the armed knight, so he returned to where Gwenhwyvar was.

“Thou hast acted wisely and discreetly,” said she. “Lady,” said he, “I will follow him yet, with thy permission; and at last he will come to some inhabited place, where I may have arms either as a loan or for a pledge, so that I may encounter the knight.” “Go,” said she, “and do not attack him until thou hast good arms, and I shall be very anxious concerning thee, until I hear tidings of thee.” “If I am alive,” said he, “thou shalt hear tidings of me by tomorrow afternoon;” and with that he departed.

And the road they took was below the palace of Caerlleon, and across the ford of the Usk; and they went along a fair, and even, and lofty ridge of ground, until they came to a town, and at the extremity of the town they saw a Fortress and a Castle. And they came to the extremity of the town. And as the knight passed through it, all the people arose, and saluted him, and bade him welcome. And when Geraint came into the town, he looked at every house, to see if he knew any of those whom he saw. But he knew none, and none knew him to do him the kindness to let him have arms either as a loan or for a pledge. And every house he saw was full of men, and arms, and horses. And they were polishing shields, and burnishing swords, and washing armour, and shoeing horses. And the knight, and the lady, and the dwarf rode up to the Castle that was in the town, and every one was glad in the Castle. And from the battlements and the gates they risked their necks, through their eagerness to greet them, and to show their joy.

Geraint stood there to see whether the knight would remain in the Castle; and when he was certain that he would do so, he looked around him; and at a little distance from the town he saw an old palace in ruins, wherein was a hall that was falling to decay. And as he knew not any one in the town, he went towards the old palace; and when he came near to the palace, he saw but one chamber, and a bridge of marble-stone leading to it. And upon the bridge he saw sitting a hoary-headed man, upon whom were tattered garments. And Geraint gazed steadfastly upon him for a long time. Then the hoary-headed man spoke to him. “Young man,” he said, “wherefore art thou thoughtful?” “I am thoughtful,” said he, “because I know not where to go tonight.” “Wilt thou come forward this way, chieftain?” said he, “and thou shalt have of the best that can be procured for thee.” So Geraint went forward. And the hoary-headed man preceded him into the hall. And in the hall he dismounted, and he left there his horse. Then he went on to the upper chamber with the hoary-headed man. And in the chamber he beheld an old decrepit woman, sitting on a cushion, with old, tattered garments of satin upon her; and it seemed to him that he had never seen a woman fairer than she must have been, when in the fulness of youth. And beside her was a maiden, upon whom were a vest and a veil, that were old, and beginning to be worn out. And truly, he never saw a maiden more full of comeliness, and grace, and beauty than she. And the hoary-headed man said to the maiden, “There is no attendant for the horse of this youth but thyself.” “I will render the best service I am able,” said she, “both to him and to his horse.” And the maiden disarrayed the youth, and then she furnished his horse with straw and with corn. And she went to the hall as before, and then she returned to the chamber. And the hoary-headed man said to the maiden, “Go to the town,” said he, “and bring hither the best that thou canst find both of food and of liquor.” “I will, gladly, Lord,” said she. And to the town went the maiden. And they conversed together while the maiden was at the town. And, behold! the maiden came back, and a youth with her, bearing on his back a costrel full of good purchased mead, and a quarter of a young bullock. And in the hands of the maiden was a quantity of white bread, and she had some manchet bread in her veil, and she came into the chamber. “I could not obtain better than this,” said she, “nor with better should I have been trusted.” “It is good enough,” said Geraint. And they caused the meat to be boiled; and when their food was ready, they sat down. And it was on this wise; Geraint sat between the hoary-headed man and his wife, and the maiden served them. And they ate and drank.

And when they had finished eating, Geraint talked with the hoary-headed man, and he asked him in the first place, to whom belonged the palace that he was in. “Truly,” said he, “it was I that built it, and to me also belonged the city and the castle which thou sawest.” “Alas!” said Geraint, “how is it that thou hast lost them now?” “I lost a great Earldom as well as these,” said he; “and this is how I lost them. I had a nephew, the son of my brother, and I took his possessions to myself; and when he came to his strength, he demanded of me his property, but I withheld it from him. So he made war upon me, and wrested from me all that I possessed.” “Good Sir,” said Geraint, “wilt thou tell me wherefore came the knight, and the lady, and the dwarf, just now into the town, and what is the preparation which I saw, and the putting of arms in order?” “I will do so,” said he. “The preparations are for the game that is to be held tomorrow by the young Earl, which will be on this wise. In the midst of a meadow which is here, two forks will be set up, and upon the two forks a silver rod, and upon the silver rod a Sparrow-Hawk, and for the Sparrow-Hawk there will be a tournament. And to the tournament will go all the array thou didst see in the city, of men, and of horses, and of arms. And with each man will go the lady he loves best; and no man can joust for the Sparrow-Hawk, except the lady he loves best be with him. And the knight that thou sawest has gained the Sparrow-Hawk these two years; and if he gains it the third year, they will, from that time, send it every year to him, and he himself will come here no more. And he will be called the Knight of the Sparrow-Hawk from that time forth.” “Sir,” said Geraint, “what is thy counsel to me concerning this knight, on account of the insult which I received from the dwarf, and that which was received by the maiden of Gwenhwyvar, the wife of Arthur?” And Geraint told the hoary-headed man what the insult was that he had received. “It is not easy to counsel thee, inasmuch as thou hast neither dame nor maiden belonging to thee, for whom thou canst joust. Yet, I have arms here, which thou couldest have; and there is my horse also, if he seem to thee better than thine own.” “Ah! Sir,” said he, “Heaven reward thee. But my own horse, to which I am accustomed, together with thy arms, will suffice me. And if, when the appointed time shall come tomorrow, thou wilt permit me, Sir, to challenge for yonder maiden that is thy daughter, I will engage, if I escape from the tournament, to love the maiden as long as I live; and if I do not escape, she will remain unsullied as before.” “Gladly will I permit thee,” said the hoary-headed man, “and since thou dost thus resolve, it is necessary that thy horse and arms should be ready tomorrow at break of day. For then the Knight of the Sparrow-Hawk will make proclamation, and ask the lady he loves best to take the Sparrow-Hawk. “For,” will he say to her, “thou art the fairest of women, and thou didst possess it last year, and the year previous; and if any deny it thee today, by force will I defend it for thee.” And therefore,” said the hoary-headed man, “it is needful for thee to be there at daybreak; and we three will be with thee.” And thus was it settled.

And at night, lo! they went to sleep; and before the dawn they arose, and arrayed themselves; and by the time that it was day, they were all four in the meadow. And there was the Knight of the Sparrow-Hawk making the proclamation, and asking his lady-love to fetch the Sparrow-Hawk. “Fetch it not,” said Geraint, “for there is here a maiden, who is fairer, and more noble, and more comely, and who has a better claim to it than thou.” “If thou maintainest the Sparrow-Hawk to be due to her, come forward, and do battle with me.” And Geraint went forward to the top of the meadow, having upon himself and upon his horse armour which was heavy, and rusty, and worthless, and of uncouth shape. Then they encountered each other, and they broke a set of lances, and they broke a second set, and a third. And thus they did at every onset, and they broke as many lances as were brought to them. And when the Earl and his company saw the Knight of the Sparrow-Hawk gaining the mastery, there was shouting, and joy, and mirth amongst them. And the hoary-headed man, and his wife, and his daughter were sorrowful. And the hoary-headed man served Geraint lances as often as he broke them, and the dwarf served the Knight of the Sparrow-Hawk. Then the hoary-headed man came to Geraint. “Oh! chieftain,” said he, “since no other will hold with thee, behold, here is the lance which was in my hand on the day when I received the honour of knighthood; and from that time to this I never broke it. And it has an excellent point.” Then Geraint took the lance, thanking the hoary-headed man. And thereupon the dwarf also brought a lance to his lord. “Behold, here is a lance for thee, not less good than his,” said the dwarf. “And bethink thee, that no knight ever withstood thee before so long as this one has done.” “I declare to Heaven,” said Geraint, “that unless death takes me quickly hence, he shall fare never the better for thy service.” And Geraint pricked his horse towards him from afar, and warning him, he rushed upon him, and gave him a blow so severe, and furious, and fierce, upon the face of his shield, that he cleft it in two, and broke his armour, and burst his girths, so that both he and his saddle were borne to the ground over the horse’s crupper. And Geraint dismounted quickly. And he was wroth, and he drew his sword, and rushed fiercely upon him. Then the knight also arose, and drew his sword against Geraint. And they fought on foot with their swords until their arms struck sparks of fire like stars from one another; and thus they continued fighting until the blood and sweat obscured the light from their eyes. And when Geraint prevailed, the hoary-headed man, and his wife, and his daughter were glad; and when the knight prevailed, it rejoiced the Earl and his party. Then the hoary-headed man saw Geraint receive a severe stroke, and he went up to him quickly, and said to him, “Oh, chieftain, remember the treatment which thou hadst from the dwarf; and wilt thou not seek vengeance for the insult to thyself, and for the insult to Gwenhwyvar the wife of Arthur!” And Geraint was roused by what he said to him, and he called to him all his strength, and lifted up his sword, and struck the knight upon the crown of his head, so that he broke all his head-armour, and cut through all the flesh and the skin, even to the skull, until he wounded the bone.

Then the knight fell upon his knees, and cast his sword from his hand, and besought mercy of Geraint. “Of a truth,” said he, “I relinquish my overdaring and my pride in craving thy mercy; and unless I have time to commit myself to Heaven for my sins, and to talk with a priest, thy mercy will avail me little.” “I will grant thee grace upon this condition,” said Geraint, “that thou wilt go to Gwenhwyvar the wife of Arthur, to do her satisfaction for the insult which her maiden received from thy dwarf. As to myself, for the insult which I received from thee and thy dwarf, I am content with that which I have done unto thee. Dismount not from the time thou goest hence until thou comest into the presence of Gwenhwyvar, to make her what atonement shall be adjudged at the Court of Arthur.” “This will I do gladly. And who art thou?” said he. “I am Geraint the son of Erbin. And declare thou also who thou art.” “I am Edeyrn the son of Nudd.” Then he threw himself upon his horse, and went forward to Arthur’s Court, and the lady he loved best went before him and the dwarf, with much lamentation. And thus far this story up to that time.

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Then came the little Earl and his hosts to Geraint, and saluted him, and bade him to his castle. “I may not go,” said Geraint, “but where I was last night, there will I be tonight also.” “Since thou wilt none of my inviting, thou shalt have abundance of all that I can command for thee, in the place thou wast last night. And I will order ointment for thee, to recover thee from thy fatigues, and from the weariness that is upon thee.” “Heaven reward thee,” said Geraint, “and I will go to my lodging.” And thus went Geraint, and Earl Ynywl, and his wife, and his daughter. And when they reached the chamber, the household servants and attendants of the young Earl had arrived at the Court, and they arranged all the houses, dressing them with straw and with fire; and in a short time the ointment was ready, and Geraint came there, and they washed his head. Then came the young Earl, with forty honourable knights from among his attendants, and those who were bidden to the tournament. And Geraint came from the anointing. And the Earl asked him to go to the hall to eat. “Where is the Earl Ynywl,” said Geraint, “and his wife, and his daughter?” “They are in the chamber yonder,” said the Earl’s chamberlain, “arraying themselves in garments which the Earl has caused to be brought for them.” “Let not the damsel array herself,” said he, “except in her vest and her veil, until she come to the Court of Arthur, to be clad by Gwenhwyvar in such garments as she may choose.” So the maiden did not array herself.

Then they all entered the hall, and they washed, and went, and sat down to meat. And thus were they seated. On one side of Geraint sat the young Earl, and Earl Ynywl beyond him; and on the other side of Geraint were the maiden and her mother. And after these all sat according to their precedence in honour. And they ate. And they were served abundantly, and they received a profusion of divers kind of gifts. Then they conversed together. And the young Earl invited Geraint to visit him next day. “I will not, by Heaven,” said Geraint. “To the Court of Arthur will I go with this maiden tomorrow. And it is enough for me, as long as Earl Ynywl is in poverty and trouble; and I go chiefly to seek to add to his maintenance.” “Ah, chieftain,” said the young Earl, “it is not by my fault that Earl Ynywl is without his possessions.” “By my faith,” said Geraint, “he shall not remain without them, unless death quickly takes me hence.” “Oh, chieftain,” said he, “with regard to the disagreement between me and Ynywl, I will gladly abide by thy counsel, and agree to what thou mayest judge right between us.” “I but ask thee,” said Geraint, “to restore to him what is his, and what he should have received from the time he lost his possessions, even until this day.” “That I will do gladly, for thee,” answered he. “Then,” said Geraint, “whosoever is here who owes homage to Ynywl, let him come forward, and perform it on the spot.” And all the men did so. And by that treaty they abided. And his castle, and his town, and all his possessions were restored to Ynywl. And he received back all that he had lost, even to the smallest jewel.

Then spoke Earl Ynywl to Geraint. “Chieftain,” said he, “behold the maiden for whom thou didst challenge at the tournament, I bestow her upon thee.” “She shall go with me,” said Geraint, “to the Court of Arthur; and Arthur and Gwenhwyvar they shall dispose of her as they will.” And the next day they proceeded to Arthur’s Court. So far concerning Geraint.

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Now, this is how Arthur hunted the stag. The men and the dogs were divided into hunting parties, and the dogs were let loose upon the stag. And the last dog that was let loose was the favourite dog of Arthur. Cavall was his name. And he left all the other dogs behind him, and turned the stag. And at the second turn, the stag came towards the hunting party of Arthur. And Arthur set upon him. And before he could be slain by any other, Arthur cut off his head. Then they sounded the death horn for slaying, and they all gathered round.

Then came Kadyrieith to Arthur, and spoke to him. “Lord,” said he, “behold, yonder is Gwenhwyvar, and none with her save only one maiden.” “Command Gildas the son of Caw, and all the scholars of the Court,” said Arthur, “to attend Gwenhwyvar to the palace.” And they did so.

Then they all set forth, holding converse together concerning the head of the stag, to whom it should be given. One wished that it should be given to the lady best beloved by him, and another to the lady whom he loved best. And all they of the household, and the knights, disputed sharply concerning the head. And with that they came to the palace. And when Arthur and Gwenhwyvar heard them disputing about the head of the stag, Gwenhwyvar said to Arthur, “My lord, this is my counsel concerning the stag’s head; let it not be given away until Geraint the son of Erbin shall return from the errand he is upon.” And Gwenhwyvar told Arthur what that errand was. “Right gladly shall it be so,” said Arthur. And thus it was settled. And the next day Gwenhwyvar caused a watch to be set upon the ramparts for Geraint’s coming. And after midday they beheld an unshapely little man upon a horse, and after him, as they supposed, a dame or a damsel, also on horseback, and after her a knight of large stature, bowed down, and hanging his head low and sorrowfully, and clad in broken and worthless armour.

And before they came near to the gate, one of the watch went to Gwenhwyvar, and told her what kind of people they saw, and what aspect they bore. “I know not who they are,” said he. “But I know,” said Gwenhwyvar; “this is the knight whom Geraint pursued, and methinks that he comes not here by his own free will. But Geraint has overtaken him, and avenged the insult to the maiden to the uttermost.” And thereupon, behold a porter came to the spot where Gwenhwyvar was. “Lady,” said he, “at the gate there is a knight, and I saw never a man of so pitiful an aspect to look upon as he. Miserable and broken is the armour that he wears, and the hue of blood is more conspicuous upon it than its own colour.” “Knowest thou his name?” said she. “I do,” said he; “he tells me that he is Edeyrn the son of Nudd.” Then she replied, “I know him not.”

So Gwenhwyvar went to the gate to meet him, and he entered. And Gwenhwyvar was sorry when she saw the condition he was in, even though he was accompanied by the churlish dwarf. Then Edeyrn saluted Gwenhwyvar. “Heaven protect thee,” said she. “Lady,” said he, “Geraint the son of Erbin, thy best and most valiant servant, greets thee.” “Did he meet thee?” she asked. “Yes,” said he, “and it was not to my advantage; and that was not his fault, but mine, Lady. And Geraint greets thee well; and in greeting thee he compelled me to come hither to do thy pleasure for the insult which thy maiden received from the dwarf. He forgives the insult to himself, in consideration of his having put me in peril of my life. And he imposed on me a condition, manly, and honourable, and warrior-like, which was to do thee justice, Lady.” “Now, where did he overtake thee?” “At the place where we were jousting, and contending for the Sparrow-Hawk, in the town which is now called Cardiff. And there were none with him save three persons, of a mean and tattered condition. And these were an aged, hoary-headed man, and a woman advanced in years, and a fair young maiden, clad in worn-out garments. And it was for the avouchment of the love of that maiden that Geraint jousted for the Sparrow-Hawk at the tournament, for he said that that maiden was better entitled to the Sparrow-Hawk than this maiden who was with me. And thereupon we encountered each other, and he left me, Lady, as thou seest.” “Sir,” said she, “when thinkest thou that Geraint will be here?” “Tomorrow, Lady, I think he will be here with the maiden.”

Then Arthur came to him, and he saluted Arthur; and Arthur gazed a long time upon him, and was amazed to see him thus. And thinking that he knew him, he inquired of him, “Art thou Edeyrn the son of Nudd?” “I am, Lord,” said he, “and I have met with much trouble, and received wounds unsupportable.” Then he told Arthur all his adventure. “Well,” said Arthur, “from what I hear, it behoves Gwenhwyvar to be merciful towards thee.” “The mercy which thou desirest, Lord,” said she, “will I grant to him, since it is as insulting to thee that an insult should be offered to me as to thyself.” “Thus will it be best to do,” said Arthur; “let this man have medical care until it be known whether he may live. And if he live, he shall do such satisfaction as shall be judged best by the men of the Court; and take thou sureties to that effect. And if he die, too much will be the death of such a youth as Edeyrn for an insult to a maiden.” “This pleases me,” said Gwenhwyvar. And Arthur became surety for Edeyrn, and Caradawc the son of Llyr, Gwallawg the son of Llenawg, and Owain the son of Nudd, and Gwalchmai, and many others with them. And Arthur caused Morgan Tud to be called to him. He was the chief physician. “Take with thee Edeyrn the son of Nudd, and cause a chamber to be prepared for him, and let him have the aid of medicine as thou wouldst do unto myself, if I were wounded, and let none into his chamber to molest him, but thyself and thy disciples, to administer to him remedies.” “I will do so gladly, Lord,” said Morgan Tud. Then said the steward of the household, “Whither is it right, Lord, to order the maiden?” “To Gwenhwyvar and her handmaidens,” said he. And the steward of the household so ordered her. Thus far concerning them.

* * *

The next day came Geraint towards the Court; and there was a watch set on the ramparts by Gwenhwyvar, lest he should arrive unawares. And one of the watch came to the place where Gwenhwyvar was. “Lady,” said he, “methinks that I see Geraint, and the maiden with him. He is on horseback, but he has his walking gear upon him, and the maiden appears to be in white, seeming to be clad in a garment of linen.” “Assemble all the women,” said Gwenhwyvar, “and come to meet Geraint, to welcome him, and wish him joy.” And Gwenhwyvar went to meet Geraint and the maiden. And when Geraint came to the place where Gwenhwyvar was, he saluted her. “Heaven prosper thee,” said she, “and welcome to thee. And thy career has been successful, and fortunate, and resistless, and glorious. And Heaven reward thee, that thou hast so proudly caused me to have retribution.” “Lady,” said he, “I earnestly desired to obtain thee satisfaction according to thy will; and, behold, here is the maiden through whom thou hadst thy revenge.” “Verily,” said Gwenhwyvar, “the welcome of Heaven be unto her; and it is fitting that we should receive her joyfully.” Then they went in, and dismounted. And Geraint came to where Arthur was, and saluted him. “Heaven protect thee,” said Arthur, “and the welcome of Heaven be unto thee. And since Edeyrn the son of Nudd has received his overthrow and wounds from thy hands, thou hast had a prosperous career.” “Not upon me be the blame,” said Geraint, “it was through the arrogance of Edeyrn the son of Nudd himself that we were not friends. I would not quit him until I knew who he was, and until the one had vanquished the other.” “Now,” said Arthur, “where is the maiden for whom I heard thou didst give challenge?” “She is gone with Gwenhwyvar to her chamber.”

Then went Arthur to see the maiden. And Arthur, and all his companions, and his whole Court, were glad concerning the maiden. And certain were they all, that had her array been suitable to her beauty, they had never seen a maid fairer than she. And Arthur gave away the maiden to Geraint. And the usual bond made between two persons was made between Geraint and the maiden, and the choicest of all Gwenhwyvar’s apparel was given to the maiden; and thus arrayed, she appeared comely and graceful to all who beheld her. And that day and that night were spent in abundance of minstrelsy, and ample gifts of liquor, and a multitude of games. And when it was time for them to go to sleep, they went. And in the chamber where the couch of Arthur and Gwenhwyvar was, the couch of Geraint and Enid was prepared. And from that time she became his bride. And the next day Arthur satisfied all the claimants upon Geraint with bountiful gifts. And the maiden took up her abode in the palace; and she had many companions, both men and women, and there was no maiden more esteemed than she in the Island of Britain.

Then spake Gwenhwyvar. “Rightly did I judge,” said she, “concerning the head of the stag, that it should not be given to any until Geraint’s return; and, behold, here is a fit occasion for bestowing it. Let it be given to Enid the daughter of Ynywl, the most illustrious maiden. And I do not believe that any will begrudge it her, for between her and every one here there exists nothing but love and friendship.” Much applauded was this by them all, and by Arthur also. And the head of the stag was given to Enid. And thereupon her fame increased, and her friends thenceforward became more in number than before. And Geraint from that time forth loved the stag, and the tournament, and hard encounters; and he came victorious from them all. And a year, and a second, and a third, he proceeded thus, until his fame had flown over the face of the kingdom.

* * *

And once upon a time Arthur was holding his Court at Caerlleon upon Usk, at Whitsuntide. And, behold, there came to him ambassadors, wise and prudent, full of knowledge, and eloquent of speech, and they saluted Arthur. “Heaven prosper you,” said Arthur, “and the welcome of Heaven be unto you. And whence do you come?” “We come, Lord,” said they, “from Cornwall; and we are ambassadors from Erbin the son of Custennin, thy uncle, and our mission is unto thee. And he greets thee well, as an uncle should greet his nephew, and as a vassal should greet his lord. And he represents unto thee that he waxes heavy and feeble, and is advancing in years. And the neighbouring chiefs, knowing this, grow insolent towards him, and covet his land and possessions. And he earnestly beseeches thee, Lord, to permit Geraint his son to return to him, to protect his possessions, and to become acquainted with his boundaries. And unto him he represents that it were better for him to spend the flower of his youth and the prime of his age in preserving his own boundaries, than in tournaments, which are productive of no profit, although he obtains glory in them.”

“Well,” said Arthur, “go, and divest yourselves of your accoutrements, and take food, and refresh yourselves after your fatigues; and before you go forth hence you shall have an answer.” And they went to eat. And Arthur considered that it would go hard with him to let Geraint depart from him and from his Court; neither did he think it fair that his cousin should be restrained from going to protect his dominions and his boundaries, seeing that his father was unable to do so. No less was the grief and regret of Gwenhwyvar, and all her women, and all her damsels, through fear that the maiden would leave them. And that day and that night were spent in abundance of feasting. And Arthur showed Geraint the cause of the mission, and of the coming of the ambassadors to him out of Cornwall. “Truly,” said Geraint, “be it to my advantage or disadvantage, Lord, I will do according to thy will concerning this embassy.” “Behold,” said Arthur, “though it grieves me to part with thee, it is my counsel that thou go to dwell in thine own dominions, and to defend thy boundaries, and to take with thee to accompany thee as many as thou wilt of those thou lovest best among my faithful ones, and among thy friends, and among thy companions in arms.” “Heaven reward thee; and this will I do,” said Geraint. “What discourse,” said Gwenhwyvar, “do I hear between you? Is it of those who are to conduct Geraint to his country?” “It is,” said Arthur. “Then it is needful for me to consider,” said she, “concerning companions and a provision for the lady that is with me?” “Thou wilt do well,” said Arthur.

And that night they went to sleep. And the next day the ambassadors were permitted to depart, and they were told that Geraint should follow them. And on the third day Geraint set forth, and many went with him. Gwalchmai the son of Gwyar, and Riogonedd the son of the king of Ireland, and Ondyaw the son of the duke of Burgundy, Gwilim the son of the ruler of the Franks, Howel the son of Emyr of Brittany, Elivry, and Nawkyrd, Gwynn the son of Tringad, Goreu the son of Custennin, Gweir Gwrhyd Vawr, Garannaw the son of Golithmer, Peredur the son of Evrawc, Gwynnllogell, Gwyr a judge in the Court of Arthur, Dyvyr the son of Alun of Dyved, Gwrei Gwalstawd Ieithoedd, Bedwyr the son of Bedrawd, Hadwry the son of Gwryon, Kai the son of Kynyr, Odyar the Frank, the Steward of Arthur’s Court, and Edeyrn the son of Nudd. Said Geraint, “I think that I shall have enough of knighthood with me.” “Yes,” said Arthur, “but it will not be fitting for thee to take Edeyrn with thee, although he is well, until peace shall be made between him and Gwenhwyvar.” “Gwenhwyvar can permit him to go with me, if he give sureties.” “If she please, she can let him go without sureties, for enough of pain and affliction has he suffered for the insult which the maiden received from the dwarf.” “Truly,” said Gwenhwyvar, “since it seems well to thee and to Geraint, I will do this gladly, Lord.” Then she permitted Edeyrn freely to depart. And many there were who accompanied Geraint, and they set forth; and never was there seen a fairer host journeying towards the Severn. And on the other side of the Severn were the nobles of Erbin the son of Custennin, and his foster-father at their head, to welcome Geraint with gladness; and many of the women of the Court, with his mother, came to receive Enid the daughter of Ynywl, his wife. And there was great rejoicing and gladness throughout the whole Court, and throughout all the country, concerning Geraint, because of the greatness of their love towards him, and of the greatness of the fame which he had gained since he went from amongst them, and because he was come to take possession of his dominions and to preserve his boundaries. And they came to the Court. And in the Court they had ample entertainment, and a multitude of gifts and abundance of liquor, and a sufficiency of service, and a variety of minstrelsy and of games. And to do honour to Geraint, all the chief men of the country were invited that night to visit him. And they passed that day and that night in the utmost enjoyment. And at dawn next day Erbin arose, and summoned to him Geraint, and the noble persons who had borne him company. And he said to Geraint, “I am a feeble and aged man, and whilst I was able to maintain the dominion for thee and for myself, I did so. But thou art young, and in the flower of thy vigour and of thy youth; henceforth do thou preserve thy possessions.” “Truly,” said Geraint, “with my consent thou shalt not give the power over thy dominions at this time into my hands, and thou shalt not take me from Arthur’s Court.” “Into thy hands will I give them,” said Erbin, “and this day also shalt thou receive the homage of thy subjects.”

Then said Gwalchmai, “It were better for thee to satisfy those who have boons to ask, today, and tomorrow thou canst receive the homage of thy dominions.” So all that had boons to ask were summoned into one place. And Kadyrieith came to them, to know what were their requests. And every one asked that which he desired. And the followers of Arthur began to make gifts, and immediately the men of Cornwall came, and gave also. And they were not long in giving, so eager was every one to bestow gifts. And of those who came to ask gifts, none departed unsatisfied. And that day and that night were spent in the utmost enjoyment.

And the next day, at dawn, Erbin desired Geraint to send messengers to the men, to ask them whether it was displeasing to them that he should come to receive their homage, and whether they had anything to object to him. Then Geraint sent ambassadors to the men of Cornwall, to ask them this. And they all said that it would be the fulness of joy and honour to them for Geraint to come and receive their homage. So he received the homage of such as were there. And they remained with him till the third night. And the day after the followers of Arthur intended to go away. “It is too soon for you to go away yet,” said he, “stay with me until I have finished receiving the homage of my chief men, who have agreed to come to me.” And they remained with him until he had done so. Then they set forth towards the Court of Arthur; and Geraint went to bear them company, and Enid also, as far as Diganhwy: there they parted. Then Ondyaw the son of the duke of Burgundy said to Geraint, “Go first of all and visit the uppermost parts of thy dominions, and see well to the boundaries of thy territories; and if thou hast any trouble respecting them, send unto thy companions.” “Heaven reward thee,” said Geraint, “and this will I do.” And Geraint journeyed to the uttermost part of his dominions. And experienced guides, and the chief men of his country, went with him. And the furthermost point that they showed him he kept possession of.

And, as he had been used to do when he was at Arthur’s Court, he frequented tournaments. And he became acquainted with valiant and mighty men, until he had gained as much fame there as he had formerly done elsewhere. And he enriched his Court, and his companions, and his nobles, with the best horses and the best arms, and with the best and most valuable jewels, and he ceased not until his fame had flown over the face of the whole kingdom. And when he knew that it was thus, he began to love ease and pleasure, for there was no one who was worth his opposing. And he loved his wife, and liked to continue in the palace, with minstrelsy and diversions. And for a long time he abode at home. And after that he began to shut himself up in the chamber of his wife, and he took no delight in anything besides, insomuch that he gave up the friendship of his nobles, together with his hunting and his amusements, and lost the hearts of all the host in his Court; and there was murmuring and scoffing concerning him among the inhabitants of the palace, on account of his relinquishing so completely their companionship for the love of his wife. And these tidings came to Erbin. And when Erbin had heard these things, he spoke unto Enid, and inquired of her whether it was she that had caused Geraint to act thus, and to forsake his people and his hosts. “Not I, by my confession unto Heaven,” said she, “there is nothing more hateful to me than this.” And she knew not what she should do, for, although it was hard for her to own this to Geraint, yet was it not more easy for her to listen to what she heard, without warning Geraint concerning it. And she was very sorrowful.

And one morning in the summer time, they were upon their couch, and Geraint lay upon the edge of it. And Enid was without sleep in the apartment, which had windows of glass. And the sun shone upon the couch. And the clothes had slipped from off his arms and his breast, and he was asleep. Then she gazed upon the marvellous beauty of his appearance, and she said, “Alas, and am I the cause that these arms and this breast have lost their glory and the warlike fame which they once so richly enjoyed!” And as she said this, the tears dropped from her eyes, and they fell upon his breast. And the tears she shed, and the words she had spoken, awoke him; and another thing contributed to awaken him, and that was the idea that it was not in thinking of him that she spoke thus, but that it was because she loved some other man more than him, and that she wished for other society, and thereupon Geraint was troubled in his mind, and he called his squire; and when he came to him, “Go quickly,” said he, “and prepare my horse and my arms, and make them ready. And do thou arise,” said he to Enid, “and apparel thyself; and cause thy horse to be accoutred, and clothe thee in the worst riding-dress that thou hast in thy possession. And evil betide me,” said he, “if thou returnest here until thou knowest whether I have lost my strength so completely as thou didst say. And if it be so, it will then be easy for thee to seek the society thou didst wish for of him of whom thou wast thinking.” So she arose, and clothed herself in her meanest garments. “I know nothing, Lord,” said she, “of thy meaning.” “Neither wilt thou know at this time,” said he.

Then Geraint went to see Erbin. “Sir,” said he, “I am going upon a quest, and I am not certain when I may come back. Take heed, therefore, unto thy possessions, until my return.” “I will do so,” said he, “but it is strange to me that thou shouldest go so suddenly. And who will proceed with thee, since thou art not strong enough to traverse the land of Lloegyr alone?” “But one person only will go with me.” “Heaven counsel thee, my son,” said Erbin, “and may many attach themselves to thee in Lloegyr.” Then went Geraint to the place where his horse was, and it was equipped with foreign armour, heavy and shining. And he desired Enid to mount her horse, and to ride forward, and to keep a long way before him. “And whatever thou mayest see, and whatever thou mayest hear concerning me,” said he, “do thou not turn back. And unless I speak unto thee, say not thou one word either.” And they set forward. And he did not choose the pleasantest and most frequented road, but that which was the wildest and most beset by thieves, and robbers, and venomous animals. And they came to a high road, which they followed till they saw a vast forest, and they went towards it, and they saw four armed horsemen come forth from the forest. When the horsemen had beheld them, one of them said to the others, “Behold, here is a good occasion for us to capture two horses and armour, and a lady likewise; for this we shall have no difficulty in doing against yonder single knight, who hangs his head so pensively and heavily.” And Enid heard this discourse, and she knew not what she should do through fear of Geraint, who had told her to be silent. “The vengeance of Heaven be upon me,” she said, “if I would not rather receive my death from his hand than from the hand of any other; and though he should slay me yet will I speak to him, lest I should have the misery to witness his death.” So she waited for Geraint until he came near to her. “Lord,” said she, “didst thou hear the words of those men concerning thee?” Then he lifted up his eyes, and looked at her angrily. “Thou hadst only,” said he, “to hold thy peace as I bade thee. I wish but for silence, and not for warning. And though thou shouldest desire to see my defeat and my death by the hands of those men, yet do I feel no dread.” Then the foremost of them couched his lance, and rushed upon Geraint. And he received him, and that not feebly. But he let the thrust go by him, while he struck the horseman upon the centre of his shield in such a manner that his shield was split, and his armour broken, and so that a cubit’s length of the shaft of Geraint’s lance passed through his body, and sent him to the earth, the length of the lance over his horse’s crupper. Then the second horseman attacked him furiously, being wroth at the death of his companion. But with one thrust Geraint overthrew him also, and killed him as he had done the other. Then the third set upon him, and he killed him in like manner. And thus also he slew the fourth. Sad and sorrowful was the maiden as she saw all this. Geraint dismounted from his horse, and took the arms of the men he had slain, and placed them upon their saddles, and tied together the reins of their horses, and he mounted his horse again. “Behold what thou must do,” said he; “take the four horses, and drive them before thee, and proceed forward, as I bade thee just now. And say not one word unto me, unless I speak first unto thee. And I declare unto Heaven,” said he, “if thou doest not thus, it will be to thy cost.” “I will do, as far as I can, Lord,” said she, “according to thy desire.” Then they went forward through the forest; and when they left the forest, they came to a vast plain, in the centre of which was a group of thickly tangled copse-wood; and from out thereof they beheld three horsemen coming towards them, well equipped with armour, both they and their horses. Then the maiden looked steadfastly upon them; and when they had come near, she heard them say one to another, “Behold, here is a good arrival for us; here are coming for us four horses and four suits of armour. We shall easily obtain them spite of yonder dolorous knight, and the maiden also will fall into our power.” “This is but too true,” said she to herself, “for my husband is tired with his former combat. The vengeance of Heaven will be upon me, unless I warn him of this.” So the maiden waited until Geraint came up to her. “Lord,” said she, “dust thou not hear the discourse of yonder men concerning thee?” “What was it?” asked he. “They say to one another, that they will easily obtain all this spoil.” “I declare to Heaven,” he answered, “that their words are less grievous to me than that thou wilt not be silent, and abide by my counsel.” “My Lord,” said she, “I feared lest they should surprise thee unawares.” “Hold thy peace, then,” said he, “do not I desire silence?” And thereupon one of the horsemen couched his lance, and attacked Geraint. And he made a thrust at him, which he thought would be very effective; but Geraint received it carelessly, and struck it aside, and then he rushed upon him, and aimed at the centre of his person, and from the shock of man and horse, the quantity of his armour did not avail him, and the head of the lance and part of the shaft passed through him, so that he was carried to the ground an arm and a spear’s length over the crupper of his horse. And both the other horsemen came forward in their turn, but their onset was not more successful than that of their companion. And the maiden stood by, looking at all this; and on the one hand she was in trouble lest Geraint should be wounded in his encounter with the men, and on the other hand she was joyful to see him victorious. Then Geraint dismounted, and bound the three suits of armour upon the three saddles, and he fastened the reins of all the horses together, so that he had seven horses with him. And he mounted his own horse, and commanded the maiden to drive forward the others. “It is no more use for me to speak to thee than to refrain, for thou wilt not attend to my advice.” “I will do so, as far as I am able, Lord,” said she; “but I cannot conceal from thee the fierce and threatening words which I may hear against thee, Lord, from such strange people as those that haunt this wilderness.” “I declare to Heaven,” said he, “that I desire nought but silence; therefore, hold thy peace.” “I will, Lord, while I can.” And the maiden went on with the horses before her, and she pursued her way straight onwards. And from the copse-wood already mentioned, they journeyed over a vast and dreary open plain. And at a great distance from them they beheld a wood, and they could see neither end nor boundary to the wood, except on that side that was nearest to them, and they went towards it. Then there came from out the wood five horsemen, eager, and bold, and mighty, and strong, mounted upon chargers that were powerful, and large of bone, and high-mettled, and proudly snorting, and both the men and the horses were well equipped with arms. And when they drew near to them, Enid heard them say, “Behold, here is a fine booty coming to us, which we shall obtain easily and without labour, for we shall have no trouble in taking all those horses and arms, and the lady also, from yonder single knight, so doleful and sad.”

Sorely grieved was the maiden upon hearing this discourse, so that she knew not in the world what she should do. At last, however, she determined to warn Geraint; so she turned her horse’s head towards him. “Lord,” said she, “if thou hadst heard as I did what yonder horsemen said concerning thee, thy heaviness would be greater than it is.” Angrily and bitterly did Geraint smile upon her, and he said, “Thee do I hear doing everything that I forbade thee; but it may be that thou will repent this yet.” And immediately, behold, the men met them, and victoriously and gallantly did Geraint overcome them all five. And he placed the five suits of armour upon the five saddles, and tied together the reins of the twelve horses, and gave them in charge to Enid. “I know not,” said he, “what good it is for me to order thee; but this time I charge thee in an especial manner.” So the maiden went forward towards the wood, keeping in advance of Geraint, as he had desired her; and it grieved him as much as his wrath would permit, to see a maiden so illustrious as she having so much trouble with the care of the horses. Then they reached the wood, and it was both deep and vast; and in the wood night overtook them. “Ah, maiden,” said he, “it is vain to attempt proceeding forward!” “Well, Lord,” said she, “whatsoever thou wishest, we will do.” “It will be best for us,” he answered, “to turn out of the wood, and to rest, and wait for the day, in order to pursue our journey.” “That will we, gladly,” said she. And they did so. Having dismounted himself, he took her down from her horse. “I cannot, by any means, refrain from sleep, through weariness,” said he. “Do thou, therefore, watch the horses, and sleep not.” “I will, Lord,” said she. Then he went to sleep in his armour, and thus passed the night, which was not long at that season. And when she saw the dawn of day appear, she looked around her, to see if he were waking, and thereupon he woke. “My Lord,” she said, “I have desired to awake thee for some time.” But he spake nothing to her about fatigue, as he had desired her to be silent. Then he arose, and said unto her, “Take the horses, and ride on; and keep straight on before thee as thou didst yesterday.” And early in the day they left the wood, and they came to an open country, with meadows on one hand, and mowers mowing the meadows. And there was a river before them, and the horses bent down, and drank the water. And they went up out of the river by a lofty steep; and there they met a slender stripling, with a satchel about his neck, and they saw that there was something in the satchel, but they knew not what it was. And he had a small blue pitcher in his hand, and a bowl on the mouth of the pitcher. And the youth saluted Geraint. “Heaven prosper thee,” said Geraint, “and whence dost thou come?” “I come,” said he, “from the city that lies before thee. My Lord,” he added, “will it be displeasing to thee if I ask whence thou comest also?” “By no means – through yonder wood did I come.” “Thou camest not through the wood today.” “No,” he replied, “we were in the wood last night.” “I warrant,” said the youth, “that thy condition there last night was not the most pleasant, and that thou hadst neither meat nor drink.” “No, by my faith,” said he. “Wilt thou follow my counsel,” said the youth, “and take thy meal from me?” “What sort of meal?” he inquired. “The breakfast which is sent for yonder mowers, nothing less than bread and meat and wine; and if thou wilt, Sir, they shall have none of it.” “I will,” said he, “and Heaven reward thee for it.”

So Geraint alighted, and the youth took the maiden from off her horse. Then they washed, and took their repast. And the youth cut the bread in slices, and gave them drink, and served them withal. And when they had finished, the youth arose, and said to Geraint, “My Lord, with thy permission, I will now go and fetch some food for the mowers.” “Go, first, to the town,” said Geraint, “and take a lodging for me in the best place that thou knowest, and the most commodious one for the horses, and take thou whichever horse and arms thou choosest in payment for thy service and thy gift.” “Heaven reward thee, Lord,” said the youth, “and this would be ample to repay services much greater than those I have rendered unto thee.” And to the town went the youth, and he took the best and the most pleasant lodgings that he knew; and after that he went to the palace, having the horse and armour with him, and proceeded to the place where the Earl was, and told him all his adventure. “I go now, Lord,” said he, “to meet the young man, and to conduct him to his lodging.” “Go, gladly,” said the Earl, “and right joyfully shall he be received here, if he so come.” And the youth went to meet Geraint, and told him that he would be received gladly by the Earl in his own palace; but he would go only to his lodgings. And he had a goodly chamber, in which was plenty of straw, and drapery, and a spacious and commodious place he had for the horses; and the youth prepared for them plenty of provender. And after they had disarrayed themselves, Geraint spoke thus to Enid: “Go,” said he, “to the other side of the chamber, and come not to this side of the house; and thou mayest call to thee the woman of the house, if thou wilt.” “I will do, Lord,” said she, “as thou sayest.” And thereupon the man of the house came to Geraint, and welcomed him. “Oh, chieftain,” he said, “hast thou taken thy meal?” “I have,” said he. Then the youth spoke to him, and inquired if he would not drink something before he met the Earl. “Truly I will,” said he. So the youth went into the town, and brought them drink. And they drank. “I must needs sleep,” said Geraint. “Well,” said the youth; “and whilst thou sleepest, I will go to see the Earl.” “Go, gladly,” he said, “and come here again when I require thee.” And Geraint went to sleep; and so did Enid also.

And the youth came to the place where the Earl was, and the Earl asked him where the lodgings of the knight were, and he told him. “I must go,” said the youth, “to wait on him in the evening.” “Go,” answered the Earl, “and greet him well from me, and tell him that in the evening I will go to see him.” “This will I do,” said the youth. So he came when it was time for them to awake. And they arose, and went forth. And when it was time for them to take their food, they took it. And the youth served them. And Geraint inquired of the man of the house, whether there were any of his companions that he wished to invite to him, and he said that there were. “Bring them hither, and entertain them at my cost with the best thou canst buy in the town.”

And the man of the house brought there those whom he chose, and feasted them at Geraint’s expense. Thereupon, behold, the Earl came to visit Geraint, and his twelve honourable knights with him. And Geraint rose up, and welcomed him. “Heaven preserve thee,” said the Earl. Then they all sat down according to their precedence in honour. And the Earl conversed with Geraint, and inquired of him the object of his journey. “I have none,” he replied, “but to seek adventures, and to follow my own inclination.” Then the Earl cast his eye upon Enid, and he looked at her steadfastly. And he thought he had never seen a maiden fairer or more comely than she. And he set all his thoughts and his affections upon her. Then he asked of Geraint, “Have I thy permission to go and converse with yonder maiden, for I see that she is apart from thee?” “Thou hast it gladly,” said he. So the Earl went to the place where the maiden was, and spake with her. “Ah, maiden,” said he, “it cannot be pleasant to thee to journey thus with yonder man!” “It is not unpleasant to me,” said she, “to journey the same road that he journeys.” “Thou hast neither youths nor maidens to serve thee,” said he. “Truly,” she replied, “it is more pleasant for me to follow yonder man, than to be served by youths and maidens.” “I will give thee good counsel,” said he. “All my Earldom will I place in thy possession, if thou wilt dwell with me.” “That will I not, by Heaven,” she said; “yonder man was the first to whom my faith was ever pledged; and shall I prove inconstant to him!” “Thou art in the wrong,” said the Earl; “if I slay the man yonder, I can keep thee with me as long as I choose; and when thou no longer pleasest me I can turn thee away. But if thou goest with me by thine own good will, I protest that our union shall continue eternal and undivided as long as I remain alive.” Then she pondered these words of his, and she considered that it was advisable to encourage him in his request. “Behold, then, chieftain, this is most expedient for thee to do to save me any needless imputation; come here tomorrow, and take me away as though I knew nothing thereof.” “I will do so,” said he. So he arose, and took his leave, and went forth with his attendants. And she told not then to Geraint any of the conversation which she had had with the Earl, lest it should rouse his anger, and cause him uneasiness and care.

And at the usual hour they went to sleep. And at the beginning of the night Enid slept a little; and at midnight she arose, and placed all Geraint’s armour together, so that it might be ready to put on. And although fearful of her errand, she came to the side of Geraint’s bed; and she spoke to him softly and gently, saying, “My Lord, arise, and clothe thyself, for these were the words of the Earl to me, and his intention concerning me.” So she told Geraint all that had passed. And although he was wroth with her, he took warning, and clothed himself. And she lighted a candle, that he might have light to do so. “Leave there the candle,” said he, “and desire the man of the house to come here.” Then she went, and the man of the house came to him. “Dost thou know how much I owe thee?” asked Geraint. “I think thou owest but little.” “Take the eleven horses and the eleven suits of armour.” “Heaven reward thee, lord,” said he, “but I spent not the value of one suit of armour upon thee.” “For that reason,” said he, “thou wilt be the richer. And now, wilt thou come to guide me out of the town?” “I will, gladly,” said he, “and in which direction dost thou intend to go?” “I wish to leave the town by a different way from that by which I entered it.” So the man of the lodgings accompanied him as far as he desired. Then he bade the maiden to go on before him; and she did so, and went straight forward, and his host returned home. And he had only just reached his house, when, behold, the greatest tumult approached that was ever heard. And when he looked out, he saw fourscore knights in complete armour around the house, with the Earl Dwnn at their head. “Where is the knight that was here?” said the Earl. “By thy hand,” said he, “he went hence some time ago.” “Wherefore, villain,” said he, “didst thou let him go without informing me?” “My Lord, thou didst not command me to do so, else would I not have allowed him to depart.” “What way dost thou think that he took?” “I know not, except that he went along the high road.” And they turned their horses’ heads that way, and seeing the tracks of the horses upon the high road, they followed. And when the maiden beheld the dawning of the day, she looked behind her, and saw vast clouds of dust coming nearer and nearer to her. And thereupon she became uneasy, and she thought that it was the Earl and his host coming after them. And thereupon she beheld a knight appearing through the mist. “By my faith,” said she, “though he should slay me, it were better for me to receive my death at his hands, than to see him killed without warning him. My Lord,” she said to him, “seest thou yonder man hastening after thee, and many others with him?” “I do see him,” said he; “and in despite of all my orders, I see that thou wilt never keep silence.” Then he turned upon the knight, and with the first thrust he threw him down under his horse’s feet. And as long as there remained one of the fourscore knights, he overthrew every one of them at the first onset. And from the weakest to the strongest, they all attacked him one after the other, except the Earl: and last of all the Earl came against him also. And he broke his lance, and then he broke a second. But Geraint turned upon him, and struck him with his lance upon the centre of his shield, so that by that single thrust the shield was split, and all his armour broken, and he himself was brought over his horse’s crupper to the ground, and was in peril of his life. And Geraint drew near to him; and at the noise of the trampling of his horse the Earl revived. “Mercy, Lord,” said he to Geraint. And Geraint granted him mercy. But through the hardness of the ground where they had fallen, and the violence of the stroke which they had received, there was not a single knight amongst them that escaped without receiving a fall, mortally severe, and grievously painful, and desperately wounding, from the hand of Geraint.

And Geraint journeyed along the high road that was before him, and the maiden went on first; and near them they beheld a valley which was the fairest ever seen, and which had a large river running through it; and there was a bridge over the river, and the high road led to the bridge. And above the bridge upon the opposite side of the river, they beheld a fortified town, the fairest ever seen. And as they approached the bridge, Geraint saw coming towards him from a thick copse a man mounted upon a large and lofty steed, even of pace and spirited though tractable. “Ah, knight,” said Geraint, “whence comest thou?” “I come,” said he, “from the valley below us.” “Canst thou tell me,” said Geraint, “who is the owner of this fair valley and yonder walled town?” “I will tell thee, willingly,” said he. “Gwiffert Petit he is called by the Franks, but the Cymry call him the Little King.” “Can I go by yonder bridge,” said Geraint, “and by the lower highway that is beneath the town?” Said the knight, “Thou canst not go by his tower on the other side of the bridge, unless thou dost intend to combat him; because it is his custom to encounter every knight that comes upon his lands.” “I declare to Heaven,” said Geraint, “that I will, nevertheless, pursue my journey that way.” “If thou dost so,” said the knight, “thou wilt probably meet with shame and disgrace in reward for thy daring.” Then Geraint proceeded along the road that led to the town, and the road brought him to a ground that was hard, and rugged, and high, and ridgy. And as he journeyed thus, he beheld a knight following him upon a warhorse, strong, and large, and proudly-stepping, and wide-hoofed, and broad-chested. And he never saw a man of smaller stature than he who was upon the horse. And both he and his horse were completely armed. When he had overtaken Geraint, he said to him, “Tell me, chieftain, whether it is through ignorance or through presumption that thou seekest to insult my dignity, and to infringe my rules.” “Nay,” answered Geraint, “I knew not this road was forbid to any.” “Thou didst know it,” said the other; “come with me to my Court, to give me satisfaction.” “That will I not, by my faith,” said Geraint; “I would not go even to thy Lord’s Court, excepting Arthur were thy Lord.” “By the hand of Arthur himself,” said the knight, “I will have satisfaction of thee, or receive my overthrow at thy hands.” And immediately they charged one another. And a squire of his came to serve him with lances as he broke them. And they gave each other such hard and severe strokes that their shields lost all their colour. But it was very difficult for Geraint to fight with him on account of his small size, for he was hardly able to get a full aim at him with all the efforts he could make. And they fought thus until their horses were brought down upon their knees; and at length Geraint threw the knight headlong to the ground; and then they fought on foot, and they gave one another blows so boldly fierce, so frequent, and so severely powerful, that their helmets were pierced, and their skullcaps were broken, and their arms were shattered, and the light of their eyes was darkened by sweat and blood. At the last Geraint became enraged, and he called to him all his strength; and boldly angry, and swiftly resolute, and furiously determined, he lifted up his sword, and struck him on the crown of his head a blow so mortally painful, so violent, so fierce, and so penetrating, that it cut through all his head armour, and his skin, and his flesh, until it wounded the very bone, and the sword flew out of the hand of the Little King to the furthest end of the plain, and he besought Geraint that he would have mercy and compassion upon him. “Though thou hast been neither courteous nor just,” said Geraint, “thou shalt have mercy, upon condition that thou wilt become my ally, and engage never to fight against me again, but to come to my assistance whenever thou hearest of my being in trouble.” “This will I do, gladly, Lord,” said he. So he pledged him his faith thereof. “And now, Lord, come with me,” said he, “to my Court yonder, to recover from thy weariness and fatigue.” “That will I not, by Heaven,” said he.

Then Gwiffert Petit beheld Enid where she stood, and it grieved him to see one of her noble mien appear so deeply afflicted. And he said to Geraint, “My Lord, thou doest wrong not to take repose, and refresh thyself awhile; for, if thou meetest with any difficulty in thy present condition, it will not be easy for thee to surmount it.” But Geraint would do no other than proceed on his journey, and he mounted his horse in pain, and all covered with blood. And the maiden went on first, and they proceeded towards the wood which they saw before them.

And the heat of the sun was very great, and through the blood and sweat, Geraint’s armour cleaved to his flesh; and when they came into the wood, he stood under a tree, to avoid the sun’s heat; and his wounds pained him more than they had done at the time when he received them. And the maiden stood under another tree. And lo! they heard the sound of horns, and a tumultuous noise; and the occasion of it was, that Arthur and his company had come down to the wood. And while Geraint was considering which way he should go to avoid them, behold, he was espied by a foot-page, who was an attendant on the Steward of the Household; and he went to the Steward, and told him what kind of man he had seen in the wood. Then the Steward caused his horse to be saddled, and he took his lance and his shield, and went to the place where Geraint was. “Ah, knight!” said he, “what dost thou here?” “I am standing under a shady tree, to avoid the heat and the rays of the sun.” “Wherefore is thy journey, and who art thou?” “I seek adventures, and go where I list.” “Indeed,” said Kai; “then come with me to see Arthur, who is here hard by.” “That will I not, by Heaven,” said Geraint. “Thou must needs come,” said Kai. Then Geraint knew who he was, but Kai did not know Geraint. And Kai attacked Geraint as best he could. And Geraint became wroth, and he struck him with the shaft of his lance, so that he rolled headlong to the ground. But chastisement worse than this would he not inflict on him.

Scared and wildly Kai arose, and he mounted his horse, and went back to his lodging. And thence he proceeded to Gwalchmai’s tent. “Oh, Sir,” said he to Gwalchmai, “I was told by one of the attendants, that he saw in the wood above a wounded knight, having on battered armour; and if thou dost right, thou wilt go and see if this be true.” “I care not if I do so,” said Gwalchmai. “Take, then, thy horse, and some of thy armour,” said Kai; “for I hear that he is not over courteous to those who approach him.” So Gwalchmai took his spear and his shield, and mounted his horse, and came to the spot where Geraint was. “Sir Knight,” said he, “wherefore is thy journey?” “I journey for my own pleasure, and to seek the adventures of the world.” “Wilt thou tell me who thou art; or wilt thou come and visit Arthur, who is near at hand?” “I will make no alliance with thee, nor will I go and visit Arthur,” said he. And he knew that it was Gwalchmai, but Gwalchmai knew him not. “I purpose not to leave thee,” said Gwalchmai, “till I know who thou art.” And he charged him with his lance, and struck him on his shield, so that the shaft was shivered into splinters, and their horses were front to front. Then Gwalchmai gazed fixedly upon him, and he knew him. “Ah, Geraint,” said he, “is it thou that art here?” “I am not Geraint,” said he. “Geraint thou art, by Heaven,” he replied, “and a wretched and insane expedition is this.” Then he looked around, and beheld Enid, and he welcomed her gladly. “Geraint,” said Gwalchmai, “come thou and see Arthur; he is thy lord and thy cousin.” “I will not,” said he, “for I am not in a fit state to go and see any one.” Thereupon, behold, one of the pages came after Gwalchmai to speak to him. So he sent him to apprise Arthur that Geraint was there wounded, and that he would not go to visit him, and that it was pitiable to see the plight that he was in. And this he did without Geraint’s knowledge, inasmuch as he spoke in a whisper to the page. “Entreat Arthur,” said he, “to have his tent brought near to the road, for he will not meet him willingly, and it is not easy to compel him in the mood he is in.” So the page came to Arthur, and told him this. And he caused his tent to be removed unto the side of the road. And the maiden rejoiced in her heart. And Gwalchmai led Geraint onwards along the road, till they came to the place where Arthur was encamped, and the pages were pitching his tent by the roadside. “Lord,” said Geraint, “all hail unto thee.” “Heaven prosper thee; and who art thou?” said Arthur. “It is Geraint,” said Gwalchmai, “and of his own free will would he not come to meet thee.” “Verily,” said Arthur, “he is bereft of his reason.” Then came Enid, and saluted Arthur. “Heaven protect thee,” said he. And thereupon he caused one of the pages to take her from her horse. “Alas! Enid,” said Arthur, “what expedition is this?” “I know not, Lord,” said she, “save that it behoves me to journey by the same road that he journeys.” “My Lord,” said Geraint, “with thy permission we will depart.” “Whither wilt thou go?” said Arthur. “Thou canst not proceed now, unless it be unto thy death.” “He will not suffer himself to be invited by me,” said Gwalchmai. “But by me he will,” said Arthur; “and, moreover, he does not go from here until he is healed.” “I had rather, Lord,” said Geraint, “that thou wouldest let me go forth.” “That will I not, I declare to Heaven,” said he. Then he caused a maiden to be sent for to conduct Enid to the tent where Gwenhwyvar’s chamber was. And Gwenhwyvar and all her women were joyful at her coming; and they took off her riding-dress, and placed other garments upon her. Arthur also called Kadyrieith, and ordered him to pitch a tent for Geraint and the physicians; and he enjoined him to provide him with abundance of all that might be requisite for him. And Kadyrieith did as he had commanded him. And Morgan Tud and his disciples were brought to Geraint.

And Arthur and his hosts remained there nearly a month, whilst Geraint was being healed. And when he was fully recovered, Geraint came to Arthur, and asked his permission to depart. “I know not if thou art quite well.” “In truth I am, Lord,” said Geraint. “I shall not believe thee concerning that, but the physicians that were with thee.” So Arthur caused the physicians to be summoned to him, and asked them if it were true. “It is true, Lord,” said Morgan Tud. So the next day Arthur permitted him to go forth, and he pursued his journey. And on the same day Arthur removed thence. And Geraint desired Enid to go on, and to keep before him, as she had formerly done. And she went forward along the high road. And as they journeyed thus, they heard an exceeding loud wailing near to them. “Stay thou here,” said he, “and I will go and see what is the cause of this wailing.” “I will,” said she. Then he went forward unto an open glade that was near the road. And in the glade he saw two horses, one having a man’s saddle, and the other a woman’s saddle upon it. And, behold, there was a knight lying dead in his armour, and a young damsel in a riding-dress standing over him, lamenting. “Ah! Lady,” said Geraint, “what hath befallen thee?” “Behold,” she answered, “I journeyed here with my beloved husband, when, lo! three giants came upon us, and without any cause in the world, they slew him.” “Which way went they hence?” said Geraint. “Yonder by the high road,” she replied. So he returned to Enid. “Go,” said he, “to the lady that is below yonder, and await me there till I come.” She was sad when he ordered her to do thus, but nevertheless she went to the damsel, whom it was ruth to hear, and she felt certain that Geraint would never return. Meanwhile Geraint followed the giants, and overtook them. And each of them was greater of stature than three other men, and a huge club was on the shoulder of each. Then he rushed upon one of them, and thrust his lance through his body. And having drawn it forth again, he pierced another of them through likewise. But the third turned upon him, and struck him with his club, so that he split his shield, and crushed his shoulder, and opened his wounds anew, and all his blood began to flow from him. But Geraint drew his sword, and attacked the giant, and gave him a blow on the crown of his head so severe, and fierce, and violent, that his head and his neck were split down to his shoulders, and he fell dead. So Geraint left him thus, and returned to Enid. And when he saw her, he fell down lifeless from his horse. Piercing, and loud, and thrilling was the cry that Enid uttered. And she came and stood over him where he had fallen. And at the sound of her cries came the Earl of Limours, and the host that journeyed with him, whom her lamentations brought out of their road. And the Earl said to Enid, “Alas, Lady, what hath befallen thee?” “Ah! good Sir,” said she, “the only man I have loved, or ever shall love, is slain.” Then he said to the other, “And what is the cause of thy grief?” “They have slain my beloved husband also,” said she. “And who was it that slew them?” “Some giants,” she answered, “slew my best-beloved, and the other knight went in pursuit of them, and came back in the state thou seest, his blood flowing excessively; but it appears to me that he did not leave the giants without killing some of them, if not all.” The Earl caused the knight that was dead to be buried, but he thought that there still remained some life in Geraint; and to see if he yet would live, he had him carried with him in the hollow of his shield, and upon a bier. And the two damsels went to the Court; and when they arrived there, Geraint was placed upon a litter-couch in front of the table that was in the hall. Then they all took off their travelling gear, and the Earl besought Enid to do the same, and to clothe herself in other garments. “I will not, by Heaven,” said she. “Ah! Lady,” said he, “be not so sorrowful for this matter.” “It were hard to persuade me to be otherwise,” said she. “I will act towards thee in such wise, that thou needest not be sorrowful, whether yonder knight live or die. Behold, a good Earldom, together with myself, will I bestow on thee; be, therefore, happy and joyful.” “I declare to Heaven,” said she, “that henceforth I shall never be joyful while I live.” “Come, then,” said he, “and eat.” “No, by Heaven, I will not,” she answered. “But, by Heaven, thou shalt,” said he. So he took her with him to the table against her will, and many times desired her to eat. “I call Heaven to witness,” said she, “that I will not eat until the man that is upon yonder bier shall eat likewise.” “Thou canst not fulfil that,” said the Earl, “yonder man is dead already.” “I will prove that I can,” said she. Then he offered her a goblet of liquor. “Drink this goblet,” he said, “and it will cause thee to change thy mind.” “Evil betide me,” she answered, “if I drink aught until he drink also.” “Truly,” said the Earl, “it is of no more avail for me to be gentle with thee than ungentle.” And he gave her a box on the ear. Thereupon she raised a loud and piercing shriek, and her lamentations were much greater than they had been before, for she considered in her mind that had Geraint been alive, he durst not have struck her thus. But, behold, at the sound of her cry, Geraint revived from his swoon, and he sat up on the bier, and finding his sword in the hollow of his shield, he rushed to the place where the Earl was, and struck him a fiercely-wounding, severely-venomous, and sternly-smiting blow upon the crown of his head, so that he clove him in twain, until his sword was stayed by the table. Then all left the board, and fled away. And this was not so much through fear of the living as through the dread they felt at seeing the dead man rise up to slay them. And Geraint looked upon Enid, and he was grieved for two causes; one was, to see that Enid had lost her colour and her wonted aspect, and the other, to know that she was in the right. “Lady,” said he, “knowest thou where our horses are?” “I know, Lord, where thy horse is,” she replied, “but I know not where is the other. Thy horse is in the house yonder.” So he went to the house, and brought forth his horse, and mounted him, and took up Enid from the ground, and placed her upon the horse with him. And he rode forward. And their road lay between two hedges. And the night was gaining on the day. And lo! they saw behind them the shafts of spears betwixt them and the sky, and they heard the trampling of horses, and the noise of a host approaching. “I hear something following us,” said he, “and I will put thee on the other side of the hedge.” And thus he did. And thereupon, behold, a knight pricked towards him, and couched his lance. When Enid saw this, she cried out, saying, “Oh! chieftain, whoever thou art, what renown wilt thou gain by slaying a dead man?” “Oh! Heaven,” said he, “is it Geraint?” “Yes, in truth,” said she. “And who art thou?” “I am the Little King,” he answered, “coming to thy assistance, for I heard that thou wast in trouble. And if thou hadst followed my advice, none of these hardships would have befallen thee.” “Nothing can happen,” said Geraint, “without the will of Heaven, though much good results from counsel.” “Yes,” said the Little King, “and I know good counsel for thee now. Come with me to the court of a son-in-law of my sister, which is near here, and thou shalt have the best medical assistance in the kingdom.” “I will do so gladly,” said Geraint. And Enid was placed upon the horse of one of the Little King’s squires, and they went forward to the Baron’s palace. And they were received there with gladness, and they met with hospitality and attention. And the next morning they went to seek physicians; and it was not long before they came, and they attended Geraint until he was perfectly well. And while Geraint was under medical care, the Little King caused his armour to be repaired, until it was as good as it had ever been. And they remained there a fortnight and a month.

Then the Little King said to Geraint, “Now will we go towards my own Court, to take rest, and amuse ourselves.” “Not so,” said Geraint, “we will first journey for one day more, and return again.” “With all my heart,” said the Little King, “do thou go then.” And early in the day they set forth. And more gladly and more joyfully did Enid journey with them that day than she had ever done. And they came to the main road. And when they reached a place where the road divided in two, they beheld a man on foot coming towards them along one of these roads, and Gwiffert asked the man whence he came. “I come,” said he, “from an errand in the country.” “Tell me,” said Geraint, “which is the best for me to follow of these two roads?” “That is the best for thee to follow,” answered he, “for if thou goest by this one, thou wilt never return. Below us,” said he, “there is a hedge of mist, and within it are enchanted games, and no one who has gone there has ever returned. And the Court of the Earl Owain is there, and he permits no one to go to lodge in the town, except he will go to his Court.” “I declare to Heaven,” said Geraint, “that we will take the lower road.” And they went along it until they came to the town. And they took the fairest and pleasantest place in the town for their lodging. And while they were thus, behold, a young man came to them, and greeted them. “Heaven be propitious to thee,” said they. “Good Sirs,” said he, “what preparations are you making here?” “We are taking up our lodging,” said they, “to pass the night.” “It is not the custom with him who owns the town,” he answered, “to permit any of gentle birth, unless they come to stay in his Court, to abide here; therefore, come ye to the Court.” “We will come, gladly,” said Geraint. And they went with the page, and they were joyfully received. And the Earl came to the hall to meet them, and he commanded the tables to be laid. And they washed, and sat down. And this is the order in which they sat: Geraint on one side of the Earl, and Enid on the other side, and next to Enid the Little King, and then the Countess next to Geraint; and all after that as became their rank. Then Geraint recollected the games, and thought that he should not go to them; and on that account he did not eat. Then the Earl looked upon Geraint, and considered, and he bethought him that his not eating was because of the games, and it grieved him that he had ever established those games, were it only on account of losing such a youth as Geraint. And if Geraint had asked him to abolish the games, he would gladly have done so. Then the Earl said to Geraint, “What thought occupies thy mind, that thou dost not eat? If thou hesitatest about going to the games, thou shalt not go, and no other of thy rank shall ever go either.” “Heaven reward thee,” said Geraint, “but I wish nothing better than to go to the games, and to be shown the way thither.” “If that is what thou dost prefer, thou shalt obtain it willingly.” “I do prefer it, indeed,” said he. Then they ate, and they were amply served, and they had a variety of gifts, and abundance of liquor. And when they had finished eating they arose. And Geraint called for his horse and his armour, and he accoutred both himself and his horse. And all the hosts went forth until they came to the side of the hedge, and the hedge was so lofty, that it reached as high as they could see in the air, and upon every stake in the hedge, except two, there was the head of a man, and the number of stakes throughout the hedge was very great. Then said the Little King, “May no one go in with the chieftain?” “No one may,” said Earl Owain. “Which way can I enter?” inquired Geraint. “I know not,” said Owain, “but enter by the way that thou wilt, and that seemeth easiest to thee.”

Then fearlessly and unhesitatingly Geraint dashed forward into the mist. And on leaving the mist, he came to a large orchard; and in the orchard he saw an open space, wherein was a tent of red satin; and the door of the tent was open, and an apple-tree stood in front of the door of the tent; and on a branch of the apple-tree hung a huge hunting-horn. Then he dismounted, and went into the tent; and there was no one in the tent save one maiden sitting in a golden chair, and another chair was opposite to her, empty. And Geraint went to the empty chair, and sat down therein. “Ah! chieftain,” said the maiden, “I would not counsel thee to sit in that chair.” “Wherefore?” said Geraint. “The man to whom that chair belongs has never suffered another to sit in it.” “I care not,” said Geraint, “though it displease him that I sit in the chair.” And thereupon they heard a mighty tumult around the tent. And Geraint looked to see what was the cause of the tumult. And he beheld without a knight mounted upon a warhorse, proudly snorting, high-mettled, and large of bone; and a robe of honour in two parts was upon him and upon his horse, and beneath it was plenty of armour. “Tell me, chieftain,” said he to Geraint, “who it was that bade thee sit there?” “Myself,” answered he. “It was wrong of thee to do me this shame and disgrace. Arise, and do me satisfaction for thine insolence.” Then Geraint arose; and they encountered immediately; and they broke a set of lances, and a second set, and a third; and they gave each other fierce and frequent strokes; and at last Geraint became enraged, and he urged on his horse, and rushed upon him, and gave him a thrust on the centre of his shield, so that it was split, and so that the head of his lance went through his armour, and his girths were broken, and he himself was borne headlong to the ground the length of Geraint’s lance and arm, over his horse’s crupper. “Oh, my Lord!” said he, “thy mercy, and thou shalt have what thou wilt.” “I only desire,” said Geraint, “that this game shall no longer exist here, nor the hedge of mist, nor magic, nor enchantment.” “Thou shalt have this gladly, Lord,” he replied. “Cause, then, the mist to disappear from this place,” said Geraint. “Sound yonder horn,” said he, “and when thou soundest it, the mist will vanish; but it will not go hence unless the horn be blown by the knight by whom I am vanquished.” And sad and sorrowful was Enid where she remained, through anxiety concerning Geraint. Then Geraint went and sounded the horn. And at the first blast he gave, the mist vanished. And all the hosts came together, and they all became reconciled to each other. And the Earl invited Geraint and the Little King to stay with him that night. And the next morning they separated. And Geraint went towards his own dominions; and thenceforth he reigned prosperously, and his warlike fame and splendour lasted with renown and honour both to him and to Enid from that time forth.

Kilhwch And Olwen

KILYDD THE SON OF Prince Kelyddon desired a wife as a helpmate, and the wife that he chose was Goleuddydd, the daughter of Prince Anlawdd. And after their union, the people put up prayers that they might have an heir. And they had a son through the prayers of the people. From the time of her pregnancy Goleuddydd became wild, and wandered about, without habitation; but when her delivery was at hand, her reason came back to her. Then she went to a mountain where there was a swineherd, keeping a herd of swine. And through fear of the swine the queen was delivered. And the swineherd took the boy, and brought him to the palace; and he was christened, and they called him Kilhwch, because he had been found in a swine’s burrow. Nevertheless the boy was of gentle lineage, and cousin unto Arthur; and they put him out to nurse.

After this the boy’s mother, Goleuddydd, the daughter of Prince Anlawdd, fell sick. Then she called her husband unto her, and said to him, “Of this sickness I shall die, and thou wilt take another wife. Now wives are the gift of the Lord, but it would be wrong for thee to harm thy son. Therefore I charge thee that thou take not a wife until thou see a briar with two blossoms upon my grave.” And this he promised her. Then she besought him to dress her grave every year, that nothing might grow thereon. So the queen died. Now the king sent an attendant every morning to see if anything were growing upon the grave. And at the end of the seventh year the master neglected that which he had promised to the queen.

One day the king went to hunt, and he rode to the place of burial to see the grave, and to know if it were time that he should take a wife; and the king saw the briar. And when he saw it, the king took counsel where he should find a wife. Said one of his counsellors, “I know a wife that will suit thee well, and she is the wife of King Doged.” And they resolved to go to seek her; and they slew the king, and brought away his wife and one daughter that she had along with her. And they conquered the king’s lands.

On a certain day, as the lady walked abroad, she came to the house of an old crone that dwelt in the town, and that had no tooth in her head. And the queen said to her, “Old woman, tell me that which I shall ask thee, for the love of Heaven. Where are the children of the man who has carried me away by violence?” Said the crone, “He has not children.” Said the queen, “Woe is me, that I should have come to one who is childless!” Then said the hag, “Thou needest not lament on account of that, for there is a prediction he shall have an heir by thee, and by none other. Moreover, be not sorrowful, for he has one son.”

The lady returned home with joy; and she asked her consort, “Wherefore hast thou concealed thy children from me?” The king said, “I will do so no longer.” And he sent messengers for his son, and he was brought to the Court. His stepmother said unto him, “It were well for thee to have a wife, and I have a daughter who is sought of every man of renown in the world.” “I am not yet of an age to wed,” answered the youth. Then said she unto him, “I declare to thee, that it is thy destiny not to be suited with a wife until thou obtain Olwen, the daughter of Yspaddaden Penkawr.” And the youth blushed, and the love of the maiden diffused itself through all his frame, although he had never seen her. And his father inquired of him, “What has come over thee, my son, and what aileth thee?” “My stepmother has declared to me that I shall never have a wife until I obtain Olwen, the daughter of Yspaddaden Penkawr.” “That will be easy for thee,” answered his father. “Arthur is thy cousin. Go, therefore, unto Arthur, to cut thy hair, and ask this of him as a boon.”

And the youth pricked forth upon a steed with head dappled grey, of four winters old, firm of limb, with shell-formed hoofs, having a bridle of linked gold on his head, and upon him a saddle of costly gold. And in the youth’s hand were two spears of silver, sharp, well-tempered, headed with steel, three ells in length, of an edge to wound the wind, and cause blood to flow, and swifter than the fall of the dewdrop from the blade of reed-grass upon the earth when the dew of June is at the heaviest. A gold-hilted sword was upon his thigh, the blade of which was of gold, bearing a cross of inlaid gold of the hue of the lightning of heaven: his war-horn was of ivory. Before him were two brindled white-breasted greyhounds, having strong collars of rubies about their necks, reaching from the shoulder to the ear. And the one that was on the left side bounded across to the right side, and the one on the right to the left, and like two sea-swallows sported around him. And his courser cast up four sods with his four hoofs, like four swallows in the air, about his head, now above, now below. About him was a four-cornered cloth of purple, and an apple of gold was at each corner, and every one of the apples was of the value of an hundred kine. And there was precious gold of the value of three hundred kine upon his shoes, and upon his stirrups, from his knee to the tip of his toe. And the blade of grass bent not beneath him, so light was his courser’s tread as he journeyed towards the gate of Arthur’s Palace.

Spoke the youth, “Is there a porter?” “There is; and if thou holdest not thy peace, small will be thy welcome. I am Arthur’s porter every first day of January. And during every other part of the year but this, the office is filled by Huandaw, and Gogigwc, and Llaeskenym, and Pennpingyon, who goes upon his head to save his feet, neither towards the sky nor towards the earth, but like a rolling stone upon the floor of the court.” “Open the portal.” “I will not open it.” “Wherefore not?” “The knife is in the meat, and the drink is in the horn, and there is revelry in Arthur’s Hall, and none may enter therein but the son of a king of a privileged country, or a craftsman bringing his craft. But there will be refreshment for thy dogs, and for thy horses; and for thee there will be collops cooked and peppered, and luscious wine and mirthful songs, and food for fifty men shall be brought unto thee in the guest chamber, where the stranger and the sons of other countries eat, who come not unto the precincts of the Palace of Arthur. Thou wilt fare no worse there than thou wouldest with Arthur in the Court. A lady shall smooth thy couch, and shall lull thee with songs; and early tomorrow morning, when the gate is open for the multitude that come hither today, for thee shall it be opened first, and thou mayest sit in the place that thou shalt choose in Arthur’s Hall, from the upper end to the lower.” Said the youth, “That will I not do. If thou openest the gate, it is well. If thou dost not open it, I will bring disgrace upon thy Lord, and evil report upon thee. And I will set up three shouts at this very gate, than which none were ever more deadly, from the top of Pengwaed in Cornwall to the bottom of Dinsol, in the North, and to Esgair Oervel, in Ireland. And all the women in this Palace that are pregnant shall lose their offspring; and such as are not pregnant, their hearts shall be turned by illness, so that they shall never bear children from this day forward.” “What clamour soever thou mayest make,” said Glewlwyd Gavaelvawr, “against the laws of Arthur’s Palace shalt thou not enter therein, until I first go and speak with Arthur.”

Then Glewlwyd went into the Hall. And Arthur said to him, “Hast thou news from the gate?” – “Half of my life is past, and half of thine. I was heretofore in Kaer Se and Asse, in Sach and Salach, in Lotor and Fotor; and I have been heretofore in India the Great and India the Lesser; and I was in the battle of Dau Ynyr, when the twelve hostages were brought from Llychlyn. And I have also been in Europe, and in Africa, and in the islands of Corsica, and in Caer Brythwch, and Brythach, and Verthach; and I was present when formerly thou didst slay the family of Clis the son of Merin, and when thou didst slay Mil Du the son of Ducum, and when thou didst conquer Greece in the East. And I have been in Caer Oeth and Annoeth, and in Caer Nevenhyr; nine supreme sovereigns, handsome men, saw we there, but never did I behold a man of equal dignity with him who is now at the door of the portal.” Then said Arthur, “If walking thou didst enter in here, return thou running. And every one that beholds the light, and every one that opens and shuts the eye, let them shew him respect, and serve him, some with gold-mounted drinking-horns, others with collops cooked and peppered, until food and drink can be prepared for him. It is unbecoming to keep such a man as thou sayest he is, in the wind and the rain.” Said Kai, “By the hand of my friend, if thou wouldest follow my counsel, thou wouldest not break through the laws of the Court because of him.” “Not so, blessed Kai. It is an honour to us to be resorted to, and the greater our courtesy the greater will be our renown, and our fame, and our glory.”

And Glewlwyd came to the gate, and opened the gate before him; and although all dismounted upon the horseblock at the gate, yet did he not dismount, but rode in upon his charger. Then said Kilhwch, “Greeting be unto thee, Sovereign Ruler of this Island; and be this greeting no less unto the lowest than unto the highest, and be it equally unto thy guests, and thy warriors, and thy chieftains – let all partake of it as completely as thyself. And complete be thy favour, and thy fame, and thy glory, throughout all this Island.” “Greeting unto thee also,” said Arthur; “sit thou between two of my warriors, and thou shalt have minstrels before thee, and thou shalt enjoy the privileges of a king born to a throne, as long as thou remainest here. And when I dispense my presents to the visitors and strangers in this Court, they shall be in thy hand at my commencing.” Said the youth, “I came not here to consume meat and drink; but if I obtain the boon that I seek, I will requite it thee, and extol thee; and if I have it not, I will bear forth thy dispraise to the four quarters of the world, as far as thy renown has extended.” Then said Arthur, “Since thou wilt not remain here, chieftain, thou shalt receive the boon whatsoever thy tongue may name, as far as the wind dries, and the rain moistens, and the sun revolves, and the sea encircles, and the earth extends; save only my ship; and my mantle; and Caledvwlch, my sword; and Rhongomyant, my lance; and Wynebgwrthucher, my shield; and Carnwenhau, my dagger; and Gwenhwyvar, my wife. By the truth of Heaven, thou shalt have it cheerfully, name what thou wilt.” “I would that thou bless my hair.” “That shall be granted thee.”

And Arthur took a golden comb, and scissors, whereof the loops were of silver, and he combed his hair. And Arthur inquired of him who he was. “For my heart warms unto thee, and I know that thou art come of my blood. Tell me, therefore, who thou art.” “I will tell thee,” said the youth. “I am Kilhwch, the son of Kilydd, the son of Prince Kelyddon, by Goleuddydd, my mother, the daughter of Prince Anlawdd.” “That is true,” said Arthur; “thou art my cousin. Whatsoever boon thou mayest ask, thou shalt receive, be it what it may that thy tongue shall name.” “Pledge the truth of Heaven and the faith of thy kingdom thereof.” “I pledge it thee, gladly.” “I crave of thee then, that thou obtain for me Olwen, the daughter of Yspaddaden Penkawr; and this boon I likewise seek at the hands of thy warriors. I seek it from Kai, and Bedwyr, and Greidawl Galldonyd, and Gwythyr the son of Greidawl, and Greid the son of Eri, and Kynddelig Kyvarwydd, and Tathal Twyll Goleu, and Maelwys the son of Baeddan, and Crychwr the son of Nes, and Cubert the son of Daere, and Percos the son of Poch, and Lluber Beuthach, and Corvil Bervach, and Gwynn the son of Nudd, and Edeyrn the son of Nudd, and Gadwy the son of Geraint, and Prince Fflewddur Fflam, and Ruawn Pebyr the son of Dorath, and Bradwen the son of Moren Mynawc, and Moren Mynawc himself, and Dalldav the son of Kimin Côv, and the son of Alun Dyved, and the son of Saidi, and the son of Gwryon, and Uchtryd Ardywad Kad, and Kynwas Curvagyl, and Gwrhyr Gwarthegvras, and Isperyr Ewingath, and Gallcoyt Govynynat, and Duach, and Grathach, and Nerthach, the sons of Gwawrddur Kyrvach (these men came forth from the confines of hell), and Kilydd Canhastyr, and Canastyr Kanllaw, and Cors Cant-Ewin, and Esgeir Gulhwch Govynkawn, and Drustwrn Hayarn, and Glewlwyd Gavaelvawr, and Lloch Llawwynnyawc, and Aunwas Adeiniawc, and Sinnoch the son of Seithved, and Gwennwynwyn the son of Naw, and Bedyw the son of Seithved, and Gobrwy the son of Echel Vorddwyttwll, and Echel Vorddwyttwll himself, and Mael the son of Roycol, and Dadweir Dallpenn, and Garwyli the son of Gwythawc Gwyr, and Gwythawc Gwyr himself, and Gormant the son of Ricca, and Menw the son of Teirgwaedd, and Digon the son of Alar, and Selyf the son of Smoit, and Gusg the son of Atheu, and Nerth the son of Kedarn, and Drudwas the son of Tryffin, and Twrch the son of Perif, and Twrch the son of Annwas, and Iona king of France, and Sel the son of Selgi, and Teregud the son of Iaen, and Sulyen the son of Iaen, and Bradwen the son of Iaen, and Moren the son of Iaen, and Siawn the son of Iaen, and Cradawc the son of Iaen. (They were men of Caerdathal, of Arthur’s kindred on his father’s side.) Dirmyg the son of Kaw, and Justic the son of Kaw, and Etmic the son of Kaw, and Anghawd the son of Kaw, and Ovan the son of Kaw, and Kelin the son of Kaw, and Connyn the son of Kaw, and Mabsant the son of Kaw, and Gwyngad the son of Kaw, and Llwybyr the son of Kaw, and Coth the son of Kaw, and Meilic the son of Kaw, and Kynwas the son of Kaw, and Ardwyad the son of Kaw, and Ergyryad the son of Kaw, and Neb the son of Kaw, and Gilda the son of Kaw, and Calcas the son of Kaw, and Hueil the son of Kaw (he never yet made a request at the hand of any Lord). And Samson Vinsych, and Taliesin the chief of the bards, and Manawyddan the son of Llyr, and Llary the son of Prince Kasnar, and Ysperni the son of Fflergant king of Armorica, and Saranhon the son of Glythwyr, and Llawr Eilerw, and Annyanniawc the son of Menw the son of Teirgwaedd, and Gwynn the son of Nwyvre, and Fflam the son of Nwyvre, and Geraint the son of Erbin, and Ermid the son of Erbin, and Dyvel the son of Erbin, and Gwynn the son of Ermid, and Kyndrwyn the son of Ermid, and Hyveidd Unllenn, and Eiddon Vawr Vrydic, and Reidwn Arwy, and Gormant the son of Ricca (Arthur’s brother by his mother’s side; the Penhynev of Cornwall was his father), and Llawnrodded Varvawc, and Nodawl Varyf Twrch, and Berth the son of Kado, and Rheidwn the son of Beli, and Iscovan Hael, and Iscawin the son of Panon, and Morvran the son of Tegid (no one struck him in the battle of Camlan by reason of his ugliness; all thought he was an auxiliary devil. Hair had he upon him like the hair of a stag). And Sandde Bryd Angel (no one touched him with a spear in the battle of Camlan because of his beauty; all thought he was a ministering angel). And Kynwyl Sant (the third man that escaped from the battle of Camlan, and he was the last who parted from Arthur on Hengroen his horse). And Uchtryd the son of Erim, and Eus the son of Erim, and Henwas Adeinawg the son of Erim, and Henbedestyr the son of Erim, and Sgilti Yscawndroed the son of Erim. (Unto these three men belonged these three qualities, – With Henbedestyr there was not any one who could keep pace, either on horseback or on foot; with Henwas Adeinawg, no four-footed beast could run the distance of an acre, much less could it go beyond it; and as to Sgilti Yscawndroed, when he intended to go upon a message for his Lord, he never sought to find a path, but knowing whither he was to go, if his way lay through a wood he went along the tops of the trees. During his whole life, a blade of reed grass bent not beneath his feet, much less did one ever break, so lightly did he tread.) Teithi Hên the son of Gwynhan (his dominions were swallowed up by the sea, and he himself hardly escaped, and he came to Arthur; and his knife had this peculiarity, that from the time that he came there no haft would ever remain upon it, and owing to this a sickness came over him, and he pined away during the remainder of his life, and of this he died). And Carneddyr the son of Govynyon Hên, and Gwenwynwyn the son of Nav Gyssevin, Arthur’s champion, and Llysgadrudd Emys, and Gwrbothu Hên (uncles unto Arthur were they, his mother’s brothers). Kulvanawyd the son of Goryon, and Llenlleawg Wyddel from the headland of Ganion, and Dyvynwal Moel, and Dunard king of the North, Teirnon Twryf Bliant, and Tegvan Gloff, and Tegyr Talgellawg, Gwrdinal the son of Ebrei, and Morgant Hael, Gwystyl the son of Rhun the son of Nwython, and Llwyddeu the son of Nwython, and Gwydre the son of Llwyddeu (Gwenabwy the daughter of [Kaw] was his mother, Hueil his uncle stabbed him, and hatred was between Hueil and Arthur because of the wound). Drem the son of Dremidyd (when the gnat arose in the morning with the sun, he could see it from Gelli Wic in Cornwall, as far off as Pen Blathaon in North Britain). And Eidyol the son of Ner, and Glwyddyn Saer (who constructed Ehangwen, Arthur’s Hall). Kynyr Keinvarvawc (when he was told he had a son born he said to his wife, “Damsel, if thy son be mine, his heart will be always cold, and there will be no warmth in his hands; and he will have another peculiarity, if he is my son he will always be stubborn; and he will have another peculiarity, when he carries a burden, whether it be large or small, no one will be able to see it, either before him or at his back; and he will have another peculiarity, no one will be able to resist fire and water so well as he will; and he will have another peculiarity, there will never be a servant or an officer equal to him”). Henwas, and Henwyneb (an old companion to Arthur). Gwallgoyc (another; when he came to a town, though there were three hundred houses in it, if he wanted anything, he would not let sleep come to the eyes of any one whilst he remained there). Berwyn the son of Gerenhir, and Paris king of France, and Osla Gyllellvawr (who bore a short broad dagger. When Arthur and his hosts came before a torrent, they would seek for a narrow place where they might pass the water, and would lay the sheathed dagger across the torrent, and it would form a bridge sufficient for the armies of the three Islands of Britain, and of the three islands adjacent, with their spoil). Gwyddawg the son of Menestyr (who slew Kai, and whom Arthur slew, together with his brothers, to revenge Kai). Garanwyn the son of Kai, and Amren the son of Bedwyr, and Ely Amyr, and Rheu Rhwyd Dyrys, and Rhun Rhudwern, and Eli, and Trachmyr (Arthur’s chief huntsmen). And Llwyddeu the son of Kelcoed, and Hunabwy the son of Gwryon, and Gwynn Godyvron, and Gweir Datharwenniddawg, and Gweir the son of Cadell the son of Talaryant, and Gweir Gwrhyd Ennwir, and Gweir Paladyr Hir (the uncles of Arthur, the brothers of his mother). The sons of Llwch Llawwynnyawg (from beyond the raging sea). Llenlleawg Wyddel, and Ardderchawg Prydain. Cas the son of Saidi, Gwrvan Gwallt Avwyn, and Gwyllennhin the king of France, and Gwittart the son of Oedd king of Ireland. Garselit Wyddel, Panawr Pen Bagad, and Ffleudor the son of Nav, Gwynnhyvar mayor of Cornwall and Devon (the ninth man that rallied the battle of Camlan). Keli and Kueli, and Gilla Coes Hydd (he would clear three hundred acres at one bound: the chief leaper of Ireland was he). Sol, and Gwadyn Ossol, and Gwadyn Odyeith. (Sol could stand all day upon one foot. Gwadyn Ossol, if he stood upon the top of the highest mountain in the world, it would become a level plain under his feet. Gwadyn Odyeith, the soles of his feet emitted sparks of fire when they struck upon things hard, like the heated mass when drawn out of the forge. He cleared the way for Arthur when he came to any stoppage.) Hirerwm and Hiratrwm. (The day they went on a visit three Cantrevs provided for their entertainment, and they feasted until noon and drank until night, when they went to sleep. And then they devoured the heads of the vermin through hunger, as if they had never eaten anything. When they made a visit they left neither the fat nor the lean, neither the hot nor the cold, the sour nor the sweet, the fresh nor the salt, the boiled nor the raw.) Huarwar the son of Aflawn (who asked Arthur such a boon as would satisfy him. It was the third great plague of Cornwall when he received it. None could get a smile from him but when he was satisfied). Gware Gwallt Euryn. The two cubs of Gast Rhymi, Gwyddrud and Gwyddneu Astrus. Sugyn the son of Sugnedydd (who would suck up the sea on which were three hundred ships so as to leave nothing but a dry strand. He was broad-chested). Rhacymwri, the attendant of Arthur (whatever barn he was shown, were there the produce of thirty ploughs within it, he would strike it with an iron flail until the rafters, the beams, and the boards were no better than the small oats in the mow upon the floor of the barn). Dygyflwng and Anoeth Veidawg. And Hir Eiddyl, and Hir Amreu (they were two attendants of Arthur). And Gwevyl the son of Gwestad (on the day that he was sad, he would let one of his lips drop below his waist, while he turned up the other like a cap upon his head). Uchtryd Varyf Draws (who spread his red untrimmed beard over the eight-and-forty rafters which were in Arthur’s Hall). Elidyr Gyvarwydd. Yskyrdav and Yscudydd (two attendants of Gwenhwyvar were they. Their feet were swift as their thoughts when bearing a message). Brys the son of Bryssethach (from the Hill of the Black Fernbrake in North Britain). And Grudlwyn Gorr. Bwlch, and Kyfwlch, and Sefwlch, the sons of Cleddyf Kyfwlch, the grandsons of Cleddyf Difwlch. (Their three shields were three gleaming glitterers; their three spears were three pointed piercers; their three swords were three grinding gashers; Glas, Glessic, and Gleisad. Their three dogs, Call, Cuall, and Cavall. Their three horses, Hwyrdyddwd, and Drwgdyddwd, and Llwyrdyddwg. Their three wives, Och, and Garym, and Diaspad. Their three grandchildren, Lluched, and Neved, and Eissiwed. Their three daughters, Drwg, and Gwaeth, and Gwaethav Oll. Their three hand-maids, Eheubryd the daughter of Kyfwlch, Gorascwrn the daughter of Nerth, Ewaedan the daughter of Kynvelyn Keudawd Pwyll the half-man.) Dwnn Diessic Unbenn, Eiladyr the son of Pen Llarcau, Kynedyr Wyllt the son of Hettwn Talaryant, Sawyl Ben Uchel, Gwalchmai the son of Gwyar, Gwalhaved the son of Gwyar, Gwrhyr Gwastawd Ieithoedd (to whom all tongues were known), and Kethcrwm the Priest. Clust the son of Clustveinad (though he were buried seven cubits beneath the earth, he would hear the ant fifty miles off rise from her nest in the morning). Medyr the son of Methredydd (from Gelli Wic he could, in a twinkling, shoot the wren through the two legs upon Esgeir Oervel in Ireland). Gwiawn Llygad Cath (who could cut a haw from the eye of the gnat without hurting him). Ol the son of Olwydd (seven years before he was born his father’s swine were carried off, and when he grew up a man he tracked the swine, and brought them back in seven herds). Bedwini the Bishop (who blessed Arthur’s meat and drink). For the sake of the golden-chained daughters of this island. For the sake of Gwenhwyvar its chief lady, and Gwennhwyach her sister, and Rathtyeu the only daughter of Clemenhill, and Rhelemon the daughter of Kai, and Tannwen the daughter of Gweir Datharwenîddawg. Gwenn Alarch the daughter of Kynwyl Canbwch. Eurneid the daughter of Clydno Eiddin. Eneuawc the daughter of Bedwyr. Enrydreg the daughter of Tudvathar. Gwennwledyr the daughter of Gwaledyr Kyrvach. Erddudnid the daughter of Tryffin. Eurolwen the daughter of Gwdolwyn Gorr. Teleri the daughter of Peul. Indeg the daughter of Garwy Hir. Morvudd the daughter of Urien Rheged. Gwenllian Deg the majestic maiden. Creiddylad the daughter of Lludd Llaw Ereint. (She was the most splendid maiden in the three Islands of the mighty, and in the three Islands adjacent, and for her Gwythyr the son of Greidawl and Gwynn the son of Nudd fight every first of May until the day of doom.) Ellylw the daughter of Neol Kynn-Crog (she lived three ages). Essyllt Vinwen and Essyllt Vingul.” And all these did Kilhwch the son of Kilydd adjure to obtain his boon.

Then said Arthur, “Oh! chieftain, I have never heard of the maiden of whom thou speakest, nor of her kindred, but I will gladly send messengers in search of her. Give me time to seek her.” And the youth said, “I will willingly grant from this night to that at the end of the year to do so.” Then Arthur sent messengers to every land within his dominions to seek for the maiden; and at the end of the year Arthur’s messengers returned without having gained any knowledge or intelligence concerning Olwen more than on the first day. Then said Kilhwch, “Every one has received his boon, and I yet lack mine. I will depart and bear away thy honour with me.” Then said Kai, “Rash chieftain! dost thou reproach Arthur? Go with us, and we will not part until thou dost either confess that the maiden exists not in the world, or until we obtain her.” Thereupon Kai rose up. Kai had this peculiarity, that his breath lasted nine nights and nine days under water, and he could exist nine nights and nine days without sleep. A wound from Kai’s sword no physician could heal. Very subtle was Kai. When it pleased him he could render himself as tall as the highest tree in the forest. And he had another peculiarity, – so great was the heat of his nature, that, when it rained hardest, whatever he carried remained dry for a handbreadth above and a handbreadth below his hand; and when his companions were coldest, it was to them as fuel with which to light their fire.

And Arthur called Bedwyr, who never shrank from any enterprise upon which Kai was bound. None was equal to him in swiftness throughout this island except Arthur and Drych Ail Kibddar. And although he was one-handed, three warriors could not shed blood faster than he on the field of battle. Another property he had; his lance would produce a wound equal to those of nine opposing lances.

And Arthur called to Kynddelig the Guide, “Go thou upon this expedition with the chieftain.” For as good a guide was he in a land which he had never seen as he was in his own.

He called Gwrhyr Gwalstawt Ieithoedd, because he knew all tongues.

He called Gwalchmai the son of Gwyar, because he never returned home without achieving the adventure of which he went in quest. He was the best of footmen and the best of knights. He was nephew to Arthur, the son of his sister, and his cousin.

And Arthur called Menw the son of Teirgwaedd, in order that if they went into a savage country, he might cast a charm and an illusion over them, so that none might see them whilst they could see every one.

They journeyed until they came to a vast open plain, wherein they saw a great castle, which was the fairest of the castles of the world. And they journeyed that day until the evening, and when they thought they were nigh to the castle, they were no nearer to it than they had been in the morning. And the second and the third day they journeyed, and even then scarcely could they reach so far. And when they came before the castle, they beheld a vast flock of sheep, which was boundless and without an end. And upon the top of a mound there was a herdsman, keeping the sheep. And a rug made of skins was upon him; and by his side was a shaggy mastiff, larger than a steed nine winters old. Never had he lost even a lamb from his flock, much less a large sheep. He let no occasion ever pass without doing some hurt and harm. All the dead trees and bushes in the plain he burnt with his breath down to the very ground.

Then said Kai, “Gwrhyr Gwalstawt Ieithoedd, go thou and salute yonder man.” “Kai,” said he, “I engaged not to go further than thou thyself.” “Let us go then together,” answered Kai. Said Menw the son of Teirgwaedd, “Fear not to go thither, for I will cast a spell upon the dog, so that he shall injure no one.” And they went up to the mound whereon the herdsman was, and they said to him, “How dost thou fare, O herdsman?” “No less fair be it to you than to me.” “Truly, art thou the chief?” “There is no hurt to injure me but my own.” “Whose are the sheep that thou dost keep, and to whom does yonder castle belong?” “Stupid are ye, truly! Through the whole world is it known that this is the castle of Yspaddaden Penkawr.” “And who art thou?” “I am called Custennin the son of Dyfnedig, and my brother Yspaddaden Penkawr oppressed me because of my possessions. And ye also, who are ye?” “We are an embassy from Arthur, come to seek Olwen the daughter of Yspaddaden Penkawr.” “Oh men! the mercy of Heaven be upon you, do not that for all the world. None who ever came hither on this quest has returned alive.” And the herdsman rose up. And as he arose, Kilhwch gave unto him a ring of gold. And he sought to put on the ring, but it was too small for him, so he placed it in the finger of his glove. And he went home, and gave the glove to his spouse to keep. And she took the ring from the glove when it was given her, and she said, “Whence came this ring, for thou art not wont to have good fortune?” “I went,” said he, “to the sea to seek for fish, and lo, I saw a corpse borne by the waves. And a fairer corpse than it did I never behold. And from its finger did I take this ring.” “O man! does the sea permit its dead to wear jewels? Show me then this body.” “Oh wife, him to whom this ring belonged thou shalt see here in the evening.” “And who is he?” asked the woman, “Kilhwch the son of Kilydd, the son of Prince Kelyddon, by Goleuddydd the daughter of Prince Anlawdd, his mother, who is come to seek Olwen as his wife.” And when she heard that, her feelings were divided between the joy that she had that her nephew, the son of her sister, was coming to her, and sorrow because she had never known any one depart alive who had come on that quest.

And they went forward to the gate of Custennin the herdsman’s dwelling. And when she heard their footsteps approaching, she ran out with joy to meet them. And Kai snatched a billet out of the pile. And when she met them she sought to throw her arms about their necks. And Kai placed the log between her two hands, and she squeezed it so that it became a twisted coil. “Oh woman,” said Kai, “if thou hadst squeezed me thus, none could ever again have set their affections on me. Evil love were this.” They entered into the house, and were served; and soon after they all went forth to amuse themselves. Then the woman opened a stone chest that was before the chimney-corner, and out of it arose a youth with yellow curling hair. Said Gwrhyr, “It is a pity to hide this youth. I know that it is not his own crime that is thus visited upon him.” “This is but a remnant,” said the woman. “Three-and-twenty of my sons has Yspaddaden Penkawr slain, and I have no more hope of this one than of the others.” Then said Kai, “Let him come and be a companion with me, and he shall not be slain unless I also am slain with him.” And they ate. And the woman asked them, “Upon what errand come you here?” “We come to seek Olwen for this youth.” Then said the woman, “In the name of Heaven, since no one from the castle hath yet seen you, return again whence you came.” “Heaven is our witness, that we will not return until we have seen the maiden.” Said Kai, “Does she ever come hither, so that she may be seen?” “She comes here every Saturday to wash her head, and in the vessel where she washes, she leaves all her rings, and she never either comes herself or sends any messengers to fetch them.”

“Will she come here if she is sent to?” “Heaven knows that I will not destroy my soul, nor will I betray those that trust me; unless you will pledge me your faith that you will not harm her, I will not send to her.” “We pledge it,” said they. So a message was sent, and she came.

The maiden was clothed in a robe of flame-coloured silk, and about her neck was a collar of ruddy gold, on which were precious emeralds and rubies. More yellow was her head than the flower of the broom, and her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave, and fairer were her hands and her fingers than the blossoms of the wood anemone amidst the spray of the meadow fountain. The eye of the trained hawk, the glance of the three-mewed falcon was not brighter than hers. Her bosom was more snowy than the breast of the white swan, her cheek was redder than the reddest roses. Whoso beheld her was filled with her love. Four white trefoils sprung up wherever she trod. And therefore was she called Olwen.

She entered the house, and sat beside Kilhwch upon the foremost bench; and as soon as he saw her he knew her. And Kilhwch said unto her, “Ah! maiden, thou art she whom I have loved; come away with me, lest they speak evil of thee and of me. Many a day have I loved thee.” “I cannot do this, for I have pledged my faith to my father not to go without his counsel, for his life will last only until the time of my espousals. Whatever is, must be. But I will give thee advice if thou wilt take it. Go, ask me of my father, and that which he shall require of thee, grant it, and thou wilt obtain me; but if thou deny him anything, thou wilt not obtain me, and it will be well for thee if thou escape with thy life.” “I promise all this, if occasion offer,” said he.

She returned to her chamber, and they all rose up and followed her to the castle. And they slew the nine porters that were at the nine gates in silence. And they slew the nine watch-dogs without one of them barking. And they went forward to the hall.

“The greeting of Heaven and of man be unto thee, Yspaddaden Penkawr,” said they. “And you, wherefore come you?” “We come to ask thy daughter Olwen, for Kilhwch the son of Kilydd, the son of Prince Kelyddon.” “Where are my pages and my servants? Raise up the forks beneath my two eyebrows which have fallen over my eyes, that I may see the fashion of my son-in-law.” And they did so. “Come hither tomorrow, and you shall have an answer.”

They rose to go forth, and Yspaddaden Penkawr seized one of the three poisoned darts that lay beside him, and threw it after them. And Bedwyr caught it, and flung it, and pierced Yspaddaden Penkawr grievously with it through the knee. Then he said, “A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly. I shall ever walk the worse for his rudeness, and shall ever be without a cure. This poisoned iron pains me like the bite of a gadfly. Cursed be the smith who forged it, and the anvil whereon it was wrought! So sharp is it!”

That night also they took up their abode in the house of Custennin the herdsman. The next day with the dawn they arrayed themselves in haste and proceeded to the castle, and entered the hall, and they said, “Yspaddaden Penkawr, give us thy daughter in consideration of her dower and her maiden fee, which we will pay to thee and to her two kinswomen likewise. And unless thou wilt do so, thou shalt meet with thy death on her account.” Then he said, “Her four great-grandmothers, and her four great-grandsires are yet alive, it is needful that I take counsel of them.” “Be it so,” answered they, “we will go to meat.” As they rose up, he took the second dart that was beside him, and cast it after them. And Menw the son of Gwaedd caught it, and flung it back at him, and wounded him in the centre of the breast, so that it came out at the small of his back. “A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly,” said he, “the hard iron pains me like the bite of a horse-leech. Cursed be the hearth whereon it was heated, and the smith who formed it! So sharp is it! Henceforth, whenever I go up a hill, I shall have a scant in my breath, and a pain in my chest, and I shall often loathe my food.” And they went to meat.

And the third day they returned to the palace. And Yspaddaden Penkawr said to them, “Shoot not at me again unless you desire death. Where are my attendants? Lift up the forks of my eyebrows which have fallen over my eyeballs, that I may see the fashion of my son-in-law.” Then they arose, and, as they did so, Yspaddaden Penkawr took the third poisoned dart and cast it at them. And Kilhwch caught it and threw it vigorously, and wounded him through the eyeball, so that the dart came out at the back of his head. “A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly! As long as I remain alive, my eyesight will be the worse. Whenever I go against the wind, my eyes will water; and peradventure my head will burn, and I shall have a giddiness every new moon. Cursed be the fire in which it was forged. Like the bite of a mad dog is the stroke of this poisoned iron.” And they went to meat.

And the next day they came again to the palace, and they said, “Shoot not at us any more, unless thou desirest such hurt, and harm, and torture as thou now hast, and even more.” “Give me thy daughter, and if thou wilt not give her, thou shalt receive thy death because of her.” “Where is he that seeks my daughter? Come hither where I may see thee.” And they placed him a chair face to face with him.

Said Yspaddaden Penkawr, “Is it thou that seekest my daughter?” “It is I,” answered Kilhwch. “I must have thy pledge that thou wilt not do towards me otherwise than is just, and when I have gotten that which I shall name, my daughter thou shalt have.” “I promise thee that willingly,” said Kilhwch, “name what thou wilt.” “I will do so,” said he.

“Seest thou yonder vast hill?” “I see it.” “I require that it be rooted up, and that the grubbings be burned for manure on the face of the land, and that it be ploughed and sown in one day, and in one day that the grain ripen. And of that wheat I intend to make food and liquor fit for the wedding of thee and my daughter. And all this I require done in one day.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though this be easy for thee, there is yet that which will not be so. No husbandman can till or prepare this land, so wild is it, except Amaethon the son of Don, and he will not come with thee by his own free will, and thou wilt not be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Govannon the son of Don to come to the headland to rid the iron, he will do no work of his own good will except for a lawful king, and thou wilt not be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get; the two dun oxen of Gwlwlyd, both yoked together, to plough the wild land yonder stoutly. He will not give them of his own free will, and thou wilt not be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get; the yellow and the brindled bull yoked together do I require.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get; the two horned oxen, one of which is beyond, and the other this side of the peaked mountain, yoked together in the same plough. And these are Nynniaw and Peibaw whom God turned into oxen on account of their sins.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Seest thou yonder red tilled ground?”

“I see it.”

“When first I met the mother of this maiden, nine bushels of flax were sown therein, and none has yet sprung up, neither white nor black; and I have the measure by me still. I require to have the flax to sow in the new land yonder, that when it grows up it may make a white wimple for my daughter’s head, on the day of thy wedding.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Honey that is nine times sweeter than the honey of the virgin swarm, without scum and bees, do I require to make bragget for the feast.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“The vessel of Llyr the son of Llyryon, which is of the utmost value. There is no other vessel in the world that can hold this drink. Of his free will thou wilt not get it, and thou canst not compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. The basket of Gwyddneu Garanhir, if the whole world should come together, thrice nine men at a time, the meat that each of them desired would be found within it. I require to eat therefrom on the night that my daughter becomes thy bride. He will give it to no one of his own free will, and thou canst not compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. The horn of Gwlgawd Gododin to serve us with liquor that night. He will not give it of his own free will, and thou wilt not be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. The harp of Teirtu to play to us that night. When a man desires that it should play, it does so of itself, and when he desires that it should cease, it ceases. And this he will not give of his own free will, and thou wilt not be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. The cauldron of Diwrnach Wyddel, the steward of Odgar the son of Aedd, king of Ireland, to boil the meat for thy marriage feast.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. It is needful for me to wash my head, and shave my beard, and I require the tusk of Yskithyrwyn Penbaedd to shave myself withal, neither shall I profit by its use if it be not plucked alive out of his head.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. There is no one in the world that can pluck it out of his head except Odgar the son of Aedd, king of Ireland.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. I will not trust any one to keep the tusk except Gado of North Britain. Now the threescore Cantrevs of North Britain are under his sway, and of his own free will he will not come out of his kingdom, and thou wilt not be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. I must spread out my hair in order to shave it, and it will never be spread out unless I have the blood of the jet-black sorceress, the daughter of the pure white sorceress, from Pen Nant Govid, on the confines of Hell.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. I will not have the blood unless I have it warm, and no vessels will keep warm the liquid that is put therein except the bottles of Gwyddolwyd Gorr, which preserve the heat of the liquor that is put into them in the east, until they arrive at the west. And he will not give them of his own free will, and thou wilt not be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Some will desire fresh milk, and it will not be possible to have fresh milk for all, unless we have the bottles of Rhinnon Rhin Barnawd, wherein no liquor ever turns sour. And he will not give them of his own free will, and thou wilt not be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Throughout the world there is not a comb or scissors with which I can arrange my hair, on account of its rankness, except the comb and scissors that are between the two ears of Twrch Trwyth, the son of Prince Tared. He will not give them of his own free will, and thou wilt not be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. It will not be possible to hunt Twrch Trwyth without Drudwyn the whelp of Greid, the son of Eri.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Throughout the world there is not a leash that can hold him, except the leash of Cwrs Cant Ewin.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Throughout the world there is no collar that will hold the leash except the collar of Canhastyr Canllaw.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. The chain of Kilydd Canhastyr to fasten the collar to the leash.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Throughout the world there is not a huntsman who can hunt with this dog, except Mabon the son of Modron. He was taken from his mother when three nights old, and it is not known where he now is, nor whether he is living or dead.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Gwynn Mygdwn, the horse of Gweddw, that is as swift as the wave, to carry Mabon the son of Modron to hunt the boar Trwyth. He will not give him of his own free will, and thou wilt not be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Thou wilt not get Mabon, for it is not known where he is, unless thou find Eidoel, his kinsman in blood, the son of Aer. For it would be useless to seek for him. He is his cousin.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Garselit the Gwyddelian is the chief huntsman of Ireland; the Twrch Trwyth can never be hunted without him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. A leash made from the beard of Dillus Varvawc, for that is the only one that can hold those two cubs. And the leash will be of no avail unless it be plucked from his beard while he is alive, and twitched out with wooden tweezers. While he lives he will not suffer this to be done to him, and the leash will be of no use should he be dead, because it will be brittle.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Throughout the world there is no huntsman that can hold those two whelps except Kynedyr Wyllt, the son of Hettwn Glafyrawc; he is nine times more wild than the wildest beast upon the mountains. Him wilt thou never get, neither wilt thou ever get my daughter.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. It is not possible to hunt the boar Trwyth without Gwynn the son of Nudd, whom God has placed over the brood of devils in Annwvyn, lest they should destroy the present race. He will never be spared thence.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. There is not a horse in the world that can carry Gwynn to hunt the Twrch Trwyth, except Du, the horse of Mor of Oerveddawg.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Until Gilennhin the king of France shall come, the Twrch Trwyth cannot be hunted. It will be unseemly for him to leave his kingdom for thy sake, and he will never come hither.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. The Twrch Trwyth can never be hunted without the son of Alun Dyved; he is well skilled in letting loose the dogs.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. The Twrch Trwyth cannot be hunted unless thou get Aned and Aethlem. They are as swift as the gale of wind, and they were never let loose upon a beast that they did not kill him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get; Arthur and his companions to hunt the Twrch Trwyth. He is a mighty man, and he will not come for thee, neither wilt thou be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. The Twrch Trwyth cannot be hunted unless thou get Bwlch, and Kyfwlch [and Sefwlch], the grandsons of Cleddyf Difwlch. Their three shields are three gleaming glitterers. Their three spears are three pointed piercers. Their three swords are three griding gashers, Glas, Glessic, and Clersag. Their three dogs, Call, Cuall, and Cavall. Their three horses, Hwyrdydwg, and Drwgdydwg, and Llwyrdydwg. Their three wives, Och, and Garam, and Diaspad. Their three grandchildren, Lluched, and Vyned, and Eissiwed. Their three daughters, Drwg, and Gwaeth, and Gwaethav Oll. Their three hand-maids [Eheubryd, the daughter of Kyfwlch; Gorasgwrn, the daughter of Nerth; and Gwaedan, the daughter of Kynvelyn]. These three men shall sound the horn, and all the others shall shout, so that all will think that the sky is falling to the earth.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. The sword of Gwrnach the Giant; he will never be slain except therewith. Of his own free will he will not give it, either for a price or as a gift, and thou wilt never be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Difficulties shalt thou meet with, and nights without sleep, in seeking this, and if thou obtain it not, neither shalt thou obtain my daughter.”

“Horses shall I have, and chivalry; and my lord and kinsman Arthur will obtain for me all these things. And I shall gain thy daughter, and thou shalt lose thy life.”

“Go forward. And thou shalt not be chargeable for food or raiment for my daughter while thou art seeking these things; and when thou hast compassed all these marvels, thou shalt have my daughter for thy wife.”

* * *

All that day they journeyed until the evening, and then they beheld a vast castle, which was the largest in the world. And lo, a black man, huger than three of the men of this world, came out from the castle. And they spoke unto him, “Whence comest thou, O man?” “From the castle which you see yonder.” “Whose castle is that?” asked they. “Stupid are ye truly, O men. There is no one in the world that does not know to whom this castle belongs. It is the castle of Gwrnach the Giant.” “What treatment is there for guests and strangers that alight in that castle?” “Oh! Chieftain, Heaven protect thee. No guest ever returned thence alive, and no one may enter therein unless he brings with him his craft.”

Then they proceeded towards the gate. Said Gwrhyr Gwalstawt Ieithoedd, “Is there a porter?” “There is. And thou, if thy tongue be not mute in thy head, wherefore dost thou call?” “Open the gate.” “I will not open it.” “Wherefore wilt thou not?” “The knife is in the meat, and the drink is in the horn, and there is revelry in the hall of Gwrnach the Giant, and except for a craftsman who brings his craft, the gate will not be opened tonight.” “Verily, porter,” then said Kai, “my craft bring I with me.” “What is thy craft?” “The best burnisher of swords am I in the world.” “I will go and tell this unto Gwrnach the Giant, and I will bring thee an answer.”

So the porter went in, and Gwrnach said to him, “Hast thou any news from the gate?” “I have. There is a party at the door of the gate who desire to come in.” “Didst thou inquire of them if they possessed any art?” “I did inquire,” said he, “and one told me that he was well skilled in the burnishing of swords.” “We have need of him then. For some time have I sought for some one to polish my sword, and could find no one. Let this man enter, since he brings with him his craft.” The porter thereupon returned and opened the gate. And Kai went in by himself, and he saluted Gwrnach the Giant. And a chair was placed for him opposite to Gwrnach. And Gwrnach said to him, “Oh man! is it true that is reported of thee, that thou knowest how to burnish swords?” “I know full well how to do so,” answered Kai. Then was the sword of Gwrnach brought to him. And Kai took a blue whetstone from under his arm, and asked him whether he would have it burnished white or blue. “Do with it as it seems good to thee, and as thou wouldest if it were thine own.” Then Kai polished one half of the blade and put it in his hand. “Will this please thee?” asked he. “I would rather than all that is in my dominions that the whole of it were like unto this. It is a marvel to me that such a man as thou should be without a companion.” “Oh! noble sir, I have a companion, albeit he is not skilled in this art.” “Who may he be?” “Let the porter go forth, and I will tell him whereby he may know him. The head of his lance will leave its shaft, and draw blood from the wind, and will descend upon its shaft again.” Then the gate was opened, and Bedwyr entered. And Kai said, “Bedwyr is very skilful, although he knows not this art.”

And there was much discourse among those who were without, because that Kai and Bedwyr had gone in. And a young man who was with them, the only son of Custennin the herdsman, got in also. And he caused all his companions to keep close to him as he passed the three wards, and until he came into the midst of the castle. And his companions said unto the son of Custennin, “Thou hast done this! Thou art the best of all men.” And thenceforth he was called Goreu, the son of Custennin. Then they dispersed to their lodgings, that they might slay those who lodged therein, unknown to the Giant.

The sword was now polished, and Kai gave it unto the hand of Gwrnach the Giant, to see if he were pleased with his work. And the Giant said, “The work is good, I am content therewith.” Said Kai, “It is thy scabbard that hath rusted thy sword, give it to me that I may take out the wooden sides of it and put in new ones.” And he took the scabbard from him, and the sword in the other hand. And he came and stood over against the Giant, as if he would have put the sword into the scabbard; and with it he struck at the head of the Giant, and cut off his head at one blow. Then they despoiled the castle, and took from it what goods and jewels they would. And again on the same day, at the beginning of the year, they came to Arthur’s Court, bearing with them the sword of Gwrnach the Giant.

Now, when they told Arthur how they had sped, Arthur said, “Which of these marvels will it be best for us to seek first?” “It will be best,” said they, “to seek Mabon the son of Modron; and he will not be found unless we first find Eidoel the son of Aer, his kinsman.” Then Arthur rose up, and the warriors of the Islands of Britain with him, to seek for Eidoel; and they proceeded until they came before the Castle of Glivi, where Eidoel was imprisoned. Glivi stood on the summit of his castle, and he said, “Arthur, what requirest thou of me, since nothing remains to me in this fortress, and I have neither joy nor pleasure in it; neither wheat nor oats? Seek not therefore to do me harm.” Said Arthur, “Not to injure thee came I hither, but to seek for the prisoner that is with thee.” “I will give thee my prisoner, though I had not thought to give him up to any one; and therewith shalt thou have my support and my aid.”

His followers said unto Arthur, “Lord, go thou home, thou canst not proceed with thy host in quest of such small adventures as these.” Then said Arthur, “It were well for thee, Gwrhyr Gwalstawt Ieithoedd, to go upon this quest, for thou knowest all languages, and art familiar with those of the birds and the beasts. Thou, Eidoel, oughtest likewise to go with my men in search of thy cousin. And as for you, Kai and Bedwyr, I have hope of whatever adventure ye are in quest of, that ye will achieve it. Achieve ye this adventure for me.”

They went forward until they came to the Ousel of Cilgwri. And Gwrhyr adjured her for the sake of Heaven, saying, “Tell me if thou knowest aught of Mabon the son of Modron, who was taken when three nights old from between his mother and the wall.” And the Ousel answered, “When I first came here, there was a smith’s anvil in this place, and I was then a young bird; and from that time no work has been done upon it, save the pecking of my beak every evening, and now there is not so much as the size of a nut remaining thereof; yet the vengeance of Heaven be upon me, if during all that time I have ever heard of the man for whom you inquire. Nevertheless I will do that which is right, and that which it is fitting that I should do for an embassy from Arthur. There is a race of animals who were formed before me, and I will be your guide to them.”

So they proceeded to the place where was the Stag of Redynvre. “Stag of Redynvre, behold we are come to thee, an embassy from Arthur, for we have not heard of any animal older than thou. Say, knowest thou aught of Mabon the son of Modron, who was taken from his mother when three nights old?” The Stag said, “When first I came hither, there was a plain all around me, without any trees save one oak sapling, which grew up to be an oak with an hundred branches. And that oak has since perished, so that now nothing remains of it but the withered stump; and from that day to this I have been here, yet have I never heard of the man for whom you inquire. Nevertheless, being an embassy from Arthur, I will be your guide to the place where there is an animal which was formed before I was.”

So they proceeded to the place where was the Owl of Cwm Cawlwyd. “Owl of Cwm Cawlwyd, here is an embassy from Arthur; knowest thou aught of Mabon the son of Modron, who was taken after three nights from his mother?” “If I knew I would tell you. When first I came hither, the wide valley you see was a wooded glen. And a race of men came and rooted it up. And there grew there a second wood; and this wood is the third. My wings, are they not withered stumps? Yet all this time, even until today, I have never heard of the man for whom you inquire. Nevertheless, I will be the guide of Arthur’s embassy until you come to the place where is the oldest animal in this world, and the one that has travelled most, the Eagle of Gwern Abwy.”

Gwrhyr said, “Eagle of Gwern Abwy, we have come to thee an embassy from Arthur, to ask thee if thou knowest aught of Mabon the son of Modron, who was taken from his mother when he was three nights old.” The Eagle said, “I have been here for a great space of time, and when I first came hither there was a rock here, from the top of which I pecked at the stars every evening; and now it is not so much as a span high. From that day to this I have been here, and I have never heard of the man for whom you inquire, except once when I went in search of food as far as Llyn Llyw. And when I came there, I struck my talons into a salmon, thinking he would serve me as food for a long time. But he drew me into the deep, and I was scarcely able to escape from him. After that I went with my whole kindred to attack him, and to try to destroy him, but he sent messengers, and made peace with me; and came and besought me to take fifty fish spears out of his back. Unless he know something of him whom you seek, I cannot tell who may. However, I will guide you to the place where he is.”

So they went thither; and the Eagle said, “Salmon of Llyn Llyw, I have come to thee with an embassy from Arthur, to ask thee if thou knowest aught concerning Mabon the son of Modron, who was taken away at three nights old from his mother.” “As much as I know I will tell thee. With every tide I go along the river upwards, until I come near to the walls of Gloucester, and there have I found such wrong as I never found elsewhere; and to the end that ye may give credence thereto, let one of you go thither upon each of my two shoulders.” So Kai and Gwrhyr Gwalstawt Ieithoedd went upon the two shoulders of the salmon, and they proceeded until they came unto the wall of the prison, and they heard a great wailing and lamenting from the dungeon. Said Gwrhyr, “Who is it that laments in this house of stone?” “Alas, there is reason enough for whoever is here to lament. It is Mabon the son of Modron who is here imprisoned; and no imprisonment was ever so grievous as mine, neither that of Llud Llaw Ereint, nor that of Greid the son of Eri.” “Hast thou hope of being released for gold or for silver, or for any gifts of wealth, or through battle and fighting?” “By fighting will whatever I may gain be obtained.”

Then they went thence, and returned to Arthur, and they told him where Mabon the son of Modron was imprisoned. And Arthur summoned the warriors of the Island, and they journeyed as far as Gloucester, to the place where Mabon was in prison. Kai and Bedwyr went upon the shoulders of the fish, whilst the warriors of Arthur attacked the castle. And Kai broke through the wall into the dungeon, and brought away the prisoner upon his back, whilst the fight was going on between the warriors. And Arthur returned home, and Mabon with him at liberty.

* * *

Said Arthur, “Which of the marvels will it be best for us now to seek first?” “It will be best to seek for the two cubs of Gast Rhymhi.” “Is it known,” asked Arthur, “where she is?” “She is in Aber Deu Cleddyf,” said one. Then Arthur went to the house of Tringad, in Aber Cleddyf, and he inquired of him whether he had heard of her there. “In what form may she be?” “She is in the form of a she-wolf,” said he; “and with her there are two cubs.” “She has often slain my herds, and she is there below in a cave in Aber Cleddyf.”

So Arthur went in his ship Prydwen by sea, and the others went by land, to hunt her. And they surrounded her and her two cubs, and God did change them again for Arthur into their own form. And the host of Arthur dispersed themselves into parties of one and two.

* * *

On a certain day, as Gwythyr the son of Greidawl was walking over a mountain, he heard a wailing and a grievous cry. And when he heard it, he sprang forward, and went towards it. And when he came there, he drew his sword, and smote off an ant-hill close to the earth, whereby it escaped being burned in the fire. And the ants said to him, “Receive from us the blessing of Heaven, and that which no man can give we will give thee.” Then they fetched the nine bushels of flax-seed which Yspaddaden Penkawr had required of Kilhwch, and they brought the full measure without lacking any, except one flax-seed, and that the lame pismire brought in before night.

* * *

As Kai and Bedwyr sat on a beacon carn on the summit of Plinlimmon, in the highest wind that ever was in the world, they looked around them, and saw a great smoke towards the south, afar off, which did not bend with the wind. Then said Kai, “By the hand of my friend, behold, yonder is the fire of a robber!” Then they hastened towards the smoke, and they came so near to it, that they could see Dillus Varvawc scorching a wild boar. “Behold, yonder is the greatest robber that ever fled from Arthur,” said Bedwyr unto Kai. “Dost thou know him?” “I do know him,” answered Kai, “he is Dillus Varvawc, and no leash in the world will be able to hold Drudwyn, the cub of Greid the son of Eri, save a leash made from the beard of him thou seest yonder. And even that will be useless, unless his beard be plucked alive with wooden tweezers; for if dead, it will be brittle.” “What thinkest thou that we should do concerning this?” said Bedwyr. “Let us suffer him,” said Kai, “to eat as much as he will of the meat, and after that he will fall asleep.” And during that time they employed themselves in making the wooden tweezers. And when Kai knew certainly that he was asleep, he made a pit under his feet, the largest in the world, and he struck him a violent blow, and squeezed him into the pit. And there they twitched out his beard completely with the wooden tweezers; and after that they slew him altogether.

And from thence they both went to Gelli Wic, in Cornwall, and took the leash made of Dillus Varvawc’s beard with them, and they gave it into Arthur’s hand. Then Arthur composed this Englyn:

Kai made a leash

Of Dillus son of Eurei’s beard.

Were he alive, thy death he’d be.

And thereupon Kai was wroth, so that the warriors of the Island could scarcely make peace between Kai and Arthur. And thenceforth, neither in Arthur’s troubles, nor for the slaying of his men, would Kai come forward to his aid for ever after.

* * *

Said Arthur, “Which of the marvels is it best for us now to seek?” “It is best for us to seek Drudwyn, the cub of Greid the son of Eri.”

A little while before this, Creiddylad the daughter of Lludd Llaw Ereint, and Gwythyr the son of Greidawl, were betrothed. And before she had become his bride, Gwyn ap Nudd came and carried her away by force; and Gwythyr the son of Greidawl gathered his host together, and went to fight with Gwyn ap Nudd. But Gwyn overcame him, and captured Greid the son of Eri, and Glinneu the son of Taran, and Gwrgwst Ledlwm, and Dynvarth his son. And he captured Penn the son of Nethawg, and Nwython, and Kyledyr Wyllt his son. And they slew Nwython, and took out his heart, and constrained Kyledyr to eat the heart of his father. And therefrom Kyledyr became mad. When Arthur heard of this, he went to the North, and summoned Gwyn ap Nudd before him, and set free the nobles whom he had put in prison, and made peace between Gwyn ap Nudd and Gwythyr the son of Griedawl. And this was the peace that was made:that the maiden should remain in her father’s house, without advantage to either of them, and that Gwyn ap Nudd and Gwythyr the son of Greidawl should fight for her every first of May, from thenceforth until the day of doom, and that whichever of them should then be conqueror should have the maiden.

And when Arthur had thus reconciled these chieftains, he obtained Mygdwn, Gweddw’s horse, and the leash of Cwrs Cant Ewin.

And after that Arthur went into Armorica, and with him Mabon the son of Mellt, and Gware Gwallt Euryn, to seek the two dogs of Glythmyr Ledewic. And when he had got them, he went to the West of Ireland, in search of Gwrgi Seven; and Odgar the son of Aedd king of Ireland went with him. And thence went Arthur into the North, and captured Kyledyr Wyllt; and he went after Yskithyrwyn Penbaedd. And Mabon the son of Mellt came with the two dogs of Glythmyr Ledewic in his hand, and Drudwyn, the cub of Greid the son of Eri. And Arthur went himself to the chase, leading his own dog Cavall. And Kaw, of North Britain, mounted Arthur’s mare Llamrei, and was first in the attack. Then Kaw, of North Britain, wielded a mighty axe, and absolutely daring he came valiantly up to the boar, and clave his head in twain. And Kaw took away the tusk. Now the boar was not slain by the dogs that Yspaddaden had mentioned, but by Cavall, Arthur’s own dog.

And after Yskithyrwyn Penbaedd was killed, Arthur and his host departed to Gelli Wic in Cornwall. And thence he sent Menw the son of Teirgwaedd to see if the precious things were between the two ears of Twrch Trwyth, since it were useless to encounter him if they were not there. Albeit it was certain where he was, for he had laid waste the third part of Ireland. And Menw went to seek for him, and he met with him in Ireland, in Esgeir Oervel. And Menw took the form of a bird; and he descended upon the top of his lair, and strove to snatch away one of the precious things from him, but he carried away nothing but one of his bristles. And the boar rose up angrily and shook himself so that some of his venom fell upon Menw, and he was never well from that day forward.

After this Arthur sent an embassy to Odgar, the son of Aedd king of Ireland, to ask for the cauldron of Diwrnach Wyddel, his purveyor. And Odgar commanded him to give it. But Diwrnach said, “Heaven is my witness, if it would avail him anything even to look at it, he should not do so.” And the embassy of Arthur returned from Ireland with this denial. And Arthur set forward with a small retinue, and entered into Prydwen, his ship, and went over to Ireland. And they proceeded into the house of Diwrnach Wyddel. And the hosts of Odgar saw their strength. When they had eaten and drunk as much as they desired, Arthur demanded to have the cauldron. And he answered, “If I would have given it to any one, I would have given it at the word of Odgar king of Ireland.”

When he had given them this denial, Bedwyr arose and seized hold of the cauldron, and placed it upon the back of Hygwyd, Arthur’s servant, who was brother, by the mother’s side, to Arthur’s servant, Cachamwri. His office was always to carry Arthur’s cauldron, and to place fire under it. And Llenlleawg Wyddel seized Caledvwlch, and brandished it. And they slew Diwrnach Wyddel and his company. Then came the Irish and fought with them. And when he had put them to flight, Arthur with his men went forward to the ship, carrying away the cauldron full of Irish money. And he disembarked at the house of Llwydden the son of Kelcoed, at Porth Kerddin in Dyved. And there is the measure of the cauldron.

Then Arthur summoned unto him all the warriors that were in the three Islands of Britain, and in the three Islands adjacent, and all that were in France and in Armorica, in Normandy and in the Summer Country, and all that were chosen footmen and valiant horsemen. And with all these he went into Ireland. And in Ireland there was great fear and terror concerning him. And when Arthur had landed in the country, there came unto him the saints of Ireland and besought his protection. And he granted his protection unto them, and they gave him their blessing. Then the men of Ireland came unto Arthur, and brought him provisions. And Arthur went as far as Esgeir Oervel in Ireland, to the place where the Boar Trwyth was with his seven young pigs. And the dogs were let loose upon him from all sides. That day until evening the Irish fought with him, nevertheless he laid waste the fifth part of Ireland. And on the day following the household of Arthur fought with him, and they were worsted by him, and got no advantage. And the third day Arthur himself encountered him, and he fought with him nine nights and nine days without so much as killing even one little pig. The warriors inquired of Arthur what was the origin of that swine; and he told them that he was once a king, and that God had transformed him into a swine for his sins.

Then Arthur sent Gwrhyr Gwalstawt Ieithoedd, to endeavour to speak with him. And Gwrhyr assumed the form of a bird, and alighted upon the top of the lair, where he was with the seven young pigs. And Gwrhyr Gwalstawt Ieithoedd asked him, “By him who turned you into this form, if you can speak, let some one of you, I beseech you, come and talk with Arthur.” Grugyn Gwrych Ereint made answer to him. (Now his bristles were like silver wire, and whether he went through the wood or through the plain, he was to be traced by the glittering of his bristles.) And this was the answer that Grugyn made: “By him who turned us into this form, we will not do so, and we will not speak with Arthur. That we have been transformed thus is enough for us to suffer, without your coming here to fight with us.” “I will tell you. Arthur comes but to fight for the comb, and the razor, and the scissors which are between the two ears of Twrch Trwyth.” Said Grugyn, “Except he first take his life, he will never have those precious things. And tomorrow morning we will rise up hence, and we will go into Arthur’s country, and there will we do all the mischief that we can.”

So they set forth through the sea towards Wales. And Arthur and his hosts, and his horses and his dogs, entered Prydwen, that they might encounter them without delay. Twrch Trwyth landed in Porth Cleis in Dyved, and Arthur came to Mynyw. The next day it was told to Arthur that they had gone by, and he overtook them as they were killing the cattle of Kynnwas Kwrr y Vagyl, having slain all that were at Aber Gleddyf, of man and beast, before the coming of Arthur.

Now when Arthur approached, Twrch Trwyth went on as far as Preseleu, and Arthur and his hosts followed him thither, and Arthur sent men to hunt him; Eli and Trachmyr, leading Drudwyn the whelp of Greid the son of Eri, and Gwarthegyd the son of Kaw, in another quarter, with the two dogs of Glythmyr Ledewic, and Bedwyr leading Cavall, Arthur’s own dog. And all the warriors ranged themselves around the Nyver. And there came there the three sons of Cleddyf Divwlch, men who had gained much fame at the slaying of Yskithyrwyn Penbaedd; and they went on from Glyn Nyver, and came to Cwm Kerwyn.

And there Twrch Trwyth made a stand, and slew four of Arthur’s champions, Gwarthegyd the son of Kaw, and Tarawc of Allt Clwyd, and Rheidwn the son of Eli Atver, and Iscovan Hael. And after he had slain these men, he made a second stand in the same place. And there he slew Gwydre the son of Arthur, and Garselit Wyddel, and Glew the son of Ysgawd, and Iscawyn the son of Panon; and there he himself was wounded.

And the next morning before it was day, some of the men came up with him. And he slew Huandaw, and Gogigwr, and Penpingon, three attendants upon Glewlwyd Gavaelvawr, so that Heaven knows he had not an attendant remaining, excepting only Llaesgevyn, a man from whom no one ever derived any good. And together with these he slew many of the men of that country, and Gwlydyn Saer, Arthur’s chief Architect.

Then Arthur overtook him at Pelumyawc, and there he slew Madawc the son of Teithyon, and Gwyn the son of Tringad, the son of Neved, and Eiryawn Penllorau. Thence he went to Aberteivi, where he made another stand, and where he slew Kyflas the son of Kynan, and Gwilenhin king of France. Then he went as far as Glyn Ystu, and there the men and the dogs lost him.

Then Arthur summoned unto him Gwyn ab Nudd, and he asked him if he knew aught of Twrch Trwyth. And he said that he did not.

And all the huntsmen went to hunt the swine as far as Dyffryn Llychwr. And Grugyn Gwallt Ereint and Llwydawg Govynnyad closed with them and killed all the huntsmen, so that there escaped but one man only. And Arthur and his hosts came to the place where Grugyn and Llwydawg were. And there he let loose the whole of the dogs upon them, and with the shout and barking that was set up, Twrch Trwyth came to their assistance.

And from the time that they came across the Irish sea, Arthur had never got sight of him until then. So he set men and dogs upon him, and thereupon he started off and went to Mynydd Amanw. And there one of his young pigs was killed. Then they set upon him life for life, and Twrch Llawin was slain, and then there was slain another of the swine, Gwys was his name. After that he went on to Dyffryn Amanw, and there Banw and Bennwig were killed. Of all his pigs there went with him alive from that place none save Grugyn Gwallt Ereint and Llwydawg Govynnyad.

Thence he went on to Llwch Ewin, and Arthur overtook him there, and he made a stand. And there he slew Echel Forddwytwll, and Garwyli the son of Gwyddawg Gwyr, and many men and dogs likewise. And thence they went to Llwch Tawy. Grugyn Gwrych Ereint parted from them there, and went to Din Tywi. And thence he proceeded to Ceredigiawn, and Eli and Trachmyr with him, and a multitude likewise. Then he came to Garth Gregyn, and there Llwydawg Govynnyad fought in the midst of them, and slew Rhudvyw Rhys and many others with him. Then Llwydawg went thence to Ystrad Yw, and there the men of Armorica met him, and there he slew Hirpeissawg the king of Armorica, and Llygatrudd Emys, and Gwrbothu, Arthur’s uncles, his mother’s brothers, and there was he himself slain.

Twrch Trwyth went from there to between Tawy and Euyas, and Arthur summoned all Cornwall and Devon unto him, to the estuary of the Severn, and he said to the warriors of this Island, “Twrch Trwyth has slain many of my men, but, by the valour of warriors, while I live he shall not go into Cornwall. And I will not follow him any longer, but I will oppose him life to life. Do ye as ye will.” And he resolved that he would send a body of knights, with the dogs of the Island, as far as Euyas, who should return thence to the Severn, and that tried warriors should traverse the Island, and force him into the Severn. And Mabon the son of Modron came up with him at the Severn, upon Gwynn Mygdwn, the horse of Gweddw, and Goreu the son of Custennin, and Menw the son of Teirgwaedd; this was betwixt Llyn Lliwan and Aber Gwy. And Arthur fell upon him together with the champions of Britain. And Osla Kyllellvawr drew near, and Manawyddan the son of Llyr, and Kacmwri the servant of Arthur, and Gwyngelli, and they seized hold of him, catching him first by his feet, and plunged him in the Severn, so that it overwhelmed him. On the one side, Mabon the son of Modron spurred his steed and snatched his razor from him, and Kyledyr Wyllt came up with him on the other side, upon another steed, in the Severn, and took from him the scissors. But before they could obtain the comb, he had regained the ground with his feet, and from the moment that he reached the shore, neither dog, nor man, nor horse could overtake him until he came to Cornwall. If they had had trouble in getting the jewels from him, much more had they in seeking to save the two men from being drowned. Kacmwri, as they drew him forth, was dragged by two millstones into the deep. And as Osla Kyllellvawr was running after the boar, his knife had dropped out of the sheath, and he had lost it, and after that, the sheath became full of water, and its weight drew him down into the deep, as they were drawing him forth.

Then Arthur and his hosts proceeded until they overtook the boar in Cornwall, and the trouble which they had met with before was mere play to what they encountered in seeking the comb. But from one difficulty to another, the comb was at length obtained. And then he was hunted from Cornwall, and driven straight forward into the deep sea. And thenceforth it was never known whither he went; and Aned and Aethlem with him. Then went Arthur to Gelli Wic, in Cornwall, to anoint himself, and to rest from his fatigues.

Said Arthur, “Is there any one of the marvels yet unobtained?” Said one of his men, “There is – the blood of the witch Orddu, the daughter of the witch Orwen, of Pen Nant Govid, on the confines of Hell.” Arthur set forth towards the North, and came to the place where was the witch’s cave. And Gwyn ab Nudd, and Gwythyr the son of Greidawl, counselled him to send Kacmwri, and Hygwyd his brother, to fight with the witch. And as they entered the cave, the witch seized upon them, and she caught Hygwyd by the hair of his head, and threw him on the floor beneath her. And Kacmwri caught her by the hair of her head, and dragged her to the earth from off Hygwyd, but she turned again upon them both, and drove them both out with kicks and with cuffs.

And Arthur was wroth at seeing his two attendants almost slain, and he sought to enter the cave; but Gwyn and Gwythyr said unto him, “It would not be fitting or seemly for us to see thee squabbling with a hag. Let Hiramreu and Hireidil go to the cave.” So they went. But if great was the trouble of the first two that went, much greater was that of these two. And Heaven knows that not one of the four could move from the spot, until they placed them all upon Llamrei, Arthur’s mare. And then Arthur rushed to the door of the cave, and at the door he struck at the witch, with Carnwennan his dagger, and clove her in twain, so that she fell in two parts. And Kaw, of North Britain, took the blood of the witch and kept it.

Then Kilhwch set forward, and Goreu the son of Custennin with him, and as many as wished ill to Yspaddaden Penkawr. And they took the marvels with them to his court. And Kaw of North Britain came and shaved his beard, skin, and flesh clean off to the very bone from ear to ear. “Art thou shaved, man?” said Kilhwch. “I am shaved,” answered he. “Is thy daughter mine now?” “She is thine,” said he, “but therefore needest thou not thank me, but Arthur who hath accomplished this for thee. By my free will thou shouldest never have had her, for with her I lose my life.” Then Goreu the son of Custennin seized him by the hair of his head, and dragged him after him to the keep, and cut off his head and placed it on a stake on the citadel. Then they took possession of his castle, and of his treasures.

And that night Olwen became Kilhwch’s bride, and she continued to be his wife as long as she lived. And the hosts of Arthur dispersed themselves, each man to his own country. And thus did Kilhwch obtain Olwen, the daughter of Yspaddaden Penkawr.

The Dream of Rhonabwy

MADAWC THE SON of Maredudd possessed Powys within its boundaries, from Porfoed to Gwauan in the uplands of Arwystli. And at that time he had a brother, Iorwerth the son of Maredudd, in rank not equal to himself. And Iorwerth had great sorrow and heaviness because of the honour and power that his brother enjoyed, which he shared not. And he sought his fellows and his foster-brothers, and took counsel with them what he should do in this matter. And they resolved to dispatch some of their number to go and seek a maintenance for him. Then Madawc offered him to become Master of the Household and to have horses, and arms, and honour, and to fare like as himself. But Iorwerth refused this.

And Iorwerth made an inroad into Loegria, slaying the inhabitants, and burning houses, and carrying away prisoners. And Madawc took counsel with the men of Powys, and they determined to place an hundred men in each of the three Commots of Powys to seek for him. And thus did they in the plains of Powys from Aber Ceirawc, and in Allictwn Ver, and in Rhyd Wilure, on the Vyrnwy, the three best Commots of Powys. So he was none the better, he nor his household, in Powys, nor in the plains thereof. And they spread these men over the plains as far as Nillystwn Trevan.

Now one of the men who was upon this quest was called Rhonabwy. And Rhonabwy and Kynwrig Vrychgoch, a man of Mawddwy, and Cadwgan Vras, a man of Moelvre in Kynlleith, came together to the house of Heilyn Goch the son of Cadwgan the son of Iddon. And when they came near to the house, they saw an old hall, very black and having an upright gable, whence issued a great smoke; and on entering, they found the floor full of puddles and mounds; and it was difficult to stand thereon, so slippery was it with the mire of cattle. And where the puddles were, a man might go up to his ankles in water and dirt. And there were boughs of holly spread over the floor, whereof the cattle had browsed the sprigs. When they came to the hall of the house, they beheld cells full of dust, and very gloomy, and on one side an old hag making a fire. And whenever she felt cold, she cast a lapful of chaff upon the fire, and raised such a smoke, that it was scarcely to be borne, as it rose up the nostrils. And on the other side was a yellow calf-skin on the floor; a main privilege was it to any one who should get upon that hide.

And when they had sat down, they asked the hag where were the people of the house. And the hag spoke not, but muttered. Thereupon behold the people of the house entered; a ruddy, clownish, curly-headed man, with a burthen of faggots on his back, and a pale slender woman, also carrying a bundle under her arm. And they barely welcomed the men, and kindled a fire with the boughs. And the woman cooked something, and gave them to eat, barley bread, and cheese, and milk and water.

And there arose a storm of wind and rain, so that it was hardly possible to go forth with safety. And being weary with their journey, they laid themselves down and sought to sleep. And when they looked at the couch, it seemed to be made but of a little coarse straw full of dust and vermin, with the stems of boughs sticking up there-through, for the cattle had eaten all the straw that was placed at the head and the foot. And upon it was stretched an old russet-coloured rug, threadbare and ragged; and a coarse sheet, full of slits, was upon the rug, and an ill-stuffed pillow, and a worn-out cover upon the sheet. And after much suffering from the vermin, and from the discomfort of their couch, a heavy sleep fell on Rhonabwy’s companions. But Rhonabwy, not being able either to sleep or to rest, thought he should suffer less if he went to lie upon the yellow calf-skin that was stretched out on the floor. And there he slept.

As soon as sleep had come upon his eyes, it seemed to him that he was journeying with his companions across the plain of Argyngroeg, and he thought that he went towards Rhyd y Groes on the Severn. As he journeyed, he heard a mighty noise, the like whereof heard he never before; and looking behind him, he beheld a youth with yellow curling hair, and with his beard newly trimmed, mounted on a chestnut horse, whereof the legs were grey from the top of the forelegs, and from the bend of the hindlegs downwards. And the rider wore a coat of yellow satin sewn with green silk, and on his thigh was a gold-hilted sword, with a scabbard of new leather of Cordova, belted with the skin of the deer, and clasped with gold. And over this was a scarf of yellow satin wrought with green silk, the borders whereof were likewise green. And the green of the caparison of the horse, and of his rider, was as green as the leaves of the fir-tree, and the yellow was as yellow as the blossom of the broom. So fierce was the aspect of the knight, that fear seized upon them, and they began to flee. And the knight pursued them. And when the horse breathed forth, the men became distant from him, and when he drew in his breath, they were drawn near to him, even to the horse’s chest. And when he had overtaken them, they besought his mercy. “You have it gladly,” said he, “fear nought.” “Ha, chieftain, since thou hast mercy upon me, tell me also who thou art,” said Rhonabwy. “I will not conceal my lineage from thee, I am Iddawc the son of Mynyo, yet not by my name, but by my nickname am I best known.” “And wilt thou tell us what thy nickname is?” “I will tell you; it is Iddawc Cordd Prydain.” “Ha, chieftain,” said Rhonabwy, “why art thou called thus?” “I will tell thee. I was one of the messengers between Arthur and Medrawd his nephew, at the battle of Camlan; and I was then a reckless youth, and through my desire for battle, I kindled strife between them, and stirred up wrath, when I was sent by Arthur the Emperor to reason with Medrawd, and to show him, that he was his foster-father and his uncle, and to seek for peace, lest the sons of the Kings of the Island of Britain, and of the nobles, should be slain. And whereas Arthur charged me with the fairest sayings he could think of, I uttered unto Medrawd the harshest I could devise. And therefore am I called Iddawc Cordd Prydain, for from this did the battle of Camlan ensue. And three nights before the end of the battle of Camlan I left them, and went to the Llech Las in North Britain to do penance. And there I remained doing penance seven years, and after that I gained pardon.”

Then lo! they heard a mighty sound which was much louder than that which they had heard before, and when they looked round towards the sound, they beheld a ruddy youth, without beard or whiskers, noble of mien, and mounted on a stately courser. And from the shoulders and the front of the knees downwards the horse was bay. And upon the man was a dress of red satin wrought with yellow silk, and yellow were the borders of his scarf. And such parts of his apparel and of the trappings of his horse as were yellow, as yellow were they as the blossom of the broom, and such as were red, were as ruddy as the ruddiest blood in the world.

Then, behold the horseman overtook them, and he asked of Iddawc a share of the little men that were with him. “That which is fitting for me to grant I will grant, and thou shalt be a companion to them as I have been.” And the horseman went away. “Iddawc,” inquired Rhonabwy, “who was that horseman?” “Rhuvawn Pebyr the son of Prince Deorthach.”

And they journeyed over the plain of Argyngroeg as far as the ford of Rhyd y Groes on the Severn. And for a mile around the ford on both sides of the road, they saw tents and encampments, and there was the clamour of a mighty host. And they came to the edge of the ford, and there they beheld Arthur sitting on a flat island below the ford, having Bedwini the Bishop on one side of him, and Gwarthegyd the son of Kaw on the other. And a tall, auburn-haired youth stood before him, with his sheathed sword in his hand, and clad in a coat and cap of jet-black satin. And his face was white as ivory, and his eyebrows black as jet, and such part of his wrist as could be seen between his glove and his sleeve, was whiter than the lily, and thicker than a warrior’s ankle.

Then came Iddawc and they that were with him, and stood before Arthur and saluted him. “Heaven grant thee good,” said Arthur. “And where, Iddawc, didst thou find these little men?” “I found them, lord, up yonder on the road.” Then the Emperor smiled. “Lord,” said Iddawc, “wherefore dost thou laugh?” “Iddawc,” replied Arthur, “I laugh not; but it pitieth me that men of such stature as these should have this island in their keeping, after the men that guarded it of yore.” Then said Iddawc, “Rhonabwy, dost thou see the ring with a stone set in it, that is upon the Emperor’s hand?” “I see it,” he answered. “It is one of the properties of that stone to enable thee to remember that thou seest here tonight, and hadst thou not seen the stone, thou wouldest never have been able to remember aught thereof.”

After this they saw a troop coming towards the ford. “Iddawc,” inquired Rhonabwy, “to whom does yonder troop belong?” “They are the fellows of Rhuvawn Pebyr the son of Prince Deorthach. And these men are honourably served with mead and bragget, and are freely beloved by the daughters of the kings of the Island of Britain. And this they merit, for they were ever in the front and the rear in every peril.” And he saw but one hue upon the men and the horses of this troop, for they were all as red as blood. And when one of the knights rode forth from the troop, he looked like a pillar of fire glancing athwart the sky. And this troop encamped above the ford.

Then they beheld another troop coming towards the ford, and these from their horses’ chests upwards were whiter than the lily, and below blacker than jet. And they saw one of these knights go before the rest, and spur his horse into the ford in such a manner that the water dashed over Arthur and the Bishop, and those holding counsel with them, so that they were as wet as if they had been drenched in the river. And as he turned the head of his horse, the youth who stood before Arthur struck the horse over the nostrils with his sheathed sword, so that, had it been with the bare blade, it would have been a marvel if the bone had not been wounded as well as the flesh. And the knight drew his sword half out of the scabbard, and asked of him, “Wherefore didst thou strike my horse? Whether was it in insult or in counsel unto me?” “Thou dost indeed lack counsel. What madness caused thee to ride so furiously as to dash the water of the ford over Arthur, and the consecrated Bishop, and their counsellors, so that they were as wet as if they had been dragged out of the river?” “As counsel then will I take it.” So he turned his horse’s head round towards his army.

“Iddawc,” said Rhonabwy, “who was yonder knight?” “The most eloquent and the wisest youth that is in this island; Adaon, the son of Taliesin.” “Who was the man that struck his horse?” “A youth of froward nature; Elphin, the son of Gwyddno.”

Then spake a tall and stately man, of noble and flowing speech, saying that it was a marvel that so vast a host should be assembled in so narrow a space, and that it was a still greater marvel that those should be there at that time who had promised to be by midday in the battle of Badon, fighting with Osla Gyllellvawr. “Whether thou mayest choose to proceed or not, I will proceed.” “Thou sayest well,” said Arthur, “and we will go altogether.” “Iddawc,” said Rhonabwy, “who was the man who spoke so marvellously unto Arthur erewhile?” “A man who may speak as boldly as he listeth, Caradawc Vreichvras, the son of Llyr Marini, his chief counsellor and his cousin.”

Then Iddawc took Rhonabwy behind him on his horse, and that mighty host moved forward, each troop in its order, towards Cevndigoll. And when they came to the middle of the ford of the Severn, Iddawc turned his horse’s head, and Rhonabwy looked along the valley of the Severn. And he beheld two fair troops coming towards the ford. One troop there came of brilliant white, whereof every one of the men had a scarf of white satin with jet-black borders. And the knees and the tops of the shoulders of their horses were jet-black, though they were of a pure white in every other part. And their banners were pure white, with black points to them all.

“Iddawc,” said Rhonabwy, “who are yonder pure white troop?” “They are the men of Norway, and March the son of Meirchion is their prince. And he is cousin unto Arthur.” And further on he saw a troop, whereof each man wore garments of jet-black, with borders of pure white to every scarf; and the tops of the shoulders and the knees of their horses were pure white. And their banners were jet-black with pure white at the point of each.

“Iddawc,” said Rhonabwy, “who are the jet-black troop yonder?” “They are the men of Denmark, and Edeyrn the son of Nudd is their prince.”

And when they had overtaken the host, Arthur and his army of mighty ones dismounted below Caer Badou, and he perceived that he and Iddawc journeyed the same road as Arthur. And after they had dismounted he heard a great tumult and confusion amongst the host, and such as were then at the flanks turned to the centre, and such as had been in the centre moved to the flanks. And then, behold, he saw a knight coming, clad, both he and his horse, in mail, of which the rings were whiter than the whitest lily, and the rivets redder than the ruddiest blood. And he rode amongst the host.

“Iddawc,” said Rhonabwy, “will yonder host flee?” “King Arthur never fled, and if this discourse of thine were heard, thou wert a lost man. But as to the knight whom thou seest yonder, it is Kai. The fairest horseman is Kai in all Arthur’s Court; and the men who are at the front of the army hasten to the rear to see Kai ride, and the men who are in the centre flee to the side, from the shock of his horse. And this is the cause of the confusion of the host.”

Thereupon they heard a call made for Kadwr, Earl of Cornwall, and behold he arose with the sword of Arthur in his hand. And the similitude of two serpents was upon the sword in gold. And when the sword was drawn from its scabbard, it seemed as if two flames of fire burst forth from the jaws of the serpents, and then, so wonderful was the sword, that it was hard for any one to look upon it. And the host became still, and the tumult ceased, and the Earl returned to the tent.

“Iddawc,” said Rhonabwy, “who is the man who bore the sword of Arthur?” “Kadwr, the Earl of Cornwall, whose duty it is to arm the King on the days of battle and warfare.”

And they heard a call made for Eirynwych Amheibyn, Arthur’s servant, a red, rough, ill-favoured man, having red whiskers with bristly hairs. And behold he came upon a tall red horse with the mane parted on each side, and he brought with him a large and beautiful sumpter pack. And the huge red youth dismounted before Arthur, and he drew a golden chair out of the pack, and a carpet of diapered satin. And he spread the carpet before Arthur, and there was an apple of ruddy gold at each corner thereof, and he placed the chair upon the carpet. And so large was the chair that three armed warriors might have sat therein. Gwenn was the name of the carpet, and it was one of its properties that whoever was upon it no one could see him, and he could see every one. And it would retain no colour but its own.

And Arthur sat within the carpet, and Owain the son of Urien was standing before him. “Owain,” said Arthur, “wilt thou play chess?” “I will, Lord,” said Owain. And the red youth brought the chess for Arthur and Owain; golden pieces and a board of silver. And they began to play.

And while they were thus, and when they were best amused with their game, behold they saw a white tent with a red canopy, and the figure of a jet-black serpent on the top of the tent, and red glaring venomous eyes in the head of the serpent, and a red flaming tongue. And there came a young page with yellow curling hair, and blue eyes, and a newly-springing beard, wearing a coat and a surcoat of yellow satin, and hose of thin greenish-yellow cloth upon his feet, and over his hose shoes of parti-coloured leather, fastened at the insteps with golden clasps. And he bore a heavy three-edged sword with a golden hilt, in a scabbard of black leather tipped with fine gold. And he came to the place where the Emperor and Owain were playing at chess.

And the youth saluted Owain. And Owain marvelled that the youth should salute him and should not have saluted the Emperor Arthur. And Arthur knew what was in Owain’s thought. And he said to Owain, “Marvel not that the youth salutes thee now, for he saluted me erewhile; and it is unto thee that his errand is.” Then said the youth unto Owain, “Lord, is it with thy leave that the young pages and attendants of the Emperor harass and torment and worry thy Ravens? And if it be not with thy leave, cause the Emperor to forbid them.” “Lord,” said Owain, “thou hearest what the youth says; if it seem good to thee, forbid them from my Ravens.” “Play thy game,” said he. Then the youth returned to the tent.

That game did they finish, and another they began, and when they were in the midst of the game, behold, a ruddy young man with auburn curling hair and large eyes, well-grown, and having his beard new-shorn, came forth from a bright yellow tent, upon the summit of which was the figure of a bright red lion. And he was clad in a coat of yellow satin, falling as low as the small of his leg, and embroidered with threads of red silk. And on his feet were hose of fine white buckram, and buskins of black leather were over his hose, whereon were golden clasps. And in his hand a huge, heavy, three-edged sword, with a scabbard of red deer-hide, tipped with gold. And he came to the place where Arthur and Owain were playing at chess. And he saluted him. And Owain was troubled at his salutation, but Arthur minded it no more than before. And the youth said unto Owain, “Is it not against thy will that the attendants of the Emperor harass thy Ravens, killing some and worrying others? If against thy will it be, beseech him to forbid them.” “Lord,” said Owain, “forbid thy men, if it seem good to thee.” “Play thy game,” said the Emperor. And the youth returned to the tent.

And that game was ended and another begun. And as they were beginning the first move of the game, they beheld at a small distance from them a tent speckled yellow, the largest ever seen, and the figure of an eagle of gold upon it, and a precious stone on the eagle’s head. And coming out of the tent, they saw a youth with thick yellow hair upon his head, fair and comely, and a scarf of blue satin upon him, and a brooch of gold in the scarf upon his right shoulder as large as a warrior’s middle finger. And upon his feet were hose of fine Totness, and shoes of parti-coloured leather, clasped with gold, and the youth was of noble bearing, fair of face, with ruddy cheeks and large hawk’s eyes. In the hand of the youth was a mighty lance, speckled yellow, with a newly-sharpened head; and upon the lance a banner displayed.

Fiercely angry, and with rapid pace, came the youth to the place where Arthur was playing at chess with Owain. And they perceived that he was wroth. And thereupon he saluted Owain, and told him that his Ravens had been killed, the chief part of them, and that such of them as were not slain were so wounded and bruised that not one of them could raise its wings a single fathom above the earth. “Lord,” said Owain, “forbid thy men.” “Play,” said he, “if it please thee.” Then said Owain to the youth, “Go back, and wherever thou findest the strife at the thickest, there lift up the banner, and let come what pleases Heaven.”

So the youth returned back to the place where the strife bore hardest upon the Ravens, and he lifted up the banner; and as he did so they all rose up in the air, wrathful and fierce and high of spirit, clapping their wings in the wind, and shaking off the weariness that was upon them. And recovering their energy and courage, furiously and with exultation did they, with one sweep, descend upon the heads of the men, who had erewhile caused them anger and pain and damage, and they seized some by the heads and others by the eyes, and some by the ears, and others by the arms, and carried them up into the air; and in the air there was a mighty tumult with the flapping of the wings of the triumphant Ravens, and with their croaking; and there was another mighty tumult with the groaning of the men, that were being torn and wounded, and some of whom were slain.

And Arthur and Owain marvelled at the tumult as they played at chess; and, looking, they perceived a knight upon a dun-coloured horse coming towards them. And marvellous was the hue of the dun horse. Bright red was his right shoulder, and from the top of his legs to the centre of his hoof was bright yellow. Both the knight and his horse were fully equipped with heavy foreign armour. The clothing of the horse from the front opening upwards was of bright red sendal, and from thence opening downwards was of bright yellow sendal. A large gold-hilted one-edged sword had the youth upon his thigh, in a scabbard of light blue, and tipped with Spanish laton. The belt of the sword was of dark green leather with golden slides and a clasp of ivory upon it, and a buckle of jet-black upon the clasp. A helmet of gold was on the head of the knight, set with precious stones of great virtue, and at the top of the helmet was the image of a flame-coloured leopard with two ruby-red stones in its head, so that it was astounding for a warrior, however stout his heart, to look at the face of the leopard, much more at the face of the knight. He had in his hand a blue-shafted lance, but from the haft to the point it was stained crimson-red with the blood of the Ravens and their plumage.

The knight came to the place where Arthur and Owain were seated at chess. And they perceived that he was harassed and vexed and weary as he came towards them. And the youth saluted Arthur, and told him that the Ravens of Owain were slaying his young men and attendants. And Arthur looked at Owain and said, “Forbid thy Ravens.” “Lord,” answered Owain, “play thy game.” And they played. And the knight returned back towards the strife, and the Ravens were not forbidden any more than before.

And when they had played awhile, they heard a mighty tumult, and a wailing of men, and a croaking of Ravens, as they carried the men in their strength into the air, and, tearing them betwixt them, let them fall piecemeal to the earth. And during the tumult they saw a knight coming towards them, on a light grey horse, and the left foreleg of the horse was jet-black to the centre of his hoof. And the knight and the horse were fully accoutred with huge heavy blue armour. And a robe of honour of yellow diapered satin was upon the knight, and the borders of the robe were blue. And the housings of the horse were jet-black, with borders of bright yellow. And on the thigh of the youth was a sword, long, and three-edged, and heavy. And the scabbard was of red cut leather, and the belt of new red deer-skin, having upon it many golden slides and a buckle of the bone of the sea-horse, the tongue of which was jet-black. A golden helmet was upon the head of the knight, wherein were set sapphire-stones of great virtue. And at the top of the helmet was the figure of a flame-coloured lion, with a fiery-red tongue, issuing above a foot from his mouth, and with venomous eyes, crimson-red, in his head. And the knight came, bearing in his hand a thick ashen lance, the head whereof, which had been newly steeped in blood, was overlaid with silver.

And the youth saluted the Emperor: “Lord,” said he, “carest thou not for the slaying of thy pages, and thy young men, and the sons of the nobles of the Island of Britain, whereby it will be difficult to defend this island from henceforward for ever?” “Owain,” said Arthur, “forbid thy Ravens.” “Play this game, Lord,” said Owain.

So they finished the game and began another; and as they were finishing that game, lo, they heard a great tumult and a clamour of armed men, and a croaking of Ravens, and a flapping of wings in the air, as they flung down the armour entire to the ground, and the men and the horses piecemeal. Then they saw coming a knight on a lofty-headed piebald horse. And the left shoulder of the horse was of bright red, and its right leg from the chest to the hollow of the hoof was pure white. And the knight and horse were equipped with arms of speckled yellow, variegated with Spanish laton. And there was a robe of honour upon him, and upon his horse, divided in two parts, white and black, and the borders of the robe of honour were of golden purple. And above the robe he wore a sword three-edged and bright, with a golden hilt. And the belt of the sword was of yellow goldwork, having a clasp upon it of the eyelid of a black sea-horse, and a tongue of yellow gold to the clasp. Upon the head of the knight was a bright helmet of yellow laton, with sparkling stones of crystal in it, and at the crest of the helmet was the figure of a griffin, with a stone of many virtues in its head. And he had an ashen spear in his hand, with a round shaft, coloured with azure blue. And the head of the spear was newly stained with blood, and was overlaid with fine silver.

Wrathfully came the knight to the place where Arthur was, and he told him that the Ravens had slain his household and the sons of the chief men of this island, and he besought him to cause Owain to forbid his Ravens. And Arthur besought Owain to forbid them. Then Arthur took the golden chessmen that were upon the board, and crushed them until they became as dust. Then Owain ordered Gwres the son of Rheged to lower his banner. So it was lowered, and all was peace.

Then Rhonabwy inquired of Iddawc who were the first three men that came to Owain, to tell him his Ravens were being slain. Said Iddawc, “They were men who grieved that Owain should suffer loss, his fellow-chieftains and companions, Selyv the son of Kynan Garwyn of Powys, and Gwgawn Gleddyvrudd, and Gwres the son of Rheged, he who bears the banner in the day of battle and strife.” “Who,” said Rhonabwy, “were the last three men who came to Arthur, and told him that the Ravens were slaughtering his men?” “The best of men,” said Iddawc, “and the bravest, and who would grieve exceedingly that Arthur should have damage in aught; Blathaon the son of Mawrheth, and Rhuvawn Pebyr the son of Prince Deorthach, and Hyveidd Unllenn.”

And with that behold four-and-twenty knights came from Osla Gyllellvawr, to crave a truce of Arthur for a fortnight and a month. And Arthur rose and went to take counsel. And he came to where a tall, auburn, curly-headed man was a little way off, and there he assembled his counsellors. Bedwini, the Bishop, and Gwarthegyd the son of Kaw, and March the son of Meirchawn, and Caradawc Vreichvras, and Gwalchmai the son of Gwyar, and Edeyrn the son of Nudd, and Rhuvawn Pebyr the son of Prince Deorthach, and Rhiogan the son of the King of Ireland, and Gwenwynwyn the son of Nav, Howel the son of Emyr Llydaw, Gwilym the son of Rhwyf Freinc, and Daned the son of Ath, and Goreu Custennin, and Mabon the son of Modron, and Peredur Paladyr Hir, and Hyveidd Unllenn, and Twrch the son of Perif, and Nerth the son of Kadarn, and Gobrwy the son of Echel Vorddwyttwll, Gwair the son of Gwestyl, and Gadwy the son of Geraint, Trystan the son of Tallwch, Moryen Manawc, Granwen the son of Llyr, and Llacheu the son of Arthur, and Llawvrodedd Varvawc, and Kadwr Earl of Cornwall, Morvran the son of Tegid, and Rhyawd the son of Morgant, and Dyvyr the son of Alun Dyved, Gwrhyr Gwalstawd Ieithoedd, Adaon the son of Taliesin, Llary the son of Kasnar Wledig, and Fflewddur Fflam, and Greidawl Galldovydd, Gilbert the son of Kadgyffro, Menw the son of Teirgwaedd, Gwrthmwl Wledig, Cawrdav the son of Caradawc Vreichvras, Gildas the son of Kaw, Kadyriaith the son of Saidi, and many of the men of Norway and Denmark, and many of the men of Greece, and a crowd of the men of the host came to that council.

“Iddawc,” said Rhonabwy, “who was the auburn haired man to whom they came just now?” “Rhun the son of Maelgwn Gwynedd, a man whose prerogative it is, that he may join in counsel with all.” “And wherefore did they admit into counsel with men of such dignity as are yonder a stripling so young as Kadyriaith the son of Saidi?” “Because there is not throughout Britain a man better skilled in counsel than he.”

Thereupon, behold, bards came and recited verses before Arthur, and no man understood those verses but Kadyriaith only, save that they were in Arthur’s praise.

And lo, there came four-and-twenty asses with their burdens of gold and of silver, and a tired way-worn man with each of them, bringing tribute to Arthur from the Islands of Greece. Then Kadyriaith the son of Saidi besought that a truce might be granted to Osla Gyllellvawr for the space of a fortnight and a month, and that the asses and the burdens they carried might be given to the bards, to be to them as the reward for their stay and that their verse might be recompensed during the time of the truce. And thus it was settled.

“Rhonabwy,” said Iddawc, “would it not be wrong to forbid a youth who can give counsel so liberal as this from coming to the councils of his Lord?”

Then Kai arose, and he said, “Whosoever will follow Arthur, let him be with him tonight in Cornwall, and whosoever will not, let him be opposed to Arthur even during the truce.” And through the greatness of the tumult that ensued, Rhonabwy awoke. And when he awoke he was upon the yellow calf-skin, having slept three nights and three days.

And this tale is called the Dream of Rhonabwy. And this is the reason that no one knows the dream without a book, neither bard nor gifted seer; because of the various colours that were upon the horses, and the many wondrous colours of the arms and of the panoply, and of the precious scarfs, and of the virtue-bearing stones.

The Tale of Taliesin

IN TIMES PAST there lived in Penllyn a man of gentle lineage, named Tegid Voel, and his dwelling was in the midst of the lake Tegid, and his wife was called Caridwen. And there was born to him of his wife a son named Morvran ab Tegid, and also a daughter named Creirwy, the fairest maiden in the world was she; and they had a brother, the most ill-favoured man in the world, Avagddu. Now Caridwen his mother thought that he was not likely to be admitted among men of noble birth, by reason of his ugliness, unless he had some exalted merits or knowledge. For it was in the beginning of Arthur’s time and of the Round Table.

So she resolved, according to the arts of the books of the Fferyllt, to boil a cauldron of Inspiration and Science for her son, that his reception might be honourable because of his knowledge of the mysteries of the future state of the world.

Then she began to boil the cauldron, which from the beginning of its boiling might not cease to boil for a year and a day, until three blessed drops were obtained of the grace of Inspiration.

And she put Gwion Bach the son of Gwreang of Llanfair in Caereinion, in Powys, to stir the cauldron, and a blind man named Morda to kindle the fire beneath it, and she charged them that they should not suffer it to cease boiling for the space of a year and a day. And she herself, according to the books of the astronomers, and in planetary hours, gathered every day of all charm-bearing herbs. And one day, towards the end of the year, as Caridwen was culling plants and making incantations, it chanced that three drops of the charmed liquor flew out of the cauldron and fell upon the finger of Gwion Bach. And by reason of their great heat he put his finger to his mouth, and the instant he put those marvel-working drops into his mouth, he foresaw everything that was to come, and perceived that his chief care must be to guard against the wiles of Caridwen, for vast was her skill. And in very great fear he fled towards his own land. And the cauldron burst in two, because all the liquor within it except the three charm-bearing drops was poisonous, so that the horses of Gwyddno Garanhir were poisoned by the water of the stream into which the liquor of the cauldron ran, and the confluence of that stream was called the Poison of the Horses of Gwyddno from that time forth.

Thereupon came in Caridwen and saw all the toil of the whole year lost. And she seized a billet of wood and struck the blind Morda on the head until one of his eyes fell out upon his cheek. And he said, “Wrongfully hast thou disfigured me, for I am innocent. Thy loss was not because of me.” “Thou speakest truth,” said Caridwen, “it was Gwion Bach who robbed me.”

And she went forth after him, running. And he saw her, and changed himself into a hare and fled. But she changed herself into a greyhound and turned him. And he ran towards a river, and became a fish. And she in the form of an otter-bitch chased him under the water, until he was fain to turn himself into a bird of the air. She, as a hawk, followed him and gave him no rest in the sky. And just as she was about to stoop upon him, and he was in fear of death, he espied a heap of winnowed wheat on the floor of a barn, and he dropped among the wheat, and turned himself into one of the grains. Then she transformed herself into a high-crested black hen, and went to the wheat and scratched it with her feet, and found him out and swallowed him. And, as the story says, she bore him nine months, and when she was delivered of him, she could not find it in her heart to kill him, by reason of his beauty. So she wrapped him in a leathern bag, and cast him into the sea to the mercy of God, on the twenty-ninth day of April.

And at that time the weir of Gwyddno was on the strand between Dyvi and Aberystwyth, near to his own castle, and the value of an hundred pounds was taken in that weir every May eve. And in those days Gwyddno had an only son named Elphin, the most hapless of youths, and the most needy. And it grieved his father sore, for he thought that he was born in an evil hour. And by the advice of his council, his father had granted him the drawing of the weir that year, to see if good luck would ever befall him, and to give him something wherewith to begin the world.

And the next day when Elphin went to look, there was nothing in the weir. But as he turned back he perceived the leathern bag upon a pole of the weir. Then said one of the weir-ward unto Elphin, “Thou wast never unlucky until tonight, and now thou hast destroyed the virtues of the weir, which always yielded the value of an hundred pounds every May eve, and tonight there is nothing but this leathern skin within it.” “How now,” said Elphin, “there may be therein the value of an hundred pounds.” Well, they took up the leathern bag, and he who opened it saw the forehead of the boy, and said to Elphin, “Behold a radiant brow!”1 “Taliesin be he called,” said Elphin. And he lifted the boy in his arms, and lamenting his mischance, he placed him sorrowfully behind him. And he made his horse amble gently, that before had been trotting, and he carried him as softly as if he had been sitting in the easiest chair in the world. And presently the boy made a Consolation and praise to Elphin, and foretold honour to Elphin; and the Consolation was as you may see:

“Fair Elphin, cease to lament!

Let no one be dissatisfied with his own,

To despair will bring no advantage.

No man sees what supports him;

The prayer of Cynllo will not be in vain;

God will not violate his promise.

Never in Gwyddno’s weir

Was there such good luck as this night.

Fair Elphin, dry thy cheeks!

Being too sad will not avail.

Although thou thinkest thou hast no gain,

Too much grief will bring thee no good;

Nor doubt the miracles of the Almighty:

Although I am but little, I am highly gifted.

From seas, and from mountains,

And from the depths of rivers,

God brings wealth to the fortunate man.

Elphin of lively qualities,

Thy resolution is unmanly;

Thou must not be over sorrowful:

Better to trust in God than to forbode ill.

Weak and small as I am,

On the foaming beach of the ocean,

In the day of trouble I shall be

Of more service to thee than three hundred salmon.

Elphin of notable qualities,

Be not displeased at thy misfortune;

Although reclined thus weak in my bag,

There lies a virtue in my tongue.

While I continue thy protector

Thou hast not much to fear;

Remembering the names of the Trinity,

None shall be able to harm thee.”

And this was the first poem that Taliesin ever sang, being to console Elphin in his grief for that the produce of the weir was lost, and, what was worse, that all the world would consider that it was through his fault and ill-luck. And then Gwyddno Garanhir^2 asked him what he was, whether man or spirit. Whereupon he sang this tale, and said:

“First, I have been formed a comely person,

In the court of Caridwen I have done penance;

Though little I was seen, placidly received,

I was great on the floor of the place to where I was led;

I have been a prized defence, the sweet muse the cause,

And by law without speech I have been liberated

By a smiling black old hag, when irritated

Dreadful her claim when pursued:

I have fled with vigour, I have fled as a frog,

I have fled in the semblance of a crow, scarcely finding rest;

I have fled vehemently, I have fled as a chain,

I have fled as a roe into an entangled thicket;

I have fled as a wolf cub, I have fled as a wolf in a wilderness,

I have fled as a thrush of portending language;

I have fled as a fox, used to concurrent bounds of quirks;

I have fled as a martin, which did not avail;

I have fled as a squirrel, that vainly hides,

I have fled as a stag’s antler, of ruddy course,

I have fled as iron in a glowing fire,

I have fled as a spear-head, of woe to such as has a wish for it;

I have fled as a fierce hull bitterly fighting,

I have fled as a bristly boar seen in a ravine,

I have fled as a white grain of pure wheat,

On the skirt of a hempen sheet entangled,

That seemed of the size of a mare’s foal,

That is filling like a ship on the waters;

Into a dark leathern bag I was thrown,

And on a boundless sea I was sent adrift;

Which was to me an omen of being tenderly nursed,

And the Lord God then set me at liberty.”

Then came Elphin to the house or court of Gwyddno his father, and Taliesin with him. And Gwyddno asked him if he had had a good haul at the weir, and he told him that he had got that which was better than fish. “What was that?” said Gwyddno. “A Bard,” answered Elphin. Then said Gwyddno, “Alas, what will he profit thee?” And Taliesin himself replied and said, “He will profit him more than the weir ever profited thee.” Asked Gwyddno, “Art thou able to speak, and thou so little?” And Taliesin answered him, “I am better able to speak than thou to question me.” “Let me hear what thou canst say,” quoth Gwyddno. Then Taliesin sang:

“In water there is a quality endowed with a blessing;

On God it is most just to meditate aright;

To God it is proper to supplicate with seriousness,

Since no obstacle can there be to obtain a reward from him.

Three times have I been born, I know by meditation;

It were miserable for a person not to come and obtain

All the sciences of the world, collected together in my breast,

For I know what has been, what in future will occur.

I will supplicate my Lord that I get refuge in him,

A regard I may obtain in his grace;

The Son of Mary is my trust, great in him is my delight,

For in him is the world continually upholden.

God has been to instruct me and to raise my expectation,

The true Creator of heaven, who affords me protection;

It is rightly intended that the saints should daily pray,

For God, the renovator, will bring them to him.”

And forthwith Elphin gave his haul to his wife, and she nursed him tenderly and lovingly. Thenceforward Elphin increased in riches more and more day after day, and in love and favour with the king, and there abode Taliesin until he was thirteen years old, when Elphin son of Gwyddno went by a Christmas invitation to his uncle, Maelgwn Gwynedd, who some time after this held open court at Christmastide in the castle of Dyganwy, for all the number of his lords of both degrees, both spiritual and temporal, with a vast and thronged host of knights and squires. And amongst them there arose a discourse and discussion. And thus was it said.

“Is there in the whole world a king so great as Maelgwn, or one on whom Heaven has bestowed so many spiritual gifts as upon him? First, form, and beauty, and meekness, and strength, besides all the powers of the soul!” And together with these they said that Heaven had given one gift that exceeded all the others, which was the beauty, and comeliness, and grace, and wisdom, and modesty of his queen; whose virtues surpassed those of all the ladies and noble maidens throughout the whole kingdom. And with this they put questions one to another amongst themselves: Who had braver men? Who had fairer or swifter horses or greyhounds? Who had more skilful or wiser bards – than Maelgwn?

Now at that time the bards were in great favour with the exalted of the kingdom; and then none performed the office of those who are now called heralds, unless they were learned men, not only expert in the service of kings and princes, but studious and well versed in the lineage, and arms, and exploits of princes and kings, and in discussions concerning foreign kingdoms, and the ancient things of this kingdom, and chiefly in the annals of the first nobles; and also were prepared always with their answers in various languages, Latin, French, Welsh, and English. And together with this they were great chroniclers, and recorders, and skilful in framing verses, and ready in making englyns in every one of those languages. Now of these there were at that feast within the palace of Maelgwn as many as four-and-twenty, and chief of them all was one named Heinin Vardd.

When they had all made an end of thus praising the king and his gifts, it befell that Elphin spoke in this wise. “Of a truth none but a king may vie with a king; but were he not a king, I would say that my wife was as virtuous as any lady in the kingdom, and also that I have a bard who is more skilful than all the king’s bards.” In a short space some of his fellows showed the king all the boastings of Elphin; and the king ordered him to be thrown into a strong prison, until he might know the truth as to the virtues of his wife, and the wisdom of his bard.

Now when Elphin had been put in a tower of the castle, with a thick chain about his feet (it is said that it was a silver chain, because he was of royal blood), the king, as the story relates, sent his son Rhun to inquire into the demeanour of Elphin’s wife. Now Rhun was the most graceless man in the world, and there was neither wife nor maiden with whom he had held converse, but was evil spoken of. While Rhun went in haste towards Elphin’s dwelling, being fully minded to bring disgrace upon his wife, Taliesin told his mistress how that the king had placed his master in durance in prison, and how that Rhun was coming in haste to strive to bring disgrace upon her. Wherefore he caused his mistress to array one of the maids of her kitchen in her apparel; which the noble lady gladly did; and she loaded her hands with the best rings that she and her husband possessed.

In this guise Taliesin caused his mistress to put the maiden to sit at the board in her room at supper, and he made her to seem as her mistress, and the mistress to seem as the maid. And when they were in due time seated at their supper in the manner that has been said, Rhun suddenly arrived at Elphin’s dwelling, and was received with joy, for all the servants knew him plainly; and they brought him in haste to the room of their mistress, in the semblance of whom the maid rose up from supper and welcomed him gladly. And afterwards she sat down to supper again the second time, and Rhun with her. Then Rhun began jesting with the maid, who still kept the semblance of her mistress. And verily this story shows that the maiden became so intoxicated, that she fell asleep; and the story relates that it was a powder that Rhun put into the drink, that made her sleep so soundly that she never felt it when he cut from off her hand her little finger, whereupon was the signet ring of Elphin, which he had sent to his wife as a token, a short time before. And Rhun returned to the king with the finger and the ring as a proof, to show that he had cut it from off her hand, without her awaking from her sleep of intemperance.

The king rejoiced greatly at these tidings, and he sent for his councillors, to whom he told the whole story from the beginning. And he caused Elphin to be brought out of his prison, and he chided him because of his boast. And he spake unto Elphin on this wise. “Elphin, be it known to thee beyond a doubt that it is but folly for a man to trust in the virtues of his wife further than he can see her; and that thou mayest be certain of thy wife’s vileness, behold her finger, with thy signet ring upon it, which was cut from her hand last night, while she slept the sleep of intoxication.” Then thus spake Elphin. “With thy leave, mighty king, I cannot deny my ring, for it is known of many; but verily I assert strongly that the finger around which it is, was never attached to the hand of my wife, for in truth and certainty there are three notable things pertaining to it, none of which ever belonged to any of my wife’s fingers. The first of the three is, that it is certain, by your grace’s leave, that wheresoever my wife is at this present hour, whether sitting, or standing, or lying down, this ring would never remain upon her thumb, whereas you can plainly see that it was hard to draw it over the joint of the little finger of the hand whence this was cut; the second thing is, that my wife has never let pass one Saturday since I have known her without paring her nails before going to bed, and you can see fully that the nail of this little finger has not been pared for a month. The third is, truly, that the hand whence this finger came was kneading rye dough within three days before the finger was cut therefrom, and I can assure your goodness that my wife has never kneaded rye dough since my wife she has been.”

Then the king was mightily wroth with Elphin for so stoutly withstanding him, respecting the goodness of his wife, wherefore he ordered him to his prison a second time, saying that he should not be loosed thence until he had proved the truth of his boast, as well concerning the wisdom of his bard as the virtues of his wife.

In the meantime his wife and Taliesin remained joyful at Elphin’s dwelling. And Taliesin showed his mistress how that Elphin was in prison because of them, but he bade her be glad, for that he would go to Maelgwn’s court to free his master. Then she asked him in what manner he would set him free. And he answered her:

“A journey will I perform,

And to the gate I will come;

The hall I will enter,

And my song I will sing;

My speech I will pronounce

To silence royal bards,

In presence of their chief,

I will greet to deride,

Upon them I will break

And Elphin I will free.

Should contention arise,

In presence of the prince,

With summons to the bards,

For the sweet flowing song,

And wizards’ posing lore

And wisdom of Druids,

In the court of the sons of the Distributor

Some are who did appear

Intent on wily schemes,

By craft and tricking means,

In pangs of affliction

To wrong the innocent,

Let the fools be silent,

As erst in Badon’s fight, –

With Arthur of liberal ones

The head, with long red blades;

Through feats of testy men,

And a chief with his foes.

Woe be to them, the fools,

When revenge comes on them.

I Taliesin, chief of bards,

With a sapient Druid’s words,

Will set kind Elphin free

From haughty tyrant’s bonds.

To their fell and chilling cry,

By the act of a surprising steed,

From the far distant North,

There soon shall be an end.

Let neither grace nor health

Be to Maelgwn Gwynedd,

For this force and this wrong;

And be extremes of ills

And an avenged end

To Rhun and all his race:

Short be his course of life,

Be all his lands laid waste;

And long exile be assigned

To Maelgwn Gwynedd!”

After this he took leave of his mistress, and came at last to the Court of Maelgwn, who was going to sit in his hall and dine in his royal state, as it was the custom in those days for kings and princes to do at every chief feast. And as soon as Taliesin entered the hall, he placed himself in a quiet corner, near the place where the bards and the minstrels were wont to come in doing their service and duty to the king, as is the custom at the high festivals when the bounty is proclaimed. And so, when the bards and the heralds came to cry largess, and to proclaim the power of the king and his strength, at the moment that they passed by the corner wherein he was crouching, Taliesin pouted out his lips after them, and played ‘Blerwm, blerwm,’ with his finger upon his lips. Neither took they much notice of him as they went by, but proceeded forward till they came before the king, unto whom they made their obeisance with their bodies, as they were wont, without speaking a single word, but pouting out their lips, and making mouths at the king, playing “Blerwm, blerwm,” upon their lips with their fingers, as they had seen the boy do elsewhere. This sight caused the king to wonder and to deem within himself that they were drunk with many liquors. Wherefore he commanded one of his lords, who served at the board, to go to them and desire them to collect their wits, and to consider where they stood, and what it was fitting for them to do. And this lord did so gladly. But they ceased not from their folly any more than before. Whereupon he sent to them a second time, and a third, desiring them to go forth from the hall. At the last the king ordered one of his squires to give a blow to the chief of them named Heinin Vardd; and the squire took a broom and struck him on the head, so that he fell back in his seat. Then he arose and went on his knees, and besought leave of the king’s grace to show that this their fault was not through want of knowledge, neither through drunkenness, but by the influence of some spirit that was in the hall. And after this Heinin spoke on this wise. “Oh, honourable king, be it known to your grace, that not from the strength of drink, or of too much liquor, are we dumb, without power of speech like drunken men, but through the influence of a spirit that sits in the corner yonder in the form of a child.” Forthwith the king commanded the squire to fetch him; and he went to the nook where Taliesin sat, and brought him before the king, who asked him what he was, and whence he came. And he answered the king in verse.

“Primary chief bard am I to Elphin,

And my original country is the region of the summer stars;

Idno and Heinin called me Merddin,

At length every king will call me Taliesin.

I was with my Lord in the highest sphere,

On the fall of Lucifer into the depth of hell

I have borne a banner before Alexander;

I know the names of the stars from north to south;

I have been on the galaxy at the throne of the Distributor;

I was in Canaan when Absalom was slain;

I conveyed the Divine Spirit to the level of the vale of Hebron;

I was in the court of Don before the birth of Gwdion.

I was instructor to Eli and Enoc;

I have been winged by the genius of the splendid crosier;

I have been loquacious prior to being gifted with speech;

I was at the place of the crucifixion of the merciful Son of God;

I have been three periods in the prison of Arianrod;

I have been the chief director of the work of the tower of Nimrod;

I am a wonder whose origin is not known.

I have been in Asia with Noah in the ark,

I have seen the destruction of Sodom and Gomorra;

I have been in India when Roma was built,

I am now come here to the remnant of Troia.

I have been with my Lord in the manger of the ass:

I strengthened Moses through the water of Jordan;

I have been in the firmament with Mary Magdalene;

I have obtained the muse from the cauldron of Caridwen;

I have been bard of the harp to Lleon of Lochlin.

I have been on the White Hill, in the court of Cynvelyn,

For a day and a year in stocks and fetters,

I have suffered hunger for the Son of the Virgin,

I have been fostered in the land of the Deity,

I have been teacher to all intelligences,

I am able to instruct the whole universe.

I shall be until the day of doom on the face of the earth;

And it is not known whether my body is flesh or fish.

Then I was for nine months

In the womb of the hag Caridwen;

I was originally little Gwion,

And at length I am Taliesin.”

And when the king and his nobles had heard the song, they wondered much, for they had never heard the like from a boy so young as he. And when the king knew that he was the bard of Elphin, he bade Heinin, his first and wisest bard, to answer Taliesin and to strive with him. But when he came, he could do no other but play ‘blerwm’ on his lips; and when he sent for the others of the four-and-twenty bards they all did likewise, and could do no other. And Maelgwn asked the boy Taliesin what was his errand, and he answered him in song.

“Puny bards, I am trying

To secure the prize, if I can;

By a gentle prophetic strain

I am endeavouring to retrieve

The loss I may have suffered;

Complete the attempt I hope,

Since Elphin endures trouble

In the fortress of Teganwy,

On him may there not be laid

Too many chains and fetters;

The Chair of the fortress of Teganwy

Will I again seek;

Strengthened by my muse I am powerful;

Mighty on my part is what I seek,

For three hundred songs and more

Are combined in the spell I sing.

There ought not to stand where I am

Neither stone, neither ring;

And there ought not to be about me

Any bard who may not know

That Elphin the son of Gwyddno

Is in the land of Artro,

Secured by thirteen locks,

For praising his instructor;

And then I Taliesin,

Chief of the bards of the west,

Shall loosen Elphin

Out of a golden fetter.”

* * *

“If you be primary bards

To the master of sciences,

Declare ye mysteries

That relate to the inhabitants of the world;

There is a noxious creature,

From the rampart of Satanas,

Which has overcome all

Between the deep and the shallow;

Equally wide are his jaws

As the mountains of the Alps;

Him death will not subdue,

Nor hand or blades;

There is the load of nine hundred wagons

In the hair of his two paws;

There is in his head an eye

Green as the limpid sheet of icicle;

Three springs arise

In the nape of his neck;

Sea-roughs thereon

Swim through it;

There was the dissolution of the oxen

Of Deivrdonwy the water-gifted.

The names of the three springs

From the midst of the ocean;

One generated brine

Which is from the Corina,

To replenish the flood

Over seas disappearing;

The second, without injury

It will fall on us,

When there is rain abroad,

Through the whelming sky;

The third will appear

Through the mountain veins,

Like a flinty banquet,

The work of the King of kings,

You are blundering bards,

In too much solicitude;

You cannot celebrate

The kingdom of the Britons;

And I am Taliesin,

Chief of the bards of the west,

Who will loosen Elphin

Out of the golden fetter.”

* * *

“Be silent, then, ye unlucky rhyming bards,

For you cannot judge between truth and falsehood.

If you be primary bards formed by heaven,

Tell your king what his fate will be.

It is I who am a diviner and a leading bard,

And know every passage in the country of your king;

I shall liberate Elphin from the belly of the stony tower;

And will tell your king what will befall him.

A most strange creature will come from the sea marsh of Rhianedd

As a punishment of iniquity on Maelgwn Gwynedd;

His hair, his teeth, and his eyes being as gold,

And this will bring destruction upon Maelgwn Gwynedd.”

* * *

“Discover thou what is

The strong creature from before the flood,

Without flesh, without bone,

Without vein, without blood,

Without head, without feet,

It will neither be older nor younger

Than at the beginning;

For fear of a denial,

There are no rude wants

With creatures.

Great God! how the sea whitens

When first it comes!

Great are its gusts

When it comes from the south;

Great are its evaporations

When it strikes on coasts.

It is in the field, it is in the wood,

Without hand, and without foot,

Without signs of old age,

Though it be co-æval

With the five ages or periods

And older still,

Though they be numberless years.

It is also so wide

As the surface of the earth;

And it was not born,

Nor was it seen.

It will cause consternation

Wherever God willeth.

On sea, and on land,

It neither sees, nor is seen.

Its course is devious,

And will not come when desired;

On land and on sea,

It is indispensable.

It is without an equal,

It is four-sided;

It is not confined,

It is incomparable;

It comes from four quarters;

It will not be advised,

It will not be without advice.

It commences its journey

Above the marble rock,

It is sonorous, it is dumb,

It is mild,

It is strong, it is bold,

When it glances over the land,

It is silent, it is vocal,

It is clamorous,

It is the most noisy

On the face of the earth.

It is good, it is bad,

It is extremely injurious.

It is concealed,

Because sight cannot perceive it.

It is noxious, it is beneficial;

It is yonder, it is here;

It will discompose,

But will not repair the injury;

It will not suffer for its doings,

Seeing it is blameless.

It is wet, it is dry,

It frequently comes,

Proceeding from the heat of the sun,

And the coldness of the moon.

The moon is less beneficial,

Inasmuch as her heat is less.

One Being has prepared it,

Out of all creatures,

By a tremendous blast,

To wreak vengeance

On Maelgwn Gwynedd.”

And while he was thus singing his verse near the door, there arose a mighty storm of wind, so that the king and all his nobles thought that the castle would fall on their heads. And the king caused them to fetch Elphin in haste from his dungeon, and placed him before Taliesin. And it is said, that immediately he sang a verse, so that the chains opened from about his feet.

“I adore the Supreme, Lord of all animation, –

Him that supports the heavens, Ruler of every extreme,

Him that made the water good for all,

Him who has bestowed each gift, and blesses it; –

May abundance of mead be given Maelgwn of Anglesey, who supplies us,

From his foaming meadhorns, with the choicest pure liquor.

Since bees collect, and do not enjoy,

We have sparkling distilled mead, which is universally praised.

The multitude of creatures which the earth nourishes

God made for man, with a view to enrich him; –

Some are violent, some are mute, he enjoys them,

Some are wild, some are tame; the Lord makes them; –

Part of their produce becomes clothing;

For food and beverage till doom will they continue.

I entreat the Supreme, Sovereign of the region of peace,

To liberate Elphin from banishment,

The man who gave me wine, and ale, and mead,

With large princely steeds, of beautiful appearance;

May he yet give me; and at the end,

May God of his good will grant me, in honour,

A succession of numberless ages, in the retreat of tranquillity.

Elphin, knight of mead, late be thy dissolution!”

And afterwards he sang the ode which is called ‘The Excellence of the Bards.’

“What was the first man

Made by the God of heaven;

What the fairest flattering speech

That was prepared by leuav;

What meat, what drink,

What roof his shelter;

What the first impression

Of his primary thinking;

What became his clothing;

Who carried on a disguise,

Owing to the wilds of the country,

In the beginning?

Wherefore should a stone be hard;

Why should a thorn be sharp-pointed?

Who is hard like a flint;

Who is salt like brine;

Who sweet like honey;

Who rides on the gale;

Why ridged should be the nose;

Why should a wheel be round;

Why should the tongue be gifted with speech

Rather than another member?

If thy bards, Heinin, be competent,

Let them reply to me, Taliesin.”

And after that he sang the address which is called ‘The Reproof of the Bards.’

“If thou art a bard completely imbued

With genius not to be controlled,

Be thou not untractable

Within the court of thy king;

Until thy rigmarole shall be known,

Be thou silent, Heinin,

As to the name of thy verse,

And the name of thy vaunting;

And as to the name of thy grandsire

Prior to his being baptized.

And the name of the sphere,

And the name of the element,

And the name of thy language,

And the name of thy region.

Avaunt, ye bards above,

Avaunt, ye bards below!

My beloved is below,

In the fetter of Ariansod

It is certain you know not

How to understand the song I utter,

Nor clearly how to discriminate

Between the truth and what is false;

Puny bards, crows of the district,

Why do you not take to flight?

A bard that will not silence me,

Silence may he not obtain,

Till he goes to be covered

Under gravel and pebbles;

Such as shall listen to me,

May God listen to him.”

Then sang he the piece called ‘The Spite of the Bards.’

“Minstrels persevere in their false custom,

Immoral ditties are their delight;

Vain and tasteless praise they recite;

Falsehood at all times do they utter;

The innocent persons they ridicule;

Married women they destroy,

Innocent virgins of Mary they corrupt;

As they pass their lives away in vanity,

Poor innocent persons they ridicule;

At night they get drunk, they sleep the day;

In idleness without work they feed themselves;

The Church they hate, and the tavern they frequent;

With thieves and perjured fellows they associate;

At courts they inquire after feasts;

Every senseless word they bring forward;

Every deadly sin they praise;

Every vile course of life they lead;

Through every village, town, and country they stroll;

Concerning the gripe of death they think not;

Neither lodging nor charity do they give;

Indulging in victuals to excess.

Psalms or prayers they do not use,

Tithes or offerings to God they do not pay,

On holidays or Sundays they do not worship;

Vigils or festivals they do not heed.

The birds do fly, the fish do swim,

The bees collect honey, worms do crawl,

Every thing travails to obtain its food,

Except minstrels and lazy useless thieves.

I deride neither song nor minstrelsy,

For they are given by God to lighten thought;

But him who abuses them,

For blaspheming Jesus and his service.”

Taliesin having set his master free from prison, and having protected the innocence of his wife, and silenced the Bards, so that not one of them dared to say a word, now brought Elphin’s wife before them, and showed that she had not one finger wanting. Right glad was Elphin, right glad was Taliesin.

Then he bade Elphin wager the king, that he had a horse both better and swifter than the king’s horses. And this Elphin did, and the day, and the time, and the place were fixed, and the place was that which at this day is called Morva Rhiannedd: and thither the king went with all his people, and four-and-twenty of the swiftest horses he possessed. And after a long process the course was marked, and the horses were placed for running. Then came Taliesin with four-and-twenty twigs of holly, which he had burnt black, and he caused the youth who was to ride his master’s horse to place them in his belt, and he gave him orders to let all the king’s horses get before him, and as he should overtake one horse after the other, to take one of the twigs and strike the horse with it over the crupper, and then let that twig fall; and after that to take another twig, and do in like manner to every one of the horses, as he should overtake them, enjoining the horseman strictly to watch when his own horse should stumble, and to throw down his cap on the spot. All these things did the youth fulfil, giving a blow to every one of the king’s horses, and throwing down his cap on the spot where his horse stumbled. And to this spot Taliesin brought his master after his horse had won the race. And he caused Elphin to put workmen to dig a hole there; and when they had dug the ground deep enough, they found a large cauldron full of gold. And then said Taliesin, “Elphin, behold a payment and reward unto thee, for having taken me out of the weir, and for having reared me from that time until now.” And on this spot stands a pool of water, which is to this time called Pwllbair.

After all this, the king caused Taliesin to be brought before him, and he asked him to recite concerning the creation of man from the beginning; and thereupon he made the poem which is now called ‘One of the Four Pillars of Song.’

“The Almighty made,

Down the Hebron vale,

With his plastic hands,

Adam’s fair form:

And five hundred years,

Void of any help,

There he remained and lay

Without a soul.

He again did form,

In calm paradise,

From a left-side rib,

Bliss-throbbing Eve.

Seven hours they were

The orchard keeping,

Till Satan brought strife,

With wiles from hell.

Thence were they driven,

Cold and shivering,

To gain their living,

Into this world.

To bring forth with pain

Their sons and daughters,

To have possession

Of Asia’s land.

Twice five, ten and eight,

She was self-bearing,

The mixed burden

Of man-woman.

And once, not hidden,

She brought forth Abel,

And Cain the forlorn,

The homicide.

To him and his mate

Was given a spade,

To break up the soil,

Thus to get bread.

The wheat pure and white,

Summer tilth to sow,

Every man to feed,

Till great yule feast.

An angelic hand

From the high Father,

Brought seed for growing

That Eve might sow;

But she then did hide

Of the gift a tenth,

And all did not sow

Of what was dug.

Black rye then was found,

And not pure wheat grain,

To show the mischief

Thus of thieving.

For this thievish act,

It is requisite,

That all men should pay

Tithe unto God.

Of the ruddy wine,

Planted on sunny days,

And on new-moon nights;

And the white wine.

The wheat rich in grain

And red flowing wine

Christ’s pure body make,

Son of Alpha.

The wafer is flesh,

The wine is spilt blood,

The Trinity’s words

Sanctify them.

The concealed books

From Emmanuel’s hand

Were brought by Raphael

As Adam’s gift,

When in his old age,

To his chin immersed

In Jordan’s water,

Keeping a fast,

Moses did obtain

In Jordan’s water,

The aid of the three

Most special rods.

Solomon did obtain

In Babel’s tower,

All the sciences

In Asia land.

So did I obtain,

In my bardic books,

All the sciences

Of Europe and Africa.

Their course, their bearing,

Their permitted way,

And their fate I know,

Unto the end.

Oh! what misery,

Through extreme of woe,

Prophecy will show

On Troia’s race!

A coiling serpent

Proud and merciless,

On her golden wings,

From Germany.

She will overrun

England and Scotland,

From Lychlyn sea-shore

To the Severn.

Then will the Brython

Be as prisoners,

By strangers swayed,

From Saxony.

Their Lord they will praise,

Their speech they will keep,

Their land they will lose,

Except wild Walia.

Till some change shall come,

After long penance,

When equally rife

The two crimes come.

Britons then shall have

Their land and their crown,

And the stranger swarm

Shall disappear.

All the angel’s words,

As to peace and war,

Will be fulfilled

To Britain’s race.”

He further told the king various prophecies of things that should be in the world, in songs...

The original manuscript breaks off at this point.

Footnotes for The Tale of Taliesin

1. ‘Taliesin’ means ‘radiant brow’.

2. The mention of Gwyddno Garanhir instead of Elphin ab Gwyddno in this place is evidently an error of some transcriber of the MS.

TALES OF WITCHCRAFT & MAGIC

Introduction

WITCHCRAFT CONSPIRED to manipulate the lives of men and women, across the lands, and across the ages. The old woman in the village might have powers that not everyone could understand, and when something went wrong, when illness fell, someone had to be given blame for the misfortune. The witchlore of Scotland was spawned and accentuated under the reign of James VI and I, who had an overwhelming superstition of and belief in them. Ultimately, however, the belief in witches reflects a pagan fear of spirits and creatures of the unknown. Witches could cast spells that enchanted, calmed, killed and controlled, and for that they were dreaded and continually plotted against. All witches were eventually defeated, but until that time, it was only safe to keep charms against unusual knots, or black cats, or strange happenings on the sea, for who really knew their origin?

The Brownie

IN SCOTLAND THERE’S A CREATURE that’s not a witch, or a warlock, or even really a fairy. He’s a brownie, and he’s ugly so he’s not often seen by mortal eyes. For brownies are small creatures, with great bulging eyes, and faces that are furred like the backside of a donkey. Their teeth are like battered stones, and when they smile they set fear in the hearts of all men. But a brownie is a helpful soul, and although they are not often wanted round about a house or a farm, they work a kind of magic, and help to clean and to tend the farm or run the mill, for just the price of a bowl of cream, and the odd bit of oatmeal.

There once was a brownie who lived round about a house on a farm in Wester Ross in Kintail. The house on the farm was empty, so the brownie had made himself a happy home there. In this same village, near the house on the farm, lived a young miller, who shared a house with his mother. Now his mother was a greedy woman, and she dabbled in magic of all sorts, not all of it white to be sure, and she had set her sights on the young lassie at the big house on the hill, to be the wife of her young miller son.

The lassie was pretty, and her nature was kind, but the young miller was already in love with another, a servant girl who went by the name of Katie. Now Katie was as fair as the morning sky, and her cheeks were flushed with roses. She was a bonnie lass, and she would work hard with her husband to tend a mill and to make him into something grand.

Now the young miller’s mother would have nothing of it: “Look, ye must marry this farmer’s daughter, with a big farm and everything, and it would be yours because her father’s getting on.”

But the miller was stubborn, and he cared only for Katie.

“I can’t help it mother, I love Katie, and I am gonna marry her,” he said firmly, to which his mother replied, “You’re not gonna marry Katie, because Katie is gonna die.”

But the miller’s will was stronger than his love for his mother, and he married Katie in secret and took her to live in a deserted house on a farm. Now there were stories told in those parts about the brownie who had made his home there, but the miller was a friendly sort, and not easily scared, and so he convinced young Katie that it would be safe and together they went to meet with the brownie. Katie was a fair lass, and she could see that an appearance did not make a man, and although the brownie frightened her, she could sense his good nature and agreed to live there.

They settled in happily, in the house on the farm, and the brownie was made a fine bed of straw and bracken, and fed all the best bit of oatmeal and cream. For that he tended their mill, and each day new sacks of grain were laid neatly against the mill walls. He interfered not at all in their lives, but they came to love his quiet presence, his charming ways. For he would slip down the chimney as they slept and lay things just right, so that when they woke, the wee house gleamed from every corner.

As is wont to happen, especially with those who are young and in love, the young lady of the house became heavy with child, and as she grew more and more tired, the brownie would work harder, until he spent many a day in the house of the miller and Katie. He became a friend to Katie, and she became accustomed to his horrible face, warmed by his quiet presence, his charming ways. And when the baby was due to come, it was the brownie who she called to fetch her husband the miller, and he scampered with glee down the path to the mill.

Now the miller too had grown fond of the brownie, but he was more traditional than wee Katie, and he felt that the presence of his mother was necessary for that bairn to be born. And so he left Katie with the brownie, who mopped her brow as she called out with pain, and who stroked her face with his own furred hand. But as soon as the footfall of the miller’s mother was heard on the path, he leapt up the chimney and disappeared from the room. For brownies are magic beings themselves and they know the dangers of a witch, especially those who dabble in magic that is not all white.

The miller’s mother was friendly and calm, and in her pain and distress, Katie could not help but trust her. She allowed her mother-in-law to braid her hair, and to set her back against pillows that were freshly stuffed. A tiny black kitten was set by her side to keep company with her and the new baby. Then, turning the lassie’s bed towards the door, she bid her farewell and left.

Now Katie was soothed by the presence of the witch, but when she left the pains began again in earnest and she moaned and writhed for two whole days before the miller was forced to go for help. He went first to his mother, but she feigned an illness and said she could not come back with him. And so he returned to the farm where he found poor Katie sick with exhaustion and great pain.

“I’ll go for the howdie woman,” he said, for the howdie woman delivered most of the babies in the village, having the gift for midwifery. But Katie would not hear of it, so frightened she had become.

“Don’t leave me here,” she sobbed. “Send the brownie.” And that thought stopped them short, for many folk were frightened to visit them at their home because of that same brownie, and they wondered now if the howdie woman would fear to come as well.

But Katie’s pain was dragging her deeper into a dreadful state, and the roses had disappeared from her cheeks. There was no sight of the bairn and there was nothing for it but to call the brownie to help.

The brownie was only too glad to help, and in the cover of darkness, with a great cloak wrapped across his hideous face, he rode off across the hills to fetch the howdie woman. And she came at once, for her calling was stronger than her fear, and she sat herself behind the brownie and wrapped her arms about him for warmth and for safety. And she whispered in his ear as they rode, “Katie will be well again, no doubt, but I hope I don’t see that brownie. I am terrified of that brownie!”

But the brownie said, “No, don’t worry, I can assure you for certain that you’ll not see anything worse than what you’re cuddling now.” And he drove the howdie woman to the door of the house and made off with the horse, into the darkness.

The howdie woman had seen no birth like this, and for four more days she sat with Katie, who was expiring quickly now, torn by pains that wracked her thin frame, and struggling to keep sane as they plunged her into a burning hell with every contraction.

The miller sat brooding in a chair, helpless against this pain he could not understand, and suddenly he sat up and snapped his fingers. “I’ll bet a shilling,” he said then, “that this is the work of my mother.”

So he rode straight to the house of his mother and shouted at her, “Take that spell off my Katie. I know you’ve done something.”

And his mother shook her head, and said, “I will not. I told you she is gonna die, and you are gonna marry the farmer’s daughter.” She stood firm then and would not help his poor Katie.

So poor Katie seemed destined to die in agony, and he ran away then into the night, straight to the wee brownie, for he had no one else to whom he could turn. And the brownie thought for a while, and said, “I’ll tell you what you can do. Take me down to your mother.”

“Oh, no,” said the miller, “that wouldn’t help us at all. God himself couldn’t help me against my mother.”

“Ah,” said the brownie, “but you take me down because I can become invisible, and if you were to rush in and tell your mother, “Oh, mother, mother, you’ve got a beautiful grandson!” and then run off again, I will stay behind to see what happens. And I’ll be invisible.”

And so it was decided that the brownie would come along, and when they reached the house of his mother, the miller ran in and cried, “Mother, you have got a beautiful grandson.”

And she said, “What?” her face a mask of alarm and fury.

“Oh yes,” shouted the miller, “But I can’t stop, I must see Katie.” And with that he ran back over the hills to wait for the brownie.

And as he went out the door, the woman stamped her feet and pulled at her hair, cursing all the time, “Who told him about the witches’ knots in Katie’s hair? How did he know about the black cat? Who told him about the raven’s feathers in those great white pillows? And who told them that I’d turned her feet to the door?”

And then the brownie skipped away, as fast as his legs would carry him, over the hills to greet the miller, and together they ran back to the house on the farm where Katie lay with the howdie woman.

Now the howdie woman had only to set eyes on the grinning brownie when she was up and out the door in a flash, but the brownie set himself to work, stroking the poor lass’s cheek and mopping her brow, warming her with his quiet presence and his charming ways. He untied her head, and brushed it down around her shoulders, crooning softly in her ears. Then he took those great new pillows and set them aflame in the hearth until only dust remained of those evil black feathers. And then, with one angry twist, he took the head from the kitten and burnt her too, out of sight, of course, of poor Katie. And so it was, when the brownie moved the bed round, so that her feet faced the door no longer, that the cry of an infant was heard in that house on the farm. Katie slept then, and when she woke, her baby was cleaned and swaddled, and the roses returned to her cheeks once more.

But the brownie had gone, for brownies often do that, just disappear, never to be seen again. They missed the wee man’s quiet presence and his charming ways, but he had milled enough grain for twenty odd years, and they lived on that house on the farm with their new baby in comfort and in good fortune.

The Three Knots

THERE ONCE WAS A FAMILY on the island of Heisker in Ulst. They were farm people and worked hard all the year, but when the harvest was over, and the grain tucked safely away for the frosty months ahead, they took it upon themselves to plan a little trip to Lewis, to visit some friends there.

It was the same every year, they crossed the sea and got to Lewis where they had a grand time of it, and then they went home again, to cosy themselves away for the long frosty months. And so it was this time, that they gathered an able crew and set off.

At Lewis things seemed much the same as they ever had. The man of the family went to greet the woman of the house they were visiting, and they talked for many hours, of days of old, and of good friends and family. And just as he made preparations to get off to bed, a tall lithe woman entered the room, with hair as black as a raven’s back. Her eyes were cool and dark, and she whispered something to the woman of the house, and then she left, stopping only to stroke the woman’s hair.

“Who’s that ugly black thing,” asked the man, curious about the familiarity between the two women.

And the woman sighed and replied, “Is that what you say? Ugly, is she? Woe betide you, man, but you’ll be lost in love with her before you leave Lewis; if you can, of course.” And with that she rose and went off to bed.

Now the man scowled with the thought of it, for he had three great strong bairns and a lovely wife, as fair and pink and white as this thing was black. “Indeed,” he muttered to himself, “I won’t fall in love with her.” He spat a bit of the old tobacco into the iron sink and prepared to retire himself.

Now he rose in the morning and the first thing that ate at his mind was the thought of that tall lithe girl, with hair as black as a raven’s back, and he went downstairs, stormy as the North Sea waters. That night the girl came again to the house, though she’d not been out of his mind since her last visit, and he hated her even more, all tall and lithe and black, with those cool dark eyes. But when she left he longed for her like he’d longed for no other, and he grew black himself with rage and with desire.

Now this went on every day for a week, with the man from Heisker growing silent and cold, so his wife felt afraid and begged him to take leave of that house.

“We’ve had a good visit now, and it’s time for us to be making for home,” she said firmly to her husband, and with the last tiny shred of rational thought left in his mind, which longed for the tall, lithe girl, with hair as black as a raven’s back, he agreed.

And so it was that their belongings were packed, and their big strong boat made good, and they arrived at the sea to leave. But as the first foot was set inside that big boat, a great black gale was brewed and flung at them, and they could go no further. There was nothing for it but to return to the house from which they’d come, and to that tall, lithe woman.

And again the next morning they set out, but the mists drew around them then, cool and dark, and they could go no further. There was nothing for it but to return to the house from which they’d come, and to the cool dark eyes of that woman.

But as they walked away from the coast, they met a wee old witch, with hair that was whiter than the down of a thistle, and a small wrinkled face that spoke of great wisdom. And she stopped them there, and beckoned them aside.

“Well, my good folks,” she said, “you’ve a bit of trouble leaving this dark place.”

They nodded, and listened intently.

“It’s no wonder,” said the wee old witch, “seeing the kind of place you’ve been staying. What will you give to me for fine weather to go tomorrow?”

“Anything, anything we’ll give to you,” said the wife earnestly, and looked to her husband, but his eyes were trained on the hill, on the house with the tall, lithe woman, with the cool dark eyes, and his face was rent by a longing such as she’d never seen before. “We’ll do anything,” she said again firmly.

“A pound of snuff,” said the old witch. “And I’ll need to have a word with the skipper. Send him by this evening.” And with that she showed them to the door.

So later that night the skipper of the big strong boat was sent to see the old witch, and there she handed him a rope with three big knots.

“Here you are,” she said. “You take this aboard and you’ll have a good day for sailing tomorrow. It’ll not be long before you’re at Lewis harbour. Now if you haven’t enough wind, just open one of these knots. And then if that is not enough still, untie the second. But whatever you do, by God, don’t untie the third.”

And so it happened that on that next morning, the day dawned clear and bright, with a fresh puff of wind to set them on their course. They loaded the boat, and without a backward glance, they headed to sea. And the man of the family let out a sigh of relief so long and frenzied that the others averted their eyes. His thoughts were once again pure, and the magic of that old witch had set him free. He called to the skipper.

“Untie a knot,” he said grandly, “let’s get us home at once.” And so a knot was untied, and a swift breeze blew up that sent them cutting through the waves.

“And again,” he cried, the wind cold on his body, his soul cleansed and clear. And another knot was untied, so that a great wind was let loose on the tiny ship, and they flew across the water now, the sails stretched to the limit.

And the man of the family settled himself on deck, and with the sea air licking his face, he felt safe from all danger, and perhaps a little too confident. For he called out then, “Let’s test that old woman’s magic. What means that third knot?”

And his crew cowered away from him, and his wife shook her head, but he insisted, and being the man of the family, and in charge of his boat and his own fate, he had his way and the knot was untied.

What happened then is a story for the ears of the fearless only, for from the sea rose a sight that clamped shut the mouths of the men, and the wife and their children until their dying day. It was a shape, tall and lithe, with a face of sorts, from which shone cold dark eyes. And a hand was reached down, and the man of the family plucked from amongst them, and into the sea. And then the boat itself was lifted high above the waves, placed on the sands of Heisker from where she’d never move again.

She’s still there, a warning to all who think that magic can be tested, and the land there has come to be called Port Eilein na Culaigh, or Port of the Island of the Boat.

The Daughter of Duart

THERE ONCE WAS A MAN, MacLean of Duart, who sent his daughter to become a scholar. Now in those days, an education was a novelty for a lassie, but so highly did he think of his daughter that he found the money, and sent her away. And a long time she was away, too, for it was three or four years before her feet touched the MacLean soil once more.

While she was gone, the man, MacLean of Duart, would sit himself in her room, and look around him. It was a fine room, it was, for so highly did he think of his daughter that he found the money to buy her everything she ever wanted. There were books a plenty, but since MacLean of Duart could not read, they meant nothing to them, with their drawings of cats, and circles, and great long poems. There were pictures, too, on the walls of that room, and a soft cover on the bed, that made it look just so. For she was a clever girl, and she knew how to make a room feel warm.

MacLean of Duart was lonely without his daughter, but he carried on working his land, and the day came again when she returned home to him there. And so it was that he took his daughter on his arm, and led her up into the hills, where the clouds quivered around them, and the air shone bright and blue. Then they looked around them, at all the beauty of the land, and he turned to her, his eyes alight with pride and joy, and he said to his daughter, “How much have you learned?”

And his daughter stopped, and she looked about, across the mossy hills to the sea beyond, and there she pointed to a tall ship, which fought a course away from them against the waves.

“There,” she said, “that ship. I have learned enough to bring it to shore.”

And her father laughed warmly, and taking her arm again, he said, “Well, then, lass, bring her in.”

The ship turned then, and made its way across the waters towards them. And it kept on coming, as the water grew shallow and the sands rose up to meet it, and then the rocks were there, thrusting their way through the waves as the prow of the ship drew nigh. And that ship kept on coming until it was about to be wrecked on the rocks.

MacLean of Duart looked at his daughter then, and he said with a soft voice, “Save them now, lass. Why don’t you save them now.”

And his daughter shrugged her shoulders, and she smiled an easy smile, then said, “But I can’t. I don’t know how to do that.”

There was silence then, filled by the crash of the ship upon the rocks. He turned to her then, did MacLean of Duart, and he laid down her arm. He looked at his daughter with new eyes, and he said to her, “Well, then. If that is the education I have bought you, if that is what you have learned, then I would rather your room than your company.”

He strode home, and built a great fire. And when his daughter came in after him, he cut her to bits and burnt her there, saying, as he poked the flames, “I will never have your sort in the same place as myself.”

And he went to her room, and gathered together her books, and her pictures, and threw them on the fire. Then he took her soft cover from her bed and put that on, too, till there was no trace of the girl who was his daughter. For MacLean of Duart thought so highly of his daughter that he could not allow her to practise the education she’d gathered, for he would have nothing to do with black magic, and she had mastered the art.

The Cauldron

THE LITTLE ISLAND OF SANDRAY juts firmly through the waves of the Atlantic Ocean, which spits and surges around it. No human lives there, although sheep graze calmly on the succulent green grass, freshened by the moist salt air, and kept company by the fairy folk who live in a verdant knoll. But once upon a time there were men and women on the island of Sandray, and one was a herder’s wife, called Mairearad, who kept a tiny cottage on the northernmost tip.

She had in her possession a large copper cauldron, blackened with age and with use. One day, as she wiped it clean of the evening meal, she was visited by a Woman of Peace, a fairy woman who tiptoed quietly into the cottage and asked to take away the cauldron for a short time. Now this was an older fairy, with a nature that was gentle and kind, and she presented little danger to Mairearad. She had a wizened fairy face, and features as tiny as the markings of a butterfly, and she moved swiftly and silently, advising no one of her coming or going. Mairearad passed her the cauldron, and as the Woman of Peace retreated down the cottage path, towards the twin hills that marked the fairy’s Land of Light, she said to the fairy,

“A smith is able to make

Cold iron hot with a coal;

The due of the kettle is bones,

And to bring it back again whole.”

And so it was that the cauldron was returned that evening, left quietly on the cottage doorstop, filled with juicy bones.

The Woman of Peace came again, later that day, and without saying a word, indicated the cauldron. And as days turned into years, an unspoken relationship developed between the two women, fairy and mortal. Mairearad would loan her cauldron, and in exchange she would have it filled with delicious bones. She never forgot to whisper, as the fairy drew out of sight,

“A smith is able to make

Cold iron hot with a coal;

The due of the kettle is bones,

And to bring it back again whole.”

Then one day, Mairearad had to leave her cottage for a day, to travel to Castlebay, across the sea on Barra.

She said to her husband before she left, “When the Woman of Peace comes to the doorstep, you must let her take the cauldron, but do not forget to say to her what I always say.”

And so her husband worked his field, as he always did, and as he returned for his midday meal he met with a curious sight, for scurrying along the path in front of him was a wee woman, her face gnarled with age, her eyes bright and shrewd. Suddenly he felt an inexplicable fear, for most men have had fed to them as bairns the tales of fairies and the cruel tricks they play, their enchantments and their evil spells. He remembered them all now in a rush of tortuous thought, and pushed past the fairy woman to slam the cottage door. She knocked firmly, but he refused to answer, panting with terror on the other side of the door.

At last there was silence, and then, a weird howl echoed around the cottage walls and there was a scrambling on the roof. Through the chimney was thrust the long brown arm of the fairy woman, and she reached straight down to the fire upon which the cauldron sat, and pulled it with a rush of air, through the cottage roof.

Mairearad’s husband was still pressed against the door when she returned that evening, and she looked curiously at the empty hearth, remarking, “The Woman of Peace always returns the cauldron before darkness falls.”

Then her husband hung his head in shame and told her how he’d barred the door, and when the fairy had taken the cauldron, he’d forgotten to ask for its return. Well Mairearad scolded her husband, and putting on her overcoat and boots, she left the cottage, lantern in hand.

Darkness can play tricks as devilish as those of the fairies themselves, and it was not long before the dancing shadows, and whispering trees sent a shiver along the spine of the fierce wife Mairearad, but still she pressed on, safe in the knowledge that the Woman of Peace was her friend. She reached the threshold of the Land of Light and saw on a fire, just inside the door, her cauldron, filled as usual with tender bones. And so she grabbed it, and half-fearing where she was, began to ran, exciting the attention of the black fairy dogs that slept beside an old man who guarded the entrance.

Up they jumped, and woke the old man, who cried out,

“Silent woman, dumb woman,

Who has come to us from the Land of the Dead

Since you have not blessed the brugh –

Unleash Black and let go Fierce.”

And he let the dogs free to chase the terrified woman right back to the door of her cottage, baying and howling, spitting with determination and hunger. As she ran she dropped the tasty bones, buying herself a moment or two’s respite from the snarling dogs. For fairy dogs are faster than any dogs on earth, and will devour all human flesh that comes across their paths. Mairearad fled down the path, finally reaching her door and slamming it shut behind her. There she told her breathless story to her husband, and they held one another’s ears against the painful wailing of the hounds. Finally there was silence.

Never again did the fairy Woman of Peace come to Mairearad’s cottage, nor did she borrow the cauldron. Mairearad and her husband missed the succulent bones, but never again did they trouble the fairy folk. They are long dead now, buried on the grassy verge on the island of Sandray, where the sheep graze calmly on the succulent green grass, freshened by the moist salt air, kept company by the fairy folk who live in a verdant knoll.

The Horned Women

A RICH WOMAN SAT UP LATE ONE NIGHT carding and preparing wool, while all the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given at the door, and a voice called, “Open! open!”

“Who is there?” said the woman of the house.

“I am the Witch of one Horn,” was answered.

The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbours had called and required assistance, opened the door, and a woman entered, having in her hand a pair of wool-carders, and bearing a horn on her forehead, as if growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to card the wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused, and said aloud: “Where are the women? they delay too long.”

Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before,

“Open! open!”

The mistress felt herself obliged to rise and open to the call, and immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her forehead, and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool.

“Give me place,” she said; “I am the Witch of the two Horns,” and she began to spin as quick as lightning.

And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard, and the witches entered, until at last twelve women sat round the fire – the first with one horn, the last with twelve horns.

And they carded the thread, and turned their spinning-wheels, and wound and wove, all singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did they speak to the mistress of the house. Strange to hear, and frightful to look upon, were these twelve women, with their horns and their wheels; and the mistress felt near to death, and she tried to rise that she might call for help, but she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a cry, for the spell of the witches was upon her.

Then one of them called to her in Irish, and said, “Rise, woman, and make us a cake.”

Then the mistress searched for a vessel to bring water from the well that she might mix the meal and make the cake, but she could find none.

And they said to her, “Take a sieve and bring water in it.”

And she took the sieve and went to the well; but the water poured from it, and she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by the well and wept.

Then a voice came by her and said, “Take yellow clay and moss, and bind them together, and plaster the sieve so that it will hold.”

This she did, and the sieve held the water for the cake; and the voice said again:

“Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of the house, cry aloud three times and say, ‘The mountain of the Fenian women and the sky over it is all on fire.’”

And she did so.

When the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry broke from their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations and shrieks, and fled away to Slievenamon, where was their chief abode. But the Spirit of the Well bade the mistress of the house to enter and prepare her home against the enchantments of the witches if they returned again.

And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which she had washed her child’s feet, the feet-water, outside the door on the threshold; secondly, she took the cake which in her absence the witches had made of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping family, and she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in the mouth of each sleeper, and they were restored; and she took the cloth they had woven, and placed it half in and half out of the chest with the padlock; and lastly, she secured the door with a great crossbeam fastened in the jambs, so that the witches could not enter, and having done these things she waited.

Not long were the witches in coming back, and they raged and called for vengeance.

“Open! open!” they screamed; “open, feet-water!”

“I cannot,” said the feet-water; “I am scattered on the ground, and my path is down to the Lough.”

“Open, open, wood and trees and beam!” they cried to the door.

“I cannot,” said the door, “for the beam is fixed in the jambs and I have no power to move.”

“Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with blood!” they cried again.

“I cannot,” said the cake, “for I am broken and bruised, and my blood is on the lips of the sleeping children.”

Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled back to Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on the Spirit of the Well, who had wished their ruin; but the woman and the house were left in peace, and a mantle dropped by one of the witches in her flight was kept hung up by the mistress in memory of that night; and this mantle was kept by the same family from generation to generation for five hundred years after.

The Story-Teller At Fault

AT THE TIME WHEN the Tuatha Dé Danann held the sovereignty of Ireland, there reigned in Leinster a king, who was remarkably fond of hearing stories. Like the other princes and chieftains of the island, he had a favourite story-teller, who held a large estate from his Majesty, on condition of telling him a new story every night of his life, before he went to sleep. Many indeed were the stories he knew, so that he had already reached a good old age without failing even for a single night in his task; and such was the skill he displayed that whatever cares of state or other annoyances might prey upon the monarch’s mind, his story-teller was sure to send him to sleep.

One morning the story-teller arose early, and as his custom was, strolled out into his garden turning over in his mind incidents which he might weave into a story for the king at night. But this morning he found himself quite at fault; after pacing his whole demesne, he returned to his house without being able to think of anything new or strange. He found no difficulty in ‘there was once a king who had three sons’ or ‘one day the king of all Ireland,’ but further than that he could not get. At length he went in to breakfast, and found his wife much perplexed at his delay.

“Why don’t you come to breakfast, my dear?” said she.

“I have no mind to eat anything,” replied the story-teller; “long as I have been in the service of the king of Leinster, I never sat down to breakfast without having a new story ready for the evening, but this morning my mind is quite shut up, and I don’t know what to do. I might as well lie down and die at once. I’ll be disgraced for ever this evening, when the king calls for his story-teller.”

Just at this moment the lady looked out of the window.

“Do you see that black thing at the end of the field?” said she.

“I do,” replied her husband.

They drew nigh, and saw a miserable looking old man lying on the ground with a wooden leg placed beside him.

“Who are you, my good man?” asked the story-teller.

“Oh, then, ’tis little matter who I am. I’m a poor, old, lame, decrepit, miserable creature, sitting down here to rest awhile.”

“An’ what are you doing with that box and dice I see in your hand?”

“I am waiting here to see if any one will play a game with me,” replied the beggar man.

“Play with you! Why what has a poor old man like you to play for?”

“I have one hundred pieces of gold in this leathern purse,” replied the old man.

“You may as well play with him,” said the story-teller’s wife; “and perhaps you’ll have something to tell the king in the evening.”

A smooth stone was placed between them, and upon it they cast their throws.

It was but a little while and the story-teller lost every penny of his money.

“Much good may it do you, friend,” said he. “What better hap could I look for, fool that I am!”

“Will you play again?” asked the old man.

“Don’t be talking, man: you have all my money.”

“Haven’t you chariot and horses and hounds?”

“Well, what of them!”

“I’ll stake all the money I have against thine.”

“Nonsense, man! Do you think for all the money in Ireland, I’d run the risk of seeing my lady tramp home on foot?”

“Maybe you’d win,” said the bocough.

“Maybe I wouldn’t,” said the story-teller.

“Play with him, husband,” said his wife. “I don’t mind walking, if you do, love.”

“I never refused you before,” said the story-teller, “and I won’t do so now.”

Down he sat again, and in one throw lost houses, hounds, and chariot.

“Will you play again?” asked the beggar.

“Are you making game of me, man; what else have I to stake?”

“I’ll stake all my winnings against your wife,” said the old man.

The story-teller turned away in silence, but his wife stopped him.

“Accept his offer,” said she. “This is the third time, and who knows what luck you may have? You’ll surely win now.”

They played again, and the story-teller lost. No sooner had he done so, than to his sorrow and surprise, his wife went and sat down near the ugly old beggar.

“Is that the way you’re leaving me?” said the story-teller.

“Sure I was won,” said she. “You would not cheat the poor man, would you?”

“Have you any more to stake?” asked the old man.

“You know very well I have not,” replied the story-teller.

“I’ll stake the whole now, wife and all, against your own self,” said the old man.

Again they played, and again the story-teller lost.

“Well! here I am, and what do you want with me?”

“I’ll soon let you know,” said the old man, and he took from his pocket a long cord and a wand.

“Now,” said he to the story-teller, “what kind of animal would you rather be, a deer, a fox, or a hare? You have your choice now, but you may not have it later.”

To make a long story short, the story-teller made his choice of a hare; the old man threw the cord round him, struck him with the wand, and lo! a long-eared, frisking hare was skipping and jumping on the green.

But it wasn’t for long; who but his wife called the hounds, and set them on him. The hare fled, the dogs followed. Round the field ran a high wall, so that run as he might, he couldn’t get out, and mightily diverted were beggar and lady to see him twist and double.

In vain did he take refuge with his wife, she kicked him back again to the hounds, until at length the beggar stopped the hounds, and with a stroke of the wand, panting and breathless, the story-teller stood before them again.

“And how did you like the sport?” said the beggar.

“It might be sport to others,” replied the story-teller looking at his wife, “for my part I could well put up with the loss of it.”

“Would it be asking too much,” he went on to the beggar, “to know who you are at all, or where you come from, or why you take a pleasure in plaguing a poor old man like me?”

“Oh!” replied the stranger, “I’m an odd kind of good-for-little fellow, one day poor, another day rich, but if you wish to know more about me or my habits, come with me and perhaps I may show you more than you would make out if you went alone.”

“I’m not my own master to go or stay,” said the story-teller, with a sigh.

The stranger put one hand into his wallet and drew out of it before their eyes a well-looking middle-aged man, to whom he spoke as follows:

“By all you heard and saw since I put you into my wallet, take charge of this lady and of the carriage and horses, and have them ready for me whenever I want them.”

Scarcely had he said these words when all vanished, and the story-teller found himself at the Foxes’ Ford, near the castle of Red Hugh O’Donnell. He could see all but none could see him.

O’Donnell was in his hall, and heaviness of flesh and weariness of spirit were upon him.

“Go out,” said he to his doorkeeper, “and see who or what may be coming.”

The doorkeeper went, and what he saw was a lank, grey beggarman; half his sword bared behind his haunch, his two shoes full of cold road-a-wayish water sousing about him, the tips of his two ears out through his old hat, his two shoulders out through his scant tattered cloak, and in his hand a green wand of holly.

“Save you, O’Donnell,” said the lank grey beggarman.

“And you likewise,” said O’Donnell. “Whence come you, and what is your craft?”

“I come from the outmost stream of earth,

From the glens where the white swans glide,

A night in Islay, a night in Man,

A night on the cold hillside.”

“It’s the great traveller you are,” said O’Donnell.

“Maybe you’ve learnt something on the road.”

“I am a juggler,” said the lank grey beggarman, “and for five pieces of silver you shall see a trick of mine.”

“You shall have them,” said O’Donnell; and the lank grey beggarman took three small straws and placed them in his hand.

“The middle one,” said he, “I’ll blow away; the other two I’ll leave.”

“Thou canst not do it,” said one and all.

But the lank grey beggarman put a finger on either outside straw and, whiff, away he blew the middle one.

“’Tis a good trick,” said O’Donnell; and he paid him his five pieces of silver.

“For half the money,” said one of the chief’s lads, “I’ll do the same trick.”

“Take him at his word, O’Donnell.”

The lad put the three straws on his hand, and a finger on either outside straw and he blew; and what happened but that the fist was blown away with the straw.

“Thou art sore, and thou wilt be sorer,” said O’Donnell.

“Six more pieces, O’Donnell, and I’ll do another trick for thee,” said the lank grey beggarman.

“Six shalt thou have.”

“Seest thou my two ears! One I’ll move but not t’other.”

“’Tis easy to see them, they’re big enough, but thou canst never move one ear and not the two together.”

The lank grey beggarman put his hand to his ear, and he gave it a pull.

O’Donnell laughed and paid him the six pieces.

“Call that a trick,” said the fistless lad, “any one can do that,” and so saying, he put up his hand, pulled his ear, and what happened was that he pulled away ear and head.

“Sore thou art; and sorer thou’lt be,” said O’Donnell.

“Well, O’Donnell,” said the lank grey beggarman, “strange are the tricks I’ve shown thee, but I’ll show thee a stranger one yet for the same money.”

“Thou hast my word for it,” said O’Donnell.

With that the lank grey beggarman took a bag from under his armpit, and from out the bag a ball of silk, and he unwound the ball and he flung it slantwise up into the clear blue heavens, and it became a ladder; then he took a hare and placed it upon the thread, and up it ran; again he took out a red-eared hound, and it swiftly ran up after the hare.

“Now,” said the lank grey beggarman; “has any one a mind to run after the dog and on the course?”

“I will,” said a lad of O’Donnell’s.

“Up with you then,” said the juggler; “but I warn you if you let my hare be killed I’ll cut off your head when you come down.”

The lad ran up the thread and all three soon disappeared. After looking up for a long time, the lank grey beggarman said: “I’m afraid the hound is eating the hare, and that our friend has fallen asleep.”

Saying this he began to wind the thread, and down came the lad fast asleep; and down came the red-eared hound and in his mouth the last morsel of the hare.

He struck the lad a stroke with the edge of his sword, and so cast his head off. As for the hound, if he used it no worse, he used it no better.

“It’s little I’m pleased, and sore I’m angered,” said O’Donnell, “that a hound and a lad should be killed at my court.”

“Five pieces of silver twice over for each of them,” said the juggler, “and their heads shall be on them as before.”

“Thou shalt get that,” said O’Donnell.

Five pieces, and again five were paid him, and lo! the lad had his head and the hound his. And though they lived to the uttermost end of time, the hound would never touch a hare again, and the lad took good care to keep his eyes open.

Scarcely had the lank grey beggarman done this when he vanished from out their sight, and no one present could say if he had flown through the air or if the earth had swallowed him up.

He moved as wave tumbling o’er wave

As whirlwind following whirlwind,

As a furious wintry blast,

So swiftly, sprucely, cheerily,

Right proudly,

And no stop made

Until he came

To the court of Leinster’s King,

He gave a cheery light leap

O’er top of turret,

Of court and city

Of Leinster’s King.

Heavy was the flesh and weary the spirit of Leinster’s king. ’Twas the hour he was wont to hear a story, but send he might right and left, not a jot of tidings about the story-teller could he get.

“Go to the door,” said he to his doorkeeper, “and see if a soul is in sight who may tell me something about my story-teller.”

The doorkeeper went, and what he saw was a lank grey beggarman, half his sword bared behind his haunch, his two old shoes full of cold road-a-wayish water sousing about him, the tips of his two ears out through his old hat, his two shoulders out through his scant tattered cloak, and in his hand a three-stringed harp.

“What canst thou do?” said the doorkeeper.

“I can play,” said the lank grey beggarman.

“Never fear,” added he to the story-teller, “thou shalt see all, and not a man shall see thee.”

When the king heard a harper was outside, he bade him in.

“It is I that have the best harpers in the five-fifths of Ireland,” said he, and he signed them to play. They did so, and if they played, the lank grey beggarman listened.

“Heardst thou ever the like?” said the king.

“Did you ever, O king, hear a cat purring over a bowl of broth, or the buzzing of beetles in the twilight, or a shrill tongued old woman scolding your head off?”

“That I have often,” said the king.

“More melodious to me,” said the lank grey beggarman, “were the worst of these sounds than the sweetest harping of thy harpers.”

When the harpers heard this, they drew their swords and rushed at him, but instead of striking him, their blows fell on each other, and soon not a man but was cracking his neighbour’s skull and getting his own cracked in turn.

When the king saw this, he thought it hard the harpers weren’t content with murdering their music, but must needs murder each other.

“Hang the fellow who began it all,” said he; “and if I can’t have a story, let me have peace.”

Up came the guards, seized the lank grey beggarman, marched him to the gallows and hanged him high and dry. Back they marched to the hall, and who should they see but the lank grey beggarman seated on a bench with his mouth to a flagon of ale.

“Never welcome you in,” cried the captain of the guard, “didn’t we hang you this minute, and what brings you here?”

“Is it me myself, you mean?”

“Who else?” said the captain.

“May your hand turn into a pig’s foot with you when you think of tying the rope; why should you speak of hanging me?”

Back they scurried to the gallows, and there hung the king’s favourite brother.

Back they hurried to the king who had fallen fast asleep.

“Please your Majesty,” said the captain, “we hanged that strolling vagabond, but here he is back again as well as ever.”

“Hang him again,” said the king, and off he went to sleep once more.

They did as they were told, but what happened was that they found the king’s chief harper hanging where the lank grey beggarman should have been.

The captain of the guard was sorely puzzled.

“Are you wishful to hang me a third time?” said the lank grey beggarman.

“Go where you will,” said the captain, “and as fast as you please if you’ll only go far enough. It’s trouble enough you’ve given us already.”

“Now you’re reasonable,” said the beggarman; “and since you’ve given up trying to hang a stranger because he finds fault with your music, I don’t mind telling you that if you go back to the gallows you’ll find your friends sitting on the sward none the worse for what has happened.”

As he said these words he vanished; and the story-teller found himself on the spot where they first met, and where his wife still was with the carriage and horses.

“Now,” said the lank grey beggarman, “I’ll torment you no longer. There’s your carriage and your horses, and your money and your wife; do what you please with them.”

“For my carriage and my houses and my hounds,” said the story-teller,

“I thank you; but my wife and my money you may keep.”

“No,” said the other. “I want neither, and as for your wife, don’t think ill of her for what she did, she couldn’t help it.”

“Not help it! Not help kicking me into the mouth of my own hounds! Not help casting me off for the sake of a beggarly old –”

“I’m not as beggarly or as old as ye think. I am Angus of the Bruff; many a good turn you’ve done me with the King of Leinster. This morning my magic told me the difficulty you were in, and I made up my mind to get you out of it. As for your wife there, the power that changed your body changed her mind. Forget and forgive as man and wife should do, and now you have a story for the King of Leinster when he calls for one;” and with that he disappeared.

It’s true enough he now had a story fit for a king. From first to last he told all that had befallen him; so long and loud laughed the king that he couldn’t go to sleep at all. And he told the story-teller never to trouble for fresh stories, but every night as long as he lived he listened again and he laughed afresh at the tale of the lank grey beggarman.

Paddy O’Kelly and the Weasel

A LONG TIME AGO there was once a man of the name of Paddy O’Kelly, living near Tuam, in the county Galway. He rose up one morning early, and he did not know what time of day it was, for there was fine light coming from the moon. He wanted to go to the fair of Cauher-na-mart to sell a sturk of an ass that he had.

He had not gone more than three miles of the road when a great darkness came on, and a shower began falling. He saw a large house among trees about five hundred yards in from the road, and he said to himself that he would go to that house till the shower would be over. When he got to the house he found the door open before him, and in with him. He saw a large room to his left, and a fine fire in the grate. He sat down on a stool that was beside the wall, and began falling asleep, when he saw a big weasel coming to the fire with something yellow in his mouth, which it dropped on the hearth-stone, and then it went away. She soon came back again with the same thing in her mouth, and he saw that it was a guinea she had. She dropped it on the hearth-stone, and went away again. She was coming and going, until there was a great heap of guineas on the hearth. But at last, when she got her gone, Paddy rose up, thrust all the gold she had gathered into his pockets, and out with him.

He had not gone far till he heard the weasel coming after him, and she screeching as loud as a bag-pipes. She went before Paddy and got on the road, and she was twisting herself back and forwards, and trying to get a hold of his throat. Paddy had a good oak stick, and he kept her from him, until two men came up who were going to the same fair, and one of them had a good dog, and it routed the weasel into a hole in the wall.

Paddy went to the fair, and instead of coming home with the money he got for his old ass, as he thought would be the way with him in the morning, he went and bought a horse with some of the money he took from the weasel, and he came home riding. When he came to the place where the dog had routed the weasel into the hole in the wall, she came out before him, gave a leap, and caught the horse by the throat. The horse made off, and Paddy could not stop him, till at last he gave a leap into a big drain that was full up of water and black mud, and he was drowning and choking as fast as he could, until men who were coming from Galway came up and drove away the weasel.

Paddy brought the horse home with him, and put him into the cow’s byre and fell asleep.

Next morning, the day on the morrow, Paddy rose up early, and went out to give his horse hay and oats. When he got to the door he saw the weasel coming out of the byre and she covered with blood.

“My seven thousand curses on you,” said Paddy, “but I’m afraid you’ve done harm.”

He went in and found the horse, a pair of milch cows, and two calves dead. He came out and set a dog he had after the weasel. The dog got a hold of her, and she got a hold of the dog. The dog was a good one, but he was forced to loose his hold of her before Paddy could come up. He kept his eye on her, however, all through, until he saw her creeping into a little hovel that was on the brink of a lake. Paddy came running, and when he got to the little hut he gave the dog a shake to rouse him up and put anger on him, and then he sent him in. When the dog went in he began barking. Paddy went in after him, and saw an old hag in the corner. He asked her if she saw a weasel coming in there.

“I did not,” said she; “I’m all destroyed with a plague of sickness, and if you don’t go out quick, you’ll catch it from me.”

While Paddy and the hag were talking, the dog kept moving in all the time, till at last he gave a leap and caught the hag by the throat. She screeched and said:

“Paddy Kelly, take off your dog, and I’ll make you a rich man.”

Paddy made the dog loose his hold, and said:

“Tell me who you are, or why did you kill my horse and my cows?”

“And why did you bring away my gold that I was gathering for five hundred years throughout the hills and hollows of the world?”

“I thought you were a weasel,” said Paddy, “or I wouldn’t touch your gold; and another thing,” says he, “if you’re for five hundred years in this world, it’s time for you to go to rest now.”

“I committed a great crime in my youth,” said the hag, “and now I am to be released from my sufferings if you can pay twenty pounds for a hundred and three-score masses for me.”

“Where’s the money?” said Paddy.

“Go and dig under a bush that’s over a little well in the corner of that field there without, and you’ll get a pot filled with gold. Pay the twenty pounds for the masses, and yourself shall have the rest. When you’ll lift the flag off the pot, you’ll see a big black dog coming out; but don’t be afraid before him; he is a son of mine. When you get the gold, buy the house in which you saw me at first. You’ll get it cheap, for it has the name of there being a ghost in it. My son will be down in the cellar. He’ll do you no harm, but he’ll be a good friend to you. I shall be dead a month from this day, and when you get me dead, put a coal under this little hut and burn it. Don’t tell a living soul anything about me – and the luck will be on you.”

“What is your name?” said Paddy.

“Mary Kerwan,” said the hag.

Paddy went home, and when the darkness of the night came on, he took with him a spade and went to the bush that was in the corner of the field, and began digging. It was not long till he found the pot, and when he took the flag off of it a big black dog leaped out, and off and away with him, and Paddy’s dog after him.

Paddy brought home the gold, and hid it in the cow-house. About a month after that he went to the fair of Galway, and bought a pair of cows, a horse, and a dozen sheep. The neighbours did not know where he had got all the money; they said that he had a share with the good people.

One day Paddy dressed himself, and went to the gentleman who owned the large house where he first saw the weasel, and asked to buy the house of him, and the land that was round about.

“You can have the house without paying any rent at all; but there is a ghost in it, and I wouldn’t like you to go to live in it without my telling you, but I couldn’t part with the land without getting a hundred pounds more than you have to offer me.”

“Perhaps I have as much as you have yourself,” said Paddy. “I’ll be here tomorrow with the money, if you’re ready to give me possession.”

“I’ll be ready,” said the gentleman.

Paddy went home and told his wife that he had bought a large house and a holding of land.

“Where did you get the money?” says the wife.

“Isn’t it all one to you where I got it?” says Paddy.

The day on the morrow Paddy went to the gentleman, gave him the money, and got possession of the house and land; and the gentleman left him the furniture and everything that was in the house, into the bargain.

Paddy remained in the house that night, and when darkness came he went down to the cellar, and he saw a little man with his two legs spread on a barrel.

“God save you, honest man,” says he to Paddy.

“The same to you,” says Paddy.

“Don’t be afraid of me, at all,” says the little man. “I’ll be a friend to you, if you are able to keep a secret.”

“I am able, indeed; I kept your mother’s secret, and I’ll keep yours as well.”

“Maybe you’re thirsty?” said the little man.

“I’m not free from it,” said Paddy.

The little man put a hand in his bosom and drew out a gold goblet. He gave it to Paddy, and said: “Draw wine out of that barrel under me.”

Paddy drew the full up of the goblet, and handed it to the little man.

“Drink yourself first,” says he.

Paddy drank, drew another goblet, and handed it to the little man, and he drank it.

“Fill up and drink again,” said the little man. “I have a mind to be merry tonight.”

The pair of them sat there drinking until they were half drunk. Then the little man gave a leap down to the floor, and said to Paddy:

“Don’t you like music?”

“I do, surely,” said Paddy, “and I’m a good dancer, too.”

“Lift up the big flag over there in the corner, and you’ll get my pipes under it.”

Paddy lifted the flag, got the pipes, and gave them to the little man. He squeezed the pipes on him, and began playing melodious music. Paddy began dancing till he was tired. Then they had another drink, and the little man said:

“Do as my mother told you, and I’ll show you great riches. You can bring your wife in here, but don’t tell her that I’m there, and she won’t see me. Any time at all that ale or wine are wanting, come here and draw. Farewell, now; go to sleep, and come again to me tomorrow night.”

Paddy went to bed, and it wasn’t long till he fell asleep.

On the morning of the day on the morrow, Paddy went home, and brought his wife and children to the big house, and they were very comfortable. That night Paddy went down to the cellar; the little man welcomed him and asked him did he wish to dance?

“Not till I get a drink,” said Paddy.

“Drink your fill,” said the little man; “that barrel will never be empty as long as you live.”

Paddy drank the full of the goblet, and gave a drink to the little man. Then the little man said to him:

“I am going to the Fortress of the Fairies tonight, to play music for the good people, and if you come with me you’ll see fine fun. I’ll give you a horse that you never saw the like of him before.”

“I’ll go with you, and welcome,” said Paddy; “but what excuse will I make to my wife?”

“I’ll bring you away from her side without her knowing it, when you are both asleep together, and I’ll bring you back to her the same way,” said the little man.

“I’m obedient,” says Paddy; “we’ll have another drink before I leave you.”

He drank drink after drink, till he was half drunk, and he went to bed with his wife.

When he awoke he found himself riding on a broom near Doon-na-shee, and the little man riding on another besom by his side. When they came as far as the green hill of the Doon, the little man said a couple of words that Paddy did not understand. The green hill opened, and the pair went into a fine chamber.

Paddy never saw before a gathering like that which was in the Doon. The whole place was full up of little people, men and women, young and old. They all welcomed little Donal – that was the name of the piper – and Paddy O’Kelly. The king and queen of the fairies came up to them, and said:

“We are all going on a visit tonight to Cnoc Matha, to the high king and queen of our people.”

They all rose up then and went out. There were horses ready for each one of them, and the coash-t’ya bower for the king and queen. The king and queen got into the coach, each man leaped on his own horse, and be certain that Paddy was not behind. The piper went out before them, and began playing them music, and then off and away with them. It was not long till they came to Cnoc Matha. The hill opened, and the king of the fairy host passed in.

Finvara and Nuala were there, the arch-king and queen of the fairy host of Connacht, and thousands of little persons. Finvara came up and said:

“We are going to play a hurling match tonight against the fairy host of Munster, and unless we beat them our fame is gone for ever. The match is to be fought out on Moytura, under Slieve Belgadaun.”

The Connacht host cried out: “We are all ready, and we have no doubt but we’ll beat them.”

“Out with ye all,” cried the high king; “the men of the hill of Nephin will be on the ground before us.”

They all went out, and little Donal and twelve pipers more before them, playing melodious music. When they came to Moytura, the fairy host of Munster and the fairy men of the hill of Nephin were there before them.

Now it is necessary for the fairy host to have two live men beside them when they are fighting or at a hurling match, and that was the reason that little Donal took Paddy O’Kelly with him. There was a man they called the ‘Yellow Stongirya’ with the fairy host of Munster, from Ennis, in the County Clare.

It was not long till the two hosts took sides; the ball was thrown up between them, and the fun began in earnest. They were hurling away, and the pipers playing music, until Paddy O’Kelly saw the host of Munster getting the strong hand, and he began helping the fairy host of Connacht. The Stongirya came up and he made at Paddy O’Kelly, but Paddy turned him head over heels. From hurling the two hosts began at fighting, but it was not long until the host of Connacht beat the other host. Then the host of Munster made flying beetles of themselves, and they began eating every green thing that they came up to. They were destroying the country before them until they came as far as Cong. Then there rose up thousands of doves out of the hole, and they swallowed down the beetles. That hole has no other name until this day but Pull-na-gullam, the dove’s hole.

When the fairy host of Connacht won their battle, they came back to Cnoc Matha joyous enough, and the king Finvara gave Paddy O’Kelly a purse of gold, and the little piper brought him home, and put him into bed beside his wife, and left him sleeping there.

A month went by after that without anything worth mentioning, until one night Paddy went down to the cellar, and the little man said to him: “My mother is dead; burn the house over her.”

“It is true for you,” said Paddy. “She told me that she hadn’t but a month to be in the world, and the month was up yesterday.”

On the next morning of the next day Paddy went to the hut and he found the hag dead. He put a coal under the hut and burned it. He came home and told the little man that the hag was burnt. The little man gave him a purse and said to him: “This purse will never be empty as long as you are alive. Now, you will never see me more; but have a loving remembrance of the weasel. She was the beginning and the prime cause of your riches.” Then he went away and Paddy never saw him again.

Paddy O’Kelly and his wife lived for years after this in the large house, and when he died he left great wealth behind him, and a large family to spend it.

There now is the story for you, from the first word to the last, as I heard it from my grandmother.

Morraha

MORRAHA ROSE IN THE MORNING and washed his hands and face, and said his prayers, and ate his food; and he asked God to prosper the day for him. So he went down to the brink of the sea, and he saw a currach, short and green, coming towards him; and in it there was but one youthful champion, and he was playing hurly from prow to stern of the currach. He had a hurl of gold and a ball of silver; and he stopped not till the currach was in on the shore; and he drew her up on the green grass, and put fastenings on her for a year and a day, whether he should be there all that time or should only be on land for an hour by the clock. And Morraha saluted the young man courteously; and the other saluted him in the same fashion, and asked him would he play a game of cards with him; and Morraha said that he had not the wherewithal; and the other answered that he was never without a candle or the making of it; and he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a table and two chairs and a pack of cards, and they sat down on the chairs and went to card-playing. The first game Morraha won, and the Slender Red Champion bade him make his claim; and he asked that the land above him should be filled with stock of sheep in the morning. It was well; and he played no second game, but home he went.

The next day Morraha went to the brink of the sea, and the young man came in the currach and asked him would he play cards; they played, and Morraha won. The young man bade him make his claim; and he asked that the land above should be filled with cattle in the morning. It was well; and he played no other game, but went home.

On the third morning Morraha went to the brink of the sea, and he saw the young man coming. He drew up his boat on the shore and asked him would he play cards. They played, and Morraha won the game; and the young man bade him give his claim. And he said he would have a castle and a wife, the finest and fairest in the world; and they were his. It was well; and the Red Champion went away.

On the fourth day his wife asked him how he had found her. And he told her. “And I am going out,” said he, “to play again today.”

“I forbid you to go again to him. If you have won so much, you will lose more; have no more to do with him.”

But he went against her will, and he saw the currach coming; and the Red Champion was driving his balls from end to end of the currach; he had balls of silver and a hurl of gold, and he stopped not till he drew his boat on the shore, and made her fast for a year and a day. Morraha and he saluted each other; and he asked Morraha if he would play a game of cards, and they played, and he won. Morraha said to him, “Give your claim now.”

Said he, “You will hear it too soon. I lay on you bonds of the art of the Druid, not to sleep two nights in one house, nor finish a second meal at the one table, till you bring me the sword of light and news of the death of Anshgayliacht.”

He went home to his wife and sat down in a chair, and gave a groan, and the chair broke in pieces.

“That is the groan of the son of a king under spells,” said his wife; “and you had better have taken my counsel than that the spells should be on you.”

He told her he had to bring news of the death of Anshgayliacht and the sword of light to the Slender Red Champion.

“Go out,” said she, “in the morning of the morrow, and take the bridle in the window, and shake it; and whatever beast, handsome or ugly, puts its head in it, take that one with you. Do not speak a word to her till she speaks to you; and take with you three pint bottles of ale and three sixpenny loaves, and do the thing she tells you; and when she runs to my father’s land, on a height above the castle, she will shake herself, and the bells will ring, and my father will say, “Brown Allree is in the land. And if the son of a king or queen is there, bring him to me on your shoulders; but if it is the son of a poor man, let him come no further.””

He rose in the morning, and took the bridle that was in the window, and went out and shook it; and Brown Allree came and put her head in it. He took the three loaves and three bottles of ale, and went riding; and when he was riding she bent her head down to take hold of her feet with her mouth, in hopes he would speak in ignorance; but he spoke not a word during the time, and the mare at last spoke to him, and told him to dismount and give her her dinner. He gave her the sixpenny loaf toasted, and a bottle of ale to drink.

“Sit up now riding, and take good heed of yourself: there are three miles of fire I have to clear at a leap.”

She cleared the three miles of fire at a leap, and asked if he were still riding, and he said he was. Then they went on, and she told him to dismount and give her a meal; and he did so, and gave her a sixpenny loaf and a bottle; she consumed them and said to him there were before them three miles of hill covered with steel thistles, and that she must clear it. She cleared the hill with a leap, and she asked him if he were still riding, and he said he was. They went on, and she went not far before she told him to give her a meal, and he gave her the bread and the bottleful. She went over three miles of sea with a leap, and she came then to the land of the King of France; she went up on a height above the castle, and she shook herself and neighed, and the bells rang; and the king said that it was Brown Allree was in the land.

“Go out,” said he; “and if it is the son of a king or queen, carry him in on your shoulders; if it is not, leave him there.”

They went out; and the stars of the son of a king were on his breast; they lifted him high on their shoulders and bore him in to the king. They passed the night cheerfully, playing and drinking, with sport and with diversion, till the whiteness of the day came upon the morrow morning.

Then the young king told the cause of his journey, and he asked the queen to give him counsel and good luck, and she told him everything he was to do.

“Go now,” said she, “and take with you the best mare in the stable, and go to the door of Rough Niall of the Speckled Rock, and knock, and call on him to give you news of the death of Anshgayliacht and the sword of light: and let the horse’s back be to the door, and apply the spurs, and away with you.”

In the morning he did so, and he took the best horse from the stable and rode to the door of Niall, and turned the horse’s back to the door, and demanded news of the death of Anshgayliacht and the sword of light; then he applied the spurs, and away with him. Niall followed him hard, and, as he was passing the gate, cut the horse in two. His wife was there with a dish of puddings and flesh, and she threw it in his eyes and blinded him, and said, “Fool! whatever kind of man it is that’s mocking you, isn’t that a fine condition you have got your father’s horse into?”

On the morning of the next day Morraha rose, and took another horse from the stable, and went again to the door of Niall, and knocked and demanded news of the death of Anshgayliacht and the sword of light, and applied the spurs to the horse and away with him. Niall followed, and as Morraha was passing, the gate cut the horse in two and took half the saddle with him; but his wife met him and threw flesh in his eyes and blinded him.

On the third day, Morraha went again to the door of Niall; and Niall followed him, and as he was passing the gate, cut away the saddle from under him and the clothes from his back. Then his wife said to Niall:

“The fool that’s mocking you, is out yonder in the little currach, going home; and take good heed to yourself, and don’t sleep one wink for three days.”

For three days the little currach kept in sight, but then Niall’s wife came to him and said:

“Sleep as much as you want now. He is gone.”

He went to sleep, and there was heavy sleep on him, and Morraha went in and took hold of the sword that was on the bed at his head. And the sword thought to draw itself out of the hand of Morraha; but it failed. Then it gave a cry, and it wakened Niall, and Niall said it was a rude and rough thing to come into his house like that; and said Morraha to him:

“Leave your much talking, or I will cut the head off you. Tell me the news of the death of Anshgayliacht.”

“Oh, you can have my head.”

“But your head is no good to me; tell me the story.”

“Oh,” said Niall’s wife, “you must get the story.”

“Well,” said Niall, “let us sit down together till I tell the story. I thought no one would ever get it; but now it will be heard by all.”

The Story

When I was growing up, my mother taught me the language of the birds; and when I got married, I used to be listening to their conversation; and I would be laughing; and my wife would be asking me what was the reason of my laughing, but I did not like to tell her, as women are always asking questions. We went out walking one fine morning, and the birds were arguing with one another. One of them said to another:

“Why should you be comparing yourself with me, when there is not a king nor knight that does not come to look at my tree?”

“What advantage has your tree over mine, on which there are three rods of magic mastery growing?”

When I heard them arguing, and knew that the rods were there, I began to laugh.

“Oh,” asked my wife, “why are you always laughing? I believe it is at myself you are jesting, and I’ll walk with you no more.”

“Oh, it is not about you I am laughing. It is because I understand the language of the birds.”

Then I had to tell her what the birds were saying to one another; and she was greatly delighted, and she asked me to go home, and she gave orders to the cook to have breakfast ready at six o’clock in the morning. I did not know why she was going out early, and breakfast was ready in the morning at the hour she appointed. She asked me to go out walking. I went with her. She went to the tree, and asked me to cut a rod for her.

“Oh, I will not cut it. Are we not better without it?”

“I will not leave this until I get the rod, to see if there is any good in it.”

I cut the rod and gave it to her. She turned from me and struck a blow on a stone, and changed it; and she struck a second blow on me, and made of me a black raven, and she went home and left me after her. I thought she would come back; she did not come, and I had to go into a tree till morning. In the morning, at six o’clock, there was a bellman out, proclaiming that every one who killed a raven would get a fourpenny-bit. At last you could not find man or boy without a gun, nor, if you were to walk three miles, a raven that was not killed. I had to make a nest in the top of the parlour chimney, and hide myself all day till night came, and go out to pick up a bit to support me, till I spent a month. Here she is herself to say if it is a lie I am telling.

“It is not,” said she.

Then I saw her out walking. I went up to her, and I thought she would turn me back to my own shape, and she struck me with the rod and made of me an old white horse, and she ordered me to be put to a cart with a man, to draw stones from morning till night. I was worse off then. She spread abroad a report that I had died suddenly in my bed, and prepared a coffin, and waked and buried me. Then she had no trouble. But when I got tired I began to kill every one who came near me, and I used to go into the haggard every night and destroy the stacks of corn; and when a man came near me in the morning I would follow him till I broke his bones. Every one got afraid of me. When she saw I was doing mischief she came to meet me, and I thought she would change me. And she did change me, and made a fox of me. When I saw she was doing me every sort of damage I went away from her. I knew there was a badger’s hole in the garden, and I went there till night came, and I made great slaughter among the geese and ducks. There she is herself to say if I am telling a lie.

“Oh! you are telling nothing but the truth, only less than the truth.”

When she had enough of my killing the fowl she came out into the garden, for she knew I was in the badger’s hole. She came to me and made me a wolf. I had to be off, and go to an island, where no one at all would see me, and now and then I used to be killing sheep, for there were not many of them, and I was afraid of being seen and hunted; and so I passed a year, till a shepherd saw me among the sheep and a pursuit was made after me. And when the dogs came near me there was no place for me to escape to from them; but I recognised the sign of the king among the men, and I made for him, and the king cried out to stop the hounds. I took a leap upon the front of the king’s saddle, and the woman behind cried out, “My king and my lord, kill him, or he will kill you!”

“Oh! he will not kill me. He knew me; he must be pardoned.”

The king took me home with him, and gave orders I should be well cared for. I was so wise, when I got food, I would not eat one morsel until I got a knife and fork. The man told the king, and the king came to see if it was true, and I got a knife and fork, and I took the knife in one paw and the fork in the other, and I bowed to the king. The king gave orders to bring him drink, and it came; and the king filled a glass of wine and gave it to me.

I took hold of it in my paw and drank it, and thanked the king.

“On my honour,” said he, “it is some king or other has lost him, when he came on the island; and I will keep him, as he is trained; and perhaps he will serve us yet.”

And this is the sort of king he was, – a king who had not a child living. Eight sons were born to him and three daughters, and they were stolen the same night they were born. No matter what guard was placed over them, the child would be gone in the morning. A twelfth child now came to the queen, and the king took me with him to watch the baby. The women were not satisfied with me.

“Oh,” said the king, “what was all your watching ever good for? One that was born to me I have not; I will leave this one in the dog’s care, and he will not let it go.”

A coupling was put between me and the cradle, and when every one went to sleep I was watching till the person woke who attended in the daytime; but I was there only two nights; when it was near the day, I saw a hand coming down through the chimney, and the hand was so big that it took round the child altogether, and thought to take him away. I caught hold of the hand above the wrist, and as I was fastened to the cradle, I did not let go my hold till I cut the hand from the wrist, and there was a howl from the person without. I laid the hand in the cradle with the child, and as I was tired I fell asleep; and when I awoke, I had neither child nor hand; and I began to howl, and the king heard me, and he cried out that something was wrong with me, and he sent servants to see what was the matter with me, and when the messenger came he saw me covered with blood, and he could not see the child; and he went to the king and told him the child was not to be got. The king came and saw the cradle coloured with the blood, and he cried out “where was the child gone?” and every one said it was the dog had eaten it.

The king said: “It is not: loose him, and he will get the pursuit himself.”

When I was loosed, I found the scent of the blood till I came to a door of the room in which the child was. I went back to the king and took hold of him, and went back again and began to tear at the door. The king followed me and asked for the key. The servant said it was in the room of the stranger woman. The king caused search to be made for her, and she was not to be found. “I will break the door,” said the king, “as I can’t get the key.” The king broke the door, and I went in, and went to the trunk, and the king asked for a key to unlock it. He got no key, and he broke the lock. When he opened the trunk, the child and the hand were stretched side by side, and the child was asleep. The king took the hand and ordered a woman to come for the child, and he showed the hand to every one in the house. But the stranger woman was gone, and she did not see the king; – and here she is herself to say if I am telling lies of her.

“Oh, it’s nothing but the truth you have!”

The king did not allow me to be tied any more. He said there was nothing so much to wonder at as that I cut the hand off, as I was tied.

The child was growing till he was a year old. He was beginning to walk, and no one cared for him more than I did. He was growing till he was three, and he was running out every minute; so the king ordered a silver chain to be put between me and the child, that he might not go away from me. I was out with him in the garden every day, and the king was as proud as the world of the child. He would be watching him everywhere we went, till the child grew so wise that he would loose the chain and get off. But one day that he loosed it I failed to find him; and I ran into the house and searched the house, but there was no getting him for me. The king cried to go out and find the child, that had got loose from the dog. They went searching for him, but could not find him. When they failed altogether to find him, there remained no more favour with the king towards me, and every one disliked me, and I grew weak, for I did not get a morsel to eat half the time. When summer came, I said I would try and go home to my own country. I went away one fine morning, and I went swimming, and God helped me till I came home. I went into the garden, for I knew there was a place in the garden where I could hide myself, for fear my wife should see me. In the morning I saw her out walking, and the child with her, held by the hand. I pushed out to see the child, and as he was looking about him everywhere, he saw me and called out, “I see my shaggy papa. Oh!” said he; “oh, my heart’s love, my shaggy papa, come here till I see you!”

I was afraid the woman would see me, as she was asking the child where he saw me, and he said I was up in a tree; and the more the child called me, the more I hid myself. The woman took the child home with her, but I knew he would be up early in the morning.

I went to the parlour-window, and the child was within, and he playing. When he saw me he cried out, “Oh! my heart’s love, come here till I see you, shaggy papa.” I broke the window and went in, and he began to kiss me. I saw the rod in front of the chimney, and I jumped up at the rod and knocked it down. “Oh! my heart’s love, no one would give me the pretty rod,” said he. I hoped he would strike me with the rod, but he did not. When I saw the time was short I raised my paw, and I gave him a scratch below the knee. “Oh! you naughty, dirty, shaggy papa, you have hurt me so much, I’ll give you a blow of the rod.” He struck me a light blow, and so I came back to my own shape again. When he saw a man standing before him he gave a cry, and I took him up in my arms. The servants heard the child. A maid came in to see what was the matter with him. When she saw me she gave a cry out of her, and she said, “Oh, if the master isn’t come to life again!”

Another came in, and said it was he really. When the mistress heard of it, she came to see with her own eyes, for she would not believe I was there; and when she saw me she said she’d drown herself. But I said to her, “If you yourself will keep the secret, no living man will ever get the story from me until I lose my head.” Here she is herself to say if I am telling the truth. “Oh, it’s nothing but truth you are telling.”

When I saw I was in a man’s shape, I said I would take the child back to his father and mother, as I knew the grief they were in after him. I got a ship, and took the child with me; and as I journeyed I came to land on an island, and I saw not a living soul on it, only a castle dark and gloomy. I went in to see was there any one in it. There was no one but an old hag, tall and frightful, and she asked me, “What sort of person are you?” I heard some one groaning in another room, and I said I was a doctor, and I asked her what ailed the person who was groaning.

“Oh,” said she, “it is my son, whose hand has been bitten from his wrist by a dog.”

I knew then that it was he who had taken the child from me, and I said I would cure him if I got a good reward.

“I have nothing; but there are eight young lads and three young women, as handsome as any one ever laid eyes on, and if you cure him I will give you them.”

“Tell me first in what place his hand was cut from him?”

“Oh, it was out in another country, twelve years ago.”

“Show me the way, that I may see him.”

She brought me into a room, so that I saw him, and his arm was swelled up to the shoulder. He asked me if I would cure him; and I said I would cure him if he would give me the reward his mother promised.

“Oh, I will give it; but cure me.”

“Well, bring them out to me.”

The hag brought them out of the room. I said I should burn the flesh that was on his arm. When I looked on him he was howling with pain. I said that I would not leave him in pain long. The wretch had only one eye in his forehead. I took a bar of iron, and put it in the fire till it was red, and I said to the hag, “He will be howling at first, but will fall asleep presently, and do not wake him till he has slept as much as he wants. I will close the door when I am going out.” I took the bar with me, and I stood over him, and I turned it across through his eye as far as I could. He began to bellow, and tried to catch me, but I was out and away, having closed the door. The hag asked me, “Why is he bellowing?”

“Oh, he will be quiet presently, and will sleep for a good while, and I’ll come again to have a look at him; but bring me out the young men and the young women.”

I took them with me, and I said to her, “Tell me where you got them.”

“My son brought them with him, and they are all the children of one king.”

I was well satisfied, and I had no wish for delay to get myself free from the hag, so I took them on board the ship, and the child I had myself. I thought the king might leave me the child I nursed myself; but when I came to land, and all those young people with me, the king and queen were out walking. The king was very aged, and the queen aged likewise. When I came to converse with them, and the twelve with me, the king and queen began to cry. I asked, “Why are you crying?”

“It is for good cause I am crying. As many children as these I should have, and now I am withered, grey, at the end of my life, and I have not one at all.”

I told him all I went through, and I gave him the child in his hand, and “These are your other children who were stolen from you, whom I am giving to you safe. They are gently reared.”

When the king heard who they were he smothered them with kisses and drowned them with tears, and dried them with fine cloths silken and the hair of his own head, and so also did their mother, and great was his welcome for me, as it was I who found them all. The king said to me, “I will give you the last child, as it is you who have earned him best; but you must come to my court every year, and the child with you, and I will share with you my possessions.”

“I have enough of my own, and after my death I will leave it to the child.”

I spent a time, till my visit was over, and I told the king all the troubles I went through, only I said nothing about my wife. And now you have the story.

And now when you go home, and the Slender Red Champion asks you for news of the death of Anshgayliacht and for the sword of light, tell him the way in which his brother was killed, and say you have the sword; and he will ask the sword from you. Say you to him, “If I promised to bring it to you, I did not promise to bring it for you”; and then throw the sword into the air and it will come back to me.

He went home, and he told the story of the death of Anshgayliacht to the Slender Red Champion, “And here,” said he, “is the sword.” The Slender Red Champion asked for the sword; but he said: “If I promised to bring it to you, I did not promise to bring it for you”; and he threw it into the air and it returned to Blue Niall.

The Greek Princess and the Young Gardener

THERE WAS ONCE A KING, but I didn’t hear what country he was over, and he had one very beautiful daughter. Well, he was getting old and sickly, and the doctors found out that the finest medicine in the world for him was the apples of a tree that grew in the orchard just under his window. So you may be sure he had the tree well minded, and used to get the apples counted from the time they were the size of small marbles. One harvest, just as they were beginning to turn ripe, the king was awakened one night by the flapping of wings outside in the orchard; and when he looked out, what did he see but a bird among the branches of his tree. Its feathers were so bright that they made a light all round them, and the minute it saw the king in his night-cap and night-shirt it picked off an apple, and flew away. “Oh, botheration to that thief of a gardener!” says the king, “this is a nice way he’s watching my precious fruit.”

He didn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night; and as soon as any one was stirring in the palace, he sent for the gardener, and abused him for his neglect.

“Please your Majesty!” says he, “not another apple you shall lose. My three sons are the best shots at the bow and arrow in the kingdom, and they and myself will watch in turn every night.”

When the night came, the gardener’s eldest son took his post in the garden, with his bow strung and his arrow between his fingers, and watched, and watched. But at the dead hour, the king, that was wide awake, heard the flapping of wings, and ran to the window. There was the bright bird in the tree, and the boy fast asleep, sitting with his back to the wall, and his bow on his lap.

“Rise, you lazy thief!” says the king, “there’s the bird again, botheration to her!”

Up jumped the poor fellow; but while he was fumbling with the arrow and the string, away was the bird with the nicest apple on the tree. Well, to be sure, how the king fumed and fretted, and how he abused the gardener and the boy, and what a twenty-four hours he spent till midnight came again!

He had his eye this time on the second son of the gardener; but though he was up and lively enough when the clock began to strike twelve, it wasn’t done with the last bang when he saw him stretched like one dead on the long grass, and saw the bright bird again, and heard the flap of her wings, and saw her carry away the third apple. The poor fellow woke with the roar the king let at him, and even was in time enough to let fly an arrow after the bird. He did not hit her, you may depend; and though the king was mad enough, he saw the poor fellows were under pishtrogues, and could not help it.

Well, he had some hopes out of the youngest, for he was a brave, active young fellow, that had everybody’s good word. There he was ready, and there was the king watching him, and talking to him at the first stroke of twelve. At the last clang, the brightness coming before the bird lighted up the wall and the trees, and the rushing of the wings was heard as it flew into the branches; but at the same instant the crack of the arrow on her side might be heard a quarter of a mile off. Down came the arrow and a large bright feather along with it, and away was the bird, with a screech that was enough to break the drum of your ear. She hadn’t time to carry off an apple; and bedad, when the feather was thrown up into the king’s room it was heavier than lead, and turned out to be the finest beaten gold.

Well, there was great cooramuch made about the youngest boy next day, and he watched night after night for a week, but not a mite of a bird or bird’s feather was to be seen, and then the king told him to go home and sleep. Every one admired the beauty of the gold feather beyond anything, but the king was fairly bewitched. He was turning it round and round, and rubbing it against his forehead and his nose the live-long day; and at last he proclaimed that he’d give his daughter and half his kingdom to whoever would bring him the bird with the gold feathers, dead or alive.

The gardener’s eldest son had great conceit of himself, and away he went to look for the bird. In the afternoon he sat down under a tree to rest himself, and eat a bit of bread and cold meat that he had in his wallet, when up comes as fine a looking fox as you’d see in the burrow of Munfin. “Musha, sir,” says he, “would you spare a bit of that meat to a poor body that’s hungry?”

“Well,” says the other, “you must have the divil’s own assurance, you common robber, to ask me such a question. Here’s the answer,” and he let fly at the moddhereen rua.

The arrow scraped from his side up over his back, as if he was made of hammered iron, and stuck in a tree a couple of perches off.

“Foul play,” says the fox; “but I respect your young brother, and will give a bit of advice. At nightfall you’ll come into a village. One side of the street you’ll see a large room lighted up, and filled with young men and women, dancing and drinking. The other side you’ll see a house with no light, only from the fire in the front room, and no one near it but a man and his wife, and their child. Take a fool’s advice, and get lodging there.” With that he curled his tail over his crupper, and trotted off.

The boy found things as the fox said, but begonies he chose the dancing and drinking, and there we’ll leave him. In a week’s time, when they got tired at home waiting for him, the second son said he’d try his fortune, and off he set. He was just as ill-natured and foolish as his brother, and the same thing happened to him. Well, when a week was over, away went the youngest of all, and as sure as the hearth-money, he sat under the same tree, and pulled out his bread and meat, and the same fox came up and saluted him. Well, the young fellow shared his dinner with the moddhereen, and he wasn’t long beating about the bush, but told the other he knew all about his business.

“I’ll help you,” says he, “if I find you’re biddable. So just at nightfall you’ll come into a village.... Goodbye till tomorrow.”

It was just as the fox said, but the boy took care not to go near dancer, drinker, fiddler, or piper. He got welcome in the quiet house to supper and bed, and was on his journey next morning before the sun was the height of the trees.

He wasn’t gone a quarter of a mile when he saw the fox coming out of a wood that was by the roadside.

“Good-morrow, fox,” says one.

“Good-morrow, sir,” says the other.

“Have you any notion how far you have to travel till you find the golden bird?”

“Dickens a notion have I; – how could I?”

“Well, I have. She’s in the King of Spain’s palace, and that’s a good two hundred miles off.”

“Oh, dear! we’ll be a week going.”

“No, we won’t. Sit down on my tail, and we’ll soon make the road short.”

“Tail, indeed! that “ud be the droll saddle, my poor moddhereen.”

“Do as I tell you, or I’ll leave you to yourself.”

Well, rather than vex him he sat down on the tail that was spread out level like a wing, and away they went like thought. They overtook the wind that was before them, and the wind that came after didn’t overtake them. In the afternoon, they stopped in a wood near the King of Spain’s palace, and there they stayed till nightfall.

“Now,” says the fox, “I’ll go before you to make the minds of the guards easy, and you’ll have nothing to do but go from lighted hall to another lighted hall till you find the golden bird in the last. If you have a head on you, you’ll bring himself and his cage outside the door, and no one then can lay hands on him or you. If you haven’t a head I can’t help you, nor no one else.” So he went over to the gates.

In a quarter of an hour the boy followed, and in the first hall he passed he saw a score of armed guards standing upright, but all dead asleep. In the next he saw a dozen, and in the next half a dozen, and in the next three, and in the room beyond that there was no guard at all, nor lamp, nor candle, but it was as bright as day; for there was the golden bird in a common wood and wire cage, and on the table were the three apples turned into solid gold.

On the same table was the most lovely golden cage eye ever beheld, and it entered the boy’s head that it would be a thousand pities not to put the precious bird into it, the common cage was so unfit for her. Maybe he thought of the money it was worth; anyhow he made the exchange, and he had soon good reason to be sorry for it. The instant the shoulder of the bird’s wing touched the golden wires, he let such a squawk out of him as was enough to break all the panes of glass in the windows, and at the same minute the three men, and the half-dozen, and the dozen, and the score men, woke up and clattered their swords and spears, and surrounded the poor boy, and jibed, and cursed, and swore at home, till he didn’t know whether it’s his foot or head he was standing on. They called the king, and told him what happened, and he put on a very grim face. “It’s on a gibbet you ought to be this moment,” says he, “but I’ll give you a chance of your life, and of the golden bird, too. I lay you under prohibitions, and restrictions, and death, and destruction, to go and bring me the King of Moro-co’s bay filly that outruns the wind, and leaps over the walls of castle-bawns. When you fetch her into the bawn of this palace, you must get the golden bird, and liberty to go where you please.”

Out passed the boy, very down-hearted, but as he went along, who should come out of a brake but the fox again.

“Ah, my friend,” says he, “I was right when I suspected you hadn’t a head on you; but I won’t rub your hair again’ the grain. Get on my tail again, and when we come to the King of Moro-co’s palace, we’ll see what we can do.”

So away they went like thought. The wind that was before them they would overtake; the wind that was behind them would not overtake them.

Well, the nightfall came on them in a wood near the palace, and says the fox, “I’ll go and make things easy for you at the stables, and when you are leading out the filly, don’t let her touch the door, nor doorposts, nor anything but the ground, and that with her hoofs; and if you haven’t a head on you once you are in the stable, you’ll be worse off than before.”

So the boy delayed for a quarter of an hour, and then he went into the big bawn of the palace. There were two rows of armed men reaching from the gate to the stable, and every man was in the depth of deep sleep, and through them went the boy till he got into the stable. There was the filly, as handsome a beast as ever stretched leg, and there was one stable-boy with a currycomb in his hand, and another with a bridle, and another with a sieve of oats, and another with an armful of hay, and all as if they were cut out of stone. The filly was the only live thing in the place except himself. She had a common wood and leather saddle on her back, but a golden saddle with the nicest work on it was hung from the post, and he thought it the greatest pity not to put it in place of the other. Well, I believe there was some pishrogues over it for a saddle; anyhow, he took off the other, and put the gold one in its place.

Out came a squeal from the filly’s throat when she felt the strange article, that might be heard from Tombrick to Bunclody, and all as ready were the armed men and the stable-boys to run and surround the omadhan of a boy, and the King of Moro-co was soon there along with the rest, with a face on him as black as the sole of your foot. After he stood enjoying the abuse the poor boy got from everybody for some time, he says to him, “You deserve high hanging for your impudence, but I’ll give you a chance for your life and the filly, too. I lay on you all sorts of prohibitions, and restrictions, and death, and destruction to go bring me Princess Golden Locks, the King of Greek’s daughter. When you deliver her into my hand, you may have the ‘daughter of the wind,’ and welcome. Come in and take your supper and your rest, and be off at the flight of night.”

The poor boy was down in the mouth, you may suppose, as he was walking away next morning, and very much ashamed when the fox looked up in his face after coming out of the wood.

“What a thing it is,” says he, “not to have a head when a body wants it worst; and here we have a fine long journey before us to the King of Greek’s palace. The worse luck now, the same always. Here, get on my tail, and we’ll be making the road shorter.”

So he sat on the fox’s tail, and swift as thought they went. The wind that was before them they would overtake it, the wind that was behind them would not overtake them, and in the evening they were eating their bread and cold meat in the wood near the castle.

“Now,” says the fox, when they were done, “I’ll go before you to make things easy. Follow me in a quarter of an hour. Don’t let Princess Golden Locks touch the jambs of the doors with her hands, or hair, or clothes, and if you’re asked any favour, mind how you answer. Once she’s outside the door, no one can take her from you.”

Into the palace walked the boy at the proper time, and there were the score, and the dozen, and the half-dozen, and the three guards all standing up or leaning on their arms, and all dead asleep, and in the farthest room of all was the Princess Golden Locks, as lovely as Venus herself. She was asleep in one chair, and her father, the King of Greek, in another. He stood before her for ever so long with the love sinking deeper into his heart every minute, till at last he went down on one knee, and took her darling white hand in his hand, and kissed it.

When she opened her eyes, she was a little frightened, but I believe not very angry, for the boy, as I call him, was a fine handsome young fellow, and all the respect and love that ever you could think of was in his face. She asked him what he wanted, and he stammered, and blushed, and began his story six times, before she understood it.

“And would you give me up to that ugly black King of Moro-co?” says she.

“I am obliged to do so,” says he, “by prohibitions, and restrictions, and death, and destruction, but I’ll have his life and free you, or lose my own. If I can’t get you for my wife, my days on the earth will be short.”

“Well,” says she, “let me take leave of my father at any rate.”

“Ah, I can’t do that,” says he, “or they’d all waken, and myself would be put to death, or sent to some task worse than any I got yet.”

But she asked leave at any rate to kiss the old man; that wouldn’t waken him, and then she’d go. How could he refuse her, and his heart tied up in every curl of her hair? But, bedad, the moment her lips touched her father’s, he let a cry, and every one of the score, the dozen guards woke up, and clashed their arms, and were going to make gibbets of the foolish boy.

But the king ordered them to hold their hands, till he’d be insensed of what it was all about, and when he heard the boy’s story he gave him a chance for his life.

“There is,” says he, “a great heap of clay in front of the palace, that won’t let the sun shine on the walls in the middle of summer. Every one that ever worked at it found two shovelfuls added to it for every one they threw away. Remove it, and I’ll let my daughter go with you. If you’re the man I suspect you to be, I think she’ll be in no danger of being wife to that yellow Molott.”

Early next morning was the boy tackled to his work, and for every shovelful he flung away two came back on him, and at last he could hardly get out of the heap that gathered round him. Well, the poor fellow scrambled out some way, and sat down on a sod, and he’d have cried only for the shame of it. He began at it in ever so many places, and one was still worse than the other, and in the heel of the evening, when he was sitting with his head between his hands, who should be standing before him but the fox.

“Well, my poor fellow,” says he, “you’re low enough. Go in: I won’t say anything to add to your trouble. Take your supper and your rest: tomorrow will be a new day.”

“How is the work going off?” says the king, when they were at supper.

“Faith, your Majesty,” says the poor boy, “it’s not going off, but coming on it is. I suppose you’ll have the trouble of digging me out at sunset tomorrow, and waking me.”

“I hope not,” says the princess, with a smile on her kind face; and the boy was as happy as anything the rest of the evening.

He was wakened up next morning with voices shouting, and bugles blowing, and drums beating, and such a hullibulloo he never heard in his life before. He ran out to see what was the matter, and there, where the heap of clay was the evening before, were soldiers, and servants, and lords, and ladies, dancing like mad for joy that it was gone.

“Ah, my poor fox!” says he to himself, “this is your work.”

Well, there was little delay about his return. The king was going to send a great retinue with the princess and himself, but he wouldn’t let him take the trouble.

“I have a friend,” says he, “that will bring us both to the King of Moro-co’s palace in a day, d— fly away with him!”

There was great crying when she was parting from her father.

“Ah!” says he, “what a lonesome life I’ll have now! Your poor brother in the power of that wicked witch, and kept away from us, and now you taken from me in my old age!”

Well, they both were walking on through the wood, and he telling her how much he loved her; out walked the fox from behind a brake, and in a short time he and she were sitting on the brush, and holding one another fast for fear of slipping off, and away they went like thought. The wind that was before them they would overtake it, and in the evening he and she were in the big bawn of the King of Moro-co’s castle.

“Well,” says he to the boy, “you’ve done your duty well; bring out the bay filly. I’d give the full of the bawn of such fillies, if I had them, for this handsome princess. Get on your steed, and here is a good purse of guineas for the road.”

“Thank you,” says he. “I suppose you’ll let me shake hands with the princess before I start.”

“Yes, indeed, and welcome.”

Well, he was some little time about the hand-shaking, and before it was over he had her fixed snug behind him; and while you could count three, he, and she, and the filly were through all the guards, and a hundred perches away. On they went, and next morning they were in the wood near the King of Spain’s palace, and there was the fox before them.

“Leave your princess here with me,” says he, “and go get the golden bird and the three apples. If you don’t bring us back the filly along with the bird, I must carry you both home myself.”

Well, when the King of Spain saw the boy and the filly in the bawn, he made the golden bird, and the golden cage, and the golden apples be brought out and handed to him, and was very thankful and very glad of his prize. But the boy could not part with the nice beast without petting it and rubbing it; and while no one was expecting such a thing, he was up on its back, and through the guards, and a hundred perches away, and he wasn’t long till he came to where he left his princess and the fox.

They hurried away till they were safe out of the King of Spain’s land, and then they went on easier; and if I was to tell you all the loving things they said to one another, the story wouldn’t be over till morning. When they were passing the village of the dance house, they found his two brothers begging, and they brought them along. When they came to where the fox appeared first, he begged the young man to cut off his head and his tail. He would not do it for him; he shivered at the very thought, but the eldest brother was ready enough. The head and tail vanished with the blows, and the body changed into the finest young man you could see, and who was he but the princess’s brother that was bewitched. Whatever joy they had before, they had twice as much now, and when they arrived at the palace bonfires were set blazing, oxes roasting, and puncheons of wine put out in the lawn. The young Prince of Greece was married to the king’s daughter, and the prince’s sister to the gardener’s son. He and she went a shorter way back to her father’s house, with many attendants, and the king was so glad of the golden bird and the golden apples, that he had sent a waggon full of gold and a waggon full of silver along with them.

Smallhead and the King’s Sons

LONG AGO THERE LIVED in Erin a woman who married a man of high degree and had one daughter. Soon after the birth of the daughter the husband died.

The woman was not long a widow when she married a second time, and had two daughters. These two daughters hated their half-sister, thought she was not so wise as another, and nicknamed her Smallhead. When the elder of the two sisters was fourteen years old their father died. The mother was in great grief then, and began to pine away. She used to sit at home in the corner and never left the house. Smallhead was kind to her mother, and the mother was fonder of her eldest daughter than of the other two, who were ashamed of her.

At last the two sisters made up in their minds to kill their mother. One day, while their half-sister was gone, they put the mother in a pot, boiled her, and threw the bones outside. When Smallhead came home there was no sign of the mother.

“Where is my mother?” asked she of the other two.

“She went out somewhere. How should we know where she is?”

“Oh, wicked girls! you have killed my mother,” said Smallhead.

Smallhead wouldn’t leave the house now at all, and the sisters were very angry.

“No man will marry either one of us,” said they, “if he sees our fool of a sister.”

Since they could not drive Smallhead from the house they made up their minds to go away themselves. One fine morning they left home unknown to their half-sister and travelled on many miles. When Smallhead discovered that her sisters were gone she hurried after them and never stopped till she came up with the two. They had to go home with her that day, but they scolded her bitterly.

The two settled then to kill Smallhead, so one day they took twenty needles and scattered them outside in a pile of straw. “We are going to that hill beyond,” said they, “to stay till evening, and if you have not all the needles that are in that straw outside gathered and on the tables before us, we’ll have your life.”

Away they went to the hill. Smallhead sat down, and was crying bitterly when a short grey cat walked in and spoke to her.

“Why do you cry and lament so?” asked the cat.

“My sisters abuse me and beat me,” answered Smallhead. “This morning they said they would kill me in the evening unless I had all the needles in the straw outside gathered before them.”

“Sit down here,” said the cat, “and dry your tears.”

The cat soon found the twenty needles and brought them to Smallhead. “Stop there now,” said the cat, “and listen to what I tell you. I am your mother; your sisters killed me and destroyed my body, but don’t harm them; do them good, do the best you can for them, save them: obey my words and it will be better for you in the end.”

The cat went away for herself, and the sisters came home in the evening. The needles were on the table before them. Oh, but they were vexed and angry when they saw the twenty needles, and they said some one was helping their sister!

One night when Smallhead was in bed and asleep they started away again, resolved this time never to return. Smallhead slept till morning. When she saw that the sisters were gone she followed, traced them from place to place, inquired here and there day after day, till one evening some person told her that they were in the house of an old hag, a terrible enchantress, who had one son and three daughters: that the house was a bad place to be in, for the old hag had more power of witchcraft than any one and was very wicked.

Smallhead hurried away to save her sisters, and facing the house knocked at the door, and asked lodgings for God’s sake.

“Oh, then,” said the hag, “it is hard to refuse any one lodgings, and besides on such a wild, stormy night. I wonder if you are anything to the young ladies who came the way this evening?”

The two sisters heard this and were angry enough that Smallhead was in it, but they said nothing, not wishing the old hag to know their relationship. After supper the hag told the three strangers to sleep in a room on the right side of the house. When her own daughters were going to bed Smallhead saw her tie a ribbon around the neck of each one of them, and heard her say: “Do you sleep in the left-hand bed.” Smallhead hurried and said to her sisters: “Come quickly, or I’ll tell the woman who you are.”

They took the bed in the left-hand room and were in it before the hag’s daughters came.

“Oh,” said the daughters, “the other bed is as good.” So they took the bed in the right-hand room. When Smallhead knew that the hag’s daughters were asleep she rose, took the ribbons off their necks, and put them on her sister’s necks and on her own. She lay awake and watched them. After a while she heard the hag say to her son:

“Go, now, and kill the three girls; they have the clothes and money.”

“You have killed enough in your life and so let these go,” said the son.

But the old woman would not listen. The boy rose up, fearing his mother, and taking a long knife, went to the right-hand room and cut the throats of the three girls without ribbons. He went to bed then for himself, and when Smallhead found that the old hag was asleep she roused her sisters, told what had happened, made them dress quickly and follow her. Believe me, they were willing and glad to follow her this time.

The three travelled briskly and came soon to a bridge, called at that time ‘The Bridge of Blood.” Whoever had killed a person could not cross the bridge. When the three girls came to the bridge the two sisters stopped: they could not go a step further. Smallhead ran across and went back again.

“If I did not know that you killed our mother,” said she, “I might know it now, for this is the Bridge of Blood.’

She carried one sister over the bridge on her back and then the other. Hardly was this done when the hag was at the bridge.

“Bad luck to you, Smallhead!” said she, “I did not know that it was you that was in it last evening. You have killed my three daughters.”

“It wasn’t I that killed them, but yourself,” said Smallhead.

The old hag could not cross the bridge, so she began to curse, and she put every curse on Smallhead that she could remember. The sisters travelled on till they came to a King’s castle. They heard that two servants were needed in the castle.

“Go now,” said Smallhead to the two sisters, “and ask for service. Be faithful and do well. You can never go back by the road you came.”

The two found employment at the King’s castle. Smallhead took lodgings in the house of a blacksmith near by.

“I should be glad to find a place as kitchen-maid in the castle,” said Smallhead to the blacksmith’s wife.

“I will go to the castle and find a place for you if I can,” said the woman.

The blacksmith’s wife found a place for Smallhead as kitchen-maid in the castle, and she went there next day.

“I must be careful,” thought Smallhead, “and do my best. I am in a strange place. My two sisters are here in the King’s castle. Who knows, we may have great fortune yet.”

She dressed neatly and was cheerful. Every one liked her, liked her better than her sisters, though they were beautiful. The King had two sons, one at home and the other abroad. Smallhead thought to herself one day: “It is time for the son who is here in the castle to marry. I will speak to him the first time I can.” One day she saw him alone in the garden, went up to him, and said:

“Why are you not getting married, it is high time for you?”

He only laughed and thought she was too bold, but then thinking that she was a simple-minded girl who wished to be pleasant, he said:

“I will tell you the reason: My grandfather bound my father by an oath never to let his oldest son marry until he could get the Sword of Light, and I am afraid that I shall be long without marrying.”

“Do you know where the Sword of Light is, or who has it?” asked Smallhead.

“I do,” said the King’s son, “an old hag who has great power and enchantment, and she lives a long distance from this, beyond the Bridge of Blood. I cannot go there myself, I cannot cross the bridge, for I have killed men in battle. Even if I could cross the bridge I would not go, for many is the King’s son that hag has destroyed or enchanted.”

“Suppose some person were to bring the Sword of Light, and that person a woman, would you marry her?”

“I would, indeed,” said the King’s son.

“If you promise to marry my elder sister I will strive to bring the Sword of Light.”

“I will promise most willingly,” said the King’s son.

Next morning early, Smallhead set out on her journey. Calling at the first shop she bought a stone weight of salt, and went on her way, never stopping or resting till she reached the hag’s house at nightfall. She climbed to the gable, looked down, and saw the son making a great pot of stirabout for his mother, and she hurrying him. “I am as hungry as a hawk!” cried she.

Whenever the boy looked away, Smallhead dropped salt down, dropped it when he was not looking, dropped it till she had the whole stone of salt in the stirabout. The old hag waited and waited till at last she cried out: “Bring the stirabout. I am starving! Bring the pot. I will eat from the pot. Give the milk here as well.”

The boy brought the stirabout and the milk, the old woman began to eat, but the first taste she got she spat out and screamed: “You put salt in the pot in place of meal!”

“I did not, mother.”

“You did, and it’s a mean trick that you played on me. Throw this stirabout to the pig outside and go for water to the well in the field.”

“I cannot go,” said the boy, “the night is too dark; I might fall into the well.”

“You must go and bring the water; I cannot live till morning without eating.”

“I am as hungry as yourself,” said the boy, “but how can I go to the well without a light? I will not go unless you give me a light.”

“If I give you the Sword of Light there is no knowing who may follow you; maybe that devil of a Smallhead is outside.”

But sooner than fast till morning the old hag gave the Sword of Light to her son, warning him to take good care of it. He took the Sword of Light and went out. As he saw no one when he came to the well he left the sword on the top of the steps going down to the water, so as to have good light. He had not gone down many steps when Smallhead had the sword, and away she ran over hills, dales, and valleys towards the Bridge of Blood.

The boy shouted and screamed with all his might. Out ran the hag. “Where is the sword?” cried she.

“Some one took it from the step.”

Off rushed the hag, following the light, but she didn’t come near Smallhead till she was over the bridge.

“Give me the Sword of Light, or bad luck to you,” cried the hag.

“Indeed, then, I will not; I will keep it, and bad luck to yourself,” answered Smallhead.

On the following morning she walked up to the King’s son and said:

“I have the Sword of Light; now will you marry my sister?”

“I will,” said he.

The King’s son married Smallhead’s sister and got the Sword of Light. Smallhead stayed no longer in the kitchen – the sister didn’t care to have her in kitchen or parlour.

The King’s second son came home. He was not long in the castle when Smallhead said to herself, “Maybe he will marry my second sister.”

She saw him one day in the garden, went toward him; he said something, she answered, then asked: “Is it not time for you to be getting married like your brother?”

“When my grandfather was dying,” said the young man, “he bound my father not to let his second son marry till he had the Black Book. This book used to shine and give brighter light than ever the Sword of Light did, and I suppose it does yet. The old hag beyond the Bridge of Blood has the book, and no one dares to go near her, for many is the King’s son killed or enchanted by that woman.”

“Would you marry my second sister if you were to get the Black Book?”

“I would, indeed; I would marry any woman if I got the Black Book with her. The Sword of Light and the Black Book were in our family till my grandfather’s time, then they were stolen by that cursed old hag.”

“I will have the book,” said Smallhead, “or die in the trial to get it.”

Knowing that stirabout was the main food of the hag, Smallhead settled in her mind to play another trick. Taking a bag she scraped the chimney, gathered about a stone of soot, and took it with her. The night was dark and rainy. When she reached the hag’s house, she climbed up the gable to the chimney and found that the son was making stirabout for his mother. She dropped the soot down by degrees till at last the whole stone of soot was in the pot; then she scraped around the top of the chimney till a lump of soot fell on the boy’s hand.

“Oh, mother,” said he, “the night is wet and soft, the soot is falling.”

“Cover the pot,” said the hag. “Be quick with that stirabout, I am starving.”

The boy took the pot to his mother.

“Bad luck to you,” cried the hag the moment she tasted the stirabout, “this is full of soot; throw it out to the pig.”

“If I throw it out there is no water inside to make more, and I’ll not go in the dark and rain to the well.”

“You must go!” screamed she.

“I’ll not stir a foot out of this unless I get a light,” said the boy.

“Is it the book you are thinking of, you fool, to take it and lose it as you did the sword? Smallhead is watching you.”

“How could Smallhead, the creature, be outside all the time? If you have no use for the water you can do without it.”

Sooner than stop fasting till morning, the hag gave her son the book, saying: “Do not put this down or let it from your hand till you come in, or I’ll have your life.”

The boy took the book and went to the well. Smallhead followed him carefully. He took the book down into the well with him, and when he was stooping to dip water she snatched the book and pushed him into the well, where he came very near drowning.

Smallhead was far away when the boy recovered, and began to scream and shout to his mother. She came in a hurry, and finding that the book was gone, fell into such a rage that she thrust a knife into her son’s heart and ran after Smallhead, who had crossed the bridge before the hag could come up with her.

When the old woman saw Smallhead on the other side of the bridge facing her and dancing with delight, she screamed:

“You took the Sword of Light and the Black Book, and your two sisters are married. Oh, then, bad luck to you. I will put my curse on you wherever you go. You have all my children killed, and I a poor, feeble, old woman.”

“Bad luck to yourself,” said Smallhead. “I am not afraid of a curse from the like of you. If you had lived an honest life you wouldn’t be as you are today.”

“Now, Smallhead,” said the old hag, “you have me robbed of everything, and my children destroyed. Your two sisters are well married. Your fortune began with my ruin. Come, now, and take care of me in my old age. I’ll take my curse from you, and you will have good luck. I bind myself never to harm a hair of your head.”

Smallhead thought awhile, promised to do this, and said: “If you harm me, or try to harm me, it will be the worse for yourself.”

The old hag was satisfied and went home. Smallhead went to the castle and was received with great joy. Next morning she found the King’s son in the garden, and said: “If you marry my sister tomorrow, you will have the Black Book.”

“I will marry her gladly,” said the King’s son.

Next day the marriage was celebrated and the King’s son got the book. Smallhead remained in the castle about a week, then she left good health with her sisters and went to the hag’s house. The old woman was glad to see her and showed the girl her work. All Smallhead had to do was to wait on the hag and feed a large pig that she had.

“I am fatting that pig,” said the hag; “he is seven years old now, and the longer you keep a pig the harder his meat is: we’ll keep this pig a while longer, and then we’ll kill and eat him.”

Smallhead did her work; the old hag taught her some things, and Smallhead learned herself far more than the hag dreamt of. The girl fed the pig three times a day, never thinking that he could be anything but a pig. The hag had sent word to a sister that she had in the Eastern World, bidding her come and they would kill the pig and have a great feast. The sister came, and one day when the hag was going to walk with her sister she said to Smallhead:

“Give the pig plenty of meal today; this is the last food he’ll have; give him his fill.”

The pig had his own mind and knew what was coming. He put his nose under the pot and threw it on Smallhead’s toes, and she barefoot. With that she ran into the house for a stick, and seeing a rod on the edge of the loft, snatched it and hit the pig.

That moment the pig was a splendid young man.

Smallhead was amazed.

“Never fear,” said the young man, “I am the son of a King that the old hag hated, the King of Munster. She stole me from my father seven years ago and enchanted me – made a pig of me.”

Smallhead told the King’s son, then, how the hag had treated her. “I must make a pig of you again,” said she, “for the hag is coming. Be patient and I’ll save you, if you promise to marry me.”

“I promise you,” said the King’s son.

With that she struck him, and he was a pig again. She put the switch in its place and was at her work when the two sisters came. The pig ate his meal now with a good heart, for he felt sure of rescue.

“Who is that girl you have in the house, and where did you find her?” asked the sister.

“All my children died of the plague, and I took this girl to help me. She is a very good servant.”

At night the hag slept in one room, her sister in another, and Smallhead in a third. When the two sisters were sleeping soundly Smallhead rose, stole the hag’s magic book, and then took the rod. She went next to where the pig was, and with one blow of the rod made a man of him.

With the help of the magic book Smallhead made two doves of herself and the King’s son, and they took flight through the air and flew on without stopping. Next morning the hag called Smallhead, but she did not come. She hurried out to see the pig. The pig was gone. She ran to her book. Not a sign of it.

“Oh!” cried she, “that villain of a Smallhead has robbed me. She has stolen my book, made a man of the pig, and taken him away with her.”

What could she do but tell her whole story to the sister. “Go you,” said she, “and follow them. You have more enchantment than Smallhead has.”

“How am I to know them?” asked the sister.

“Bring the first two strange things that you find; they will turn themselves into something wonderful.”

The sister then made a hawk of herself and flew away as swiftly as any March wind.

“Look behind,” said Smallhead to the King’s son some hours later; “see what is coming.”

“I see nothing,” said he, “but a hawk coming swiftly.”

“That is the hag’s sister. She has three times more enchantment than the hag herself. But fly down on the ditch and be picking yourself as doves do in rainy weather, and maybe she’ll pass without seeing us.”

The hawk saw the doves, but thinking them nothing wonderful, flew on till evening, and then went back to her sister.

“Did you see anything wonderful?”

“I did not; I saw only two doves, and they picking themselves.”

“You fool, those doves were Smallhead and the King’s son. Off with you in the morning and don’t let me see you again without the two with you.”

Away went the hawk a second time, and swiftly as Smallhead and the King’s son flew, the hawk was gaining on them. Seeing this Smallhead and the King’s son dropped down into a large village, and, it being market-day, they made two heather brooms of themselves. The two brooms began to sweep the road without any one holding them, and swept toward each other. This was a great wonder. Crowds gathered at once around the two brooms.

The old hag flying over in the form of a hawk saw this and thinking that it must be Smallhead and the King’s son were in it, came down, turned into a woman, and said to herself:

“I’ll have those two brooms.”

She pushed forward so quickly through the crowd that she came near knocking down a man standing before her. The man was vexed.

“You cursed old hag!” cried he, “do you want to knock us down?” With that he gave her a blow and drove her against another man, that man gave her a push that sent her spinning against a third man, and so on till between them all they came near putting the life out of her, and pushed her away from the brooms. A woman in the crowd called out then:

“It would be nothing but right to knock the head off that old hag, and she trying to push us away from the mercy of God, for it was God who sent the brooms to sweep the road for us.”

“True for you,” said another woman. With that the people were as angry as angry could be, and were ready to kill the hag. They were going to take the head off the hag when she made a hawk of herself and flew away, vowing never to do another stroke of work for her sister. She might do her own work or let it alone.

When the hawk disappeared the two heather brooms rose and turned into doves. The people felt sure when they saw the doves that the brooms were a blessing from heaven, and it was the old hag that drove them away.

On the following day Smallhead and the King’s son saw his father’s castle, and the two came down not too far from it in their own forms. Smallhead was a very beautiful woman now, and why not? She had the magic and didn’t spare it. She made herself as beautiful as ever she could: the like of her was not to be seen in that kingdom or the next one.

The King’s son was in love with her that minute, and did not wish to part with her, but she would not go with him.

“When you are at your father’s castle,” said Smallhead, “all will be overjoyed to see you, and the king will give a great feast in your honour. If you kiss any one or let any living thing kiss you, you’ll forget me for ever.”

“I will not let even my own mother kiss me,” said he.

The King’s son went to the castle. All were overjoyed; they had thought him dead, had not seen him for seven years. He would let no one come near to kiss him. “I am bound by oath to kiss no one,” said he to his mother. At that moment an old grey hound came in, and with one spring was on his shoulder licking his face: all that the King’s son had gone through in seven years was forgotten in one moment.

Smallhead went toward a forge near the castle. The smith had a wife far younger than himself, and a stepdaughter. They were no beauties. In the rear of the forge was a well and a tree growing over it. “I will go up in that tree,” thought Smallhead, “and spend the night in it.” She went up and sat just over the well. She was not long in the tree when the moon came out high above the hill tops and shone on the well. The blacksmith’s stepdaughter, coming for water, looked down in the well, saw the face of the woman above in the tree, thought it her own face, and cried:

“Oh, then, to have me bringing water to a smith, and I such a beauty. I’ll never bring another drop to him.” With that she cast the pail in the ditch and ran off to find a king’s son to marry.

When she was not coming with the water, and the blacksmith waiting to wash after his day’s work in the forge, he sent the mother. The mother had nothing but a pot to get the water in, so off she went with that, and coming to the well saw the beautiful face in the water.

“Oh, you black, swarthy villain of a smith,” cried she, “bad luck to the hour that I met you, and I such a beauty. I’ll never draw another drop of water for the life of you!”

She threw the pot down, broke it, and hurried away to find some king’s son.

When neither mother nor daughter came back with water the smith himself went to see what was keeping them. He saw the pail in the ditch, and, catching it, went to the well; looking down, he saw the beautiful face of a woman in the water. Being a man, he knew that it was not his own face that was in it, so he looked up, and there in the tree saw a woman. He spoke to her and said:

“I know now why my wife and her daughter did not bring water. They saw your face in the well, and, thinking themselves too good for me, ran away. You must come now and keep the house till I find them.”

“I will help you,” said Smallhead. She came down, went to the smith’s house, and showed the road that the women took. The smith hurried after them, and found the two in a village ten miles away. He explained their own folly to them, and they came home.

The mother and daughter washed fine linen for the castle. Smallhead saw them ironing one day, and said:

“Sit down: I will iron for you.”

She caught the iron, and in an hour had the work of the day done.

The women were delighted. In the evening the daughter took the linen to the housekeeper at the castle.

“Who ironed this linen?” asked the housekeeper.

“My mother and I.”

“Indeed, then, you did not. You can’t do the like of that work, and tell me who did it.”

The girl was in dread now and answered:

“It is a woman who is stopping with us who did the ironing.”

The housekeeper went to the Queen and showed her the linen.

“Send that woman to the castle,” said the Queen.

Smallhead went: the Queen welcomed her, wondered at her beauty; put her over all the maids in the castle. Smallhead could do anything; everybody was fond of her. The King’s son never knew that he had seen her before, and she lived in the castle a year; what the Queen told her she did.

The King had made a match for his son with the daughter of the King of Ulster. There was a great feast in the castle in honour of the young couple, the marriage, was to be a week later. The bride’s father brought many of his people who were versed in all kinds of tricks and enchantment.

The King knew that Smallhead could do many things, for neither the Queen nor himself had asked her to do a thing that she did not do in a twinkle.

“Now,” said the King to the Queen, “I think she can do something that his people cannot do.” He summoned Smallhead and asked:

“Can you amuse the strangers?”

“I can if you wish me to do so.”

When the time came and the Ulster men had shown their best tricks, Smallhead came forward and raised the window, which was forty feet from the ground. She had a small ball of thread in her hand; she tied one end of the thread to the window, threw the ball out and over a wall near the castle; then she passed out the window, walked on the thread and kept time to music from players that no man could see. She came in; all cheered her and were greatly delighted.

“I can do that,” said the King of Ulster’s daughter, and sprang out on the string; but if she did she fell and broke her neck on the stones below. There were cries, there was lamentation, and, in place of a marriage, a funeral.

The King’s son was angry and grieved and wanted to drive Smallhead from the castle in some way.

“She is not to blame,” said the King of Munster, who did nothing but praise her.

Another year passed: the King got the daughter of the King of Connacht for his son. There was a great feast before the wedding day, and as the Connacht people are full of enchantment and witchcraft, the King of Munster called Smallhead and said:

“Now show the best trick of any.”

“I will,” said Smallhead.

When the feast was over and the Connacht men had shown their tricks the King of Munster called Smallhead.

She stood before the company, threw two grains of wheat on the floor, and spoke some magic words. There was a hen and a cock there before her of beautiful plumage; she threw a grain of wheat between them; the hen sprang to eat the wheat, the cock gave her a blow of his bill, the hen drew back, looked at him, and said:

“Bad luck to you, you wouldn’t do the like of that when I was serving the old hag and you her pig, and I made a man of you and gave you back your own form.”

The King’s son looked at her and thought, “There must be something in this.”

Smallhead threw a second grain. The cock pecked the hen again. “Oh,” said the hen, “you would not do that the day the hag’s sister was hunting us, and we two doves.”

The King’s son was still more astonished.

She threw a third grain. The cock struck the hen, and she said, “You would not do that to me the day I made two heather brooms out of you and myself.” She threw a fourth grain. The cock pecked the hen a fourth time. “You would not do that the day you promised not to let any living thing kiss you or kiss any one yourself but me – you let the hound kiss you and you forgot me.”

The King’s son made one bound forward, embraced and kissed Smallhead, and told the King his whole story from beginning to end.

“This is my wife,” said he; “I’ll marry no other woman.”

“Whose wife will my daughter be?” asked the King of Connacht.

“Oh, she will be the wife of the man who will marry her,” said the King of Munster, “my son gave his word to this woman before he saw your daughter, and he must keep it.”

So Smallhead married the King of Munster’s son.

The Wisdom of the King

W.B. Yeats

THE HIGH-QUEEN of the Island of Woods had died in childbirth, and her child was put to nurse with a woman who lived in a hut of mud and wicker, within the border of the wood. One night the woman sat rocking the cradle, and pondering over the beauty of the child, and praying that the gods might grant him wisdom equal to his beauty. There came a knock at the door, and she got up, not a little wondering, for the nearest neighbours were in the dun of the High-King a mile away; and the night was now late. “Who is knocking?” she cried, and a thin voice answered, “Open! for I am a crone of the grey hawk, and I come from the darkness of the great wood.” In terror she drew back the bolt, and a grey-clad woman, of a great age, and of a height more than human, came in and stood by the head of the cradle. The nurse shrank back against the wall, unable to take her eyes from the woman, for she saw by the gleaming of the firelight that the feathers of the grey hawk were upon her head instead of hair. But the child slept, and the fire danced, for the one was too ignorant and the other too full of gaiety to know what a dreadful being stood there. “Open!” cried another voice, “for I am a crone of the grey hawk, and I watch over his nest in the darkness of the great wood.” The nurse opened the door again, though her fingers could scarce hold the bolts for trembling, and another grey woman, not less old than the other, and with like feathers instead of hair, came in and stood by the first. In a little, came a third grey woman, and after her a fourth, and then another and another and another, until the hut was full of their immense bodies. They stood a long time in perfect silence and stillness, for they were of those whom the dropping of the sand has never troubled, but at last one muttered in a low thin voice: “Sisters, I knew him far away by the redness of his heart under his silver skin”; and then another spoke: “Sisters, I knew him because his heart fluttered like a bird under a net of silver cords “; and then another took up the word: “Sisters, I knew him because his heart sang like a bird that is happy in a silver cage.” And after that they sang together, those who were nearest rocking the cradle with long wrinkled fingers; and their voices were now tender and caressing, now like the wind blowing in the great wood, and this was their song:

“Out of sight is out of mind:

Long have man and woman-kind,

Heavy of will and light of mood,

Taken away our wheaten food,

Taken away our Altar stone;

Hail and rain and thunder alone,

And red hearts we turn to grey,

Are true till Time gutter away.”

When the song had died out, the crone who had first spoken, said: “We have nothing more to do but to mix a drop of our blood into his blood.” And she scratched her arm with the sharp point of a spindle, which she had made the nurse bring to her, and let a drop of blood, grey as the mist, fall upon the lips of the child; and passed out into the darkness. Then the others passed out in silence one by one; and all the while the child had not opened his pink eyelids or the fire ceased to dance, for the one was too ignorant and the other too full of gaiety to know what great beings had bent over the cradle.

When the crones were gone, the nurse came to her courage again, and hurried to the dun of the High-King, and cried out in the midst of the assembly hall that the Sidhe, whether for good or evil she knew not, had bent over the child that night; and the king and his poets and men of law, and his huntsmen, and his cooks, and his chief warriors went with her to the hut and gathered about the cradle, and were as noisy as magpies, and the child sat up and looked at them.

Two years passed over, and the king died fighting against the Fer Bolg; and the poets and the men of law ruled in the name of the child, but looked to see him become the master himself before long, for no one had seen so wise a child, and tales of his endless questions about the household of the gods and the making of the world went hither and thither among the wicker houses of the poor. Everything had been well but for a miracle that began to trouble all men; and all women, who, indeed, talked of it without ceasing. The feathers of the grey hawk had begun to grow in the child’s hair, and though, his nurse cut them continually, in but a little while they would be more numerous than ever. This had not been a matter of great moment, for miracles were a little thing in those days, but for an ancient law of Eri that none who had any blemish of body could sit upon the throne; and as a grey hawk was a wild thing of the air which had never sat at the board, or listened to the songs of the poets in the light of the fire, it was not possible to think of one in whose hair its feathers grew as other than marred and blasted; nor could the people separate from their admiration of the wisdom that grew in him a horror as at one of unhuman blood. Yet all were resolved that he should reign, for they had suffered much from foolish kings and their own disorders, and moreover they desired to watch out the spectacle of his days; and no one had any other fear but that his great wisdom might bid him obey the law, and call some other, who had but a common mind, to reign in his stead.

When the child was seven years old the poets and the men of law were called together by the chief poet, and all these matters weighed and considered. The child had already seen that those about him had hair only, and, though they had told him that they too had had feathers but had lost them because of a sin committed by their forefathers, they knew that he would learn the truth when he began to wander into the country round about. After much consideration they decreed a new law commanding every one upon pain of death to mingle artificially the feathers of the grey hawk into his hair; and they sent men with nets and slings and bows into the countries round about to gather a sufficiency of feathers. They decreed also that any who told the truth to the child should be flung from a cliff into the sea.

The years passed, and the child grew from childhood into boyhood and from boyhood into manhood, and from being curious about all things he became busy with strange and subtle thoughts which came to him in dreams, and with distinctions between things long held the same and with the resemblance of things long held different. Multitudes came from other lands to see him and to ask his counsel, but there were guards set at the frontiers, who compelled all that came to wear the feathers of the grey hawk in their hair. While they listened to him his words seemed to make all darkness light and filled their hearts like music; but, alas, when they returned to their own lands his words seemed far off, and what they could remember too strange and subtle to help them to live out their hasty days. A number indeed did live differently afterwards, but their new life was less excellent than the old: some among them had long served a good cause, but when they heard him praise it and their labour, they returned to their own lands to find what they had loved less lovable and their arm lighter in the battle, for he had taught them how little a hair divides the false and true; others, again, who had served no cause, but wrought in peace the welfare of their own households, when he had expounded the meaning of their purpose, found their bones softer and their will less ready for toil, for he had shown them greater purposes; and numbers of the young, when they had heard him upon all these things, remembered certain words that became like a fire in their hearts, and made all kindly joys and traffic between man and man as nothing, and went different ways, but all into vague regret.

When any asked him concerning the common things of life; disputes about the mear of a territory, or about the straying of cattle, or about the penalty of blood; he would turn to those nearest him for advice; but this was held to be from courtesy, for none knew that these matters were hidden from him by thoughts and dreams that filled his mind like the marching and counter-marching of armies. Far less could any know that his heart wandered lost amid throngs of overcoming thoughts and dreams, shuddering at its own consuming solitude.

Among those who came to look at him and to listen to him was the daughter of a little king who lived a great way off; and when he saw her he loved, for she was beautiful, with a strange and pale beauty unlike the women of his land; but Dana, the great mother, had decreed her a heart that was but as the heart of others, and when she considered the mystery of the hawk feathers she was troubled with a great horror. He called her to him when the assembly was over and told her of her beauty, and praised her simply and frankly as though she were a fable of the bards; and he asked her humbly to give him her love, for he was only subtle in his dreams. Overwhelmed with his greatness, she half consented, and yet half refused, for she longed to marry some warrior who could carry her over a mountain in his arms. Day by day the king gave her gifts; cups with ears of gold and findrinny wrought by the craftsmen of distant lands; cloth from over sea, which, though woven with curious figures, seemed to her less beautiful than the bright cloth of her own country; and still she was ever between a smile and a frown; between yielding and withholding. He laid down his wisdom at her feet, and told how the heroes when they die return to the world and begin their labour anew; how the kind and mirthful Men of Dea drove out the huge and gloomy and misshapen People from Under the Sea; and a multitude of things that even the Sidhe have forgotten, either because they happened so long ago or because they have not time to think of them; and still she half refused, and still he hoped, because he could not believe that a beauty so much like wisdom could hide a common heart.

There was a tall young man in the dun who had yellow hair, and was skilled in wrestling and in the training of horses; and one day when the king walked in the orchard, which was between the foss and the forest, he heard his voice among the salley bushes which hid the waters of the foss. “My blossom,” it said, “I hate them for making you weave these dingy feathers into your beautiful hair, and all that the bird of prey upon the throne may sleep easy o’ nights; and then the low, musical voice he loved answered: “My hair is not beautiful like yours; and now that I have plucked the feathers out of your hair I will put my hands through it, thus, and thus, and thus; for it casts no shadow of terror and darkness upon my heart.” Then the king remembered many things that he had forgotten without understanding them, doubtful words of his poets and his men of law, doubts that he had reasoned away, his own continual solitude; and he called to the lovers in a trembling voice. They came from among the salley bushes and threw themselves at his feet and prayed for pardon, and he stooped down and plucked the feathers out of the hair of the woman and then turned away towards the dun without a word. He strode into the hall of assembly, and having gathered his poets and his men of law about him, stood upon the dais and spoke in a loud, clear voice: “Men of law, why did you make me sin against the laws of Eri? Men of verse, why did you make me sin against the secrecy of wisdom, for law was made by man for the welfare of man, but wisdom the gods have made, and no man shall live by its light, for it and the hail and the rain and the thunder follow a way that is deadly to mortal things? Men of law and men of verse, live according to your kind, and call Eocha of the Hasty Mind to reign over you, for I set out to find my kindred.” He then came down among them, and drew out of the hair of first one and then another the feathers of the grey hawk, and, having scattered them over the rushes upon the floor, passed out, and none dared to follow him, for his eyes gleamed like the eyes of the birds of prey; and no man saw him again or heard his voice. Some believed that he found his eternal abode among the demons, and some that he dwelt henceforth with the dark and dreadful goddesses, who sit all night about the pools in the forest watching the constellations rising and setting in those desolate mirrors.

The Curse of the Fires and of the Shadows

W.B. Yeats

ONE SUMMER NIGHT, when there was peace, a score of Puritan troopers under the pious Sir Frederick Hamilton, broke through the door of the Abbey of the White Friars which stood over the Gara Lough at Sligo. As the door fell with a crash they saw a little knot of friars, gathered about the altar, their white habits glimmering in the steady light of the holy candles. All the monks were kneeling except the abbot, who stood upon the altar steps with a great brazen crucifix in his hand. “Shoot them!” cried Sir Frederick Hamilton, but none stirred, for all were new converts, and feared the crucifix and the holy candles. The white lights from the altar threw the shadows of the troopers up on to roof and wall. As the troopers moved about, the shadows began a fantastic dance among the corbels and the memorial tablets. For a little while all was silent, and then five troopers who were the body-guard of Sir Frederick Hamilton lifted their muskets, and shot down five of the friars. The noise and the smoke drove away the mystery of the pale altar lights, and the other troopers took courage and began to strike. In a moment the friars lay about the altar steps, their white habits stained with blood. “Set fire to the house!” cried Sir Frederick Hamilton, and at his word one went out, and came in again carrying a heap of dry straw, and piled it against the western wall, and, having done this, fell back, for the fear of the crucifix and of the holy candles was still in his heart. Seeing this, the five troopers who were Sir Frederick Hamilton’s body-guard darted forward, and taking each a holy candle set the straw in a blaze. The red tongues of fire rushed up and flickered from corbel to corbel and from tablet to tablet, and crept along the floor, setting in a blaze the seats and benches. The dance of the shadows passed away, and the dance of the fires began. The troopers fell back towards the door in the southern wall, and watched those yellow dancers springing hither and thither.

For a time the altar stood safe and apart in the midst of its white light; the eyes of the troopers turned upon it. The abbot whom they had thought dead had risen to his feet and now stood before it with the crucifix lifted in both hands high above his head. Suddenly he cried with a loud voice, “Woe unto all who smite those who dwell within the Light of the Lord, for they shall wander among the ungovernable shadows, and follow the ungovernable fires!” And having so cried he fell on his face dead, and the brazen crucifix rolled down the steps of the altar. The smoke had now grown very thick, so that it drove the troopers out into the open air. Before them were burning houses. Behind them shone the painted windows of the Abbey filled with saints and martyrs, awakened, as from a sacred trance, into an angry and animated life. The eyes of the troopers were dazzled, and for a while could see nothing but the flaming faces of saints and martyrs. Presently, however, they saw a man covered with dust who came running towards them. “Two messengers,” he cried, “have been sent by the defeated Irish to raise against you the whole country about Manor Hamilton, and if you do not stop them you will be overpowered in the woods before you reach home again! They ride north-east between Ben Bulben and Cashel-na-Gael.”

Sir Frederick Hamilton called to him the five troopers who had first fired upon the monks and said, “Mount quickly, and ride through the woods towards the mountain, and get before these men, and kill them.”

In a moment the troopers were gone, and before many moments they had splashed across the river at what is now called Buckley’s Ford, and plunged into the woods. They followed a beaten track that wound along the northern bank of the river. The boughs of the birch and quicken trees mingled above, and hid the cloudy moonlight, leaving the pathway in almost complete darkness. They rode at a rapid trot, now chatting together, now watching some stray weasel or rabbit scuttling away in the darkness. Gradually, as the gloom and silence of the woods oppressed them, they drew closer together, and began to talk rapidly; they were old comrades and knew each other’s lives. One was married, and told how glad his wife would be to see him return safe from this harebrained expedition against the White Friars, and to hear how fortune had made amends for rashness. The oldest of the five, whose wife was dead, spoke of a flagon of wine which awaited him upon an upper shelf; while a third, who was the youngest, had a sweetheart watching for his return, and he rode a little way before the others, not talking at all. Suddenly the young man stopped, and they saw that his horse was trembling. “I saw something,” he said, “and yet I do not know but it may have been one of the shadows. It looked like a great worm with a silver crown upon his head.” One of the five put his hand up to his forehead as if about to cross himself, but remembering that he had changed his religion he put it down, and said: “I am certain it was but a shadow, for there are a great many about us, and of very strange kinds.” Then they rode on in silence. It had been raining in the earlier part of the day, and the drops fell from the branches, wetting their hair and their shoulders. In a little they began to talk again. They had been in many battles against many a rebel together, and now told each other over again the story of their wounds, and so awakened in their hearts the strongest of all fellowships, the fellowship of the sword, and half forgot the terrible solitude of the woods.

Suddenly the first two horses neighed, and then stood still, and would go no further. Before them was a glint of water, and they knew by the rushing sound that it was a river. They dismounted, and after much tugging and coaxing brought the horses to the river-side. In the midst of the water stood a tall old woman with grey hair flowing over a grey dress. She stood up to her knees in the water, and stooped from time to time as though washing. Presently they could see that she was washing something that half floated. The moon cast a flickering light upon it, and they saw that it was the dead body of a man, and, while they were looking at it, an eddy of the river turned the face towards them, and each of the five troopers recognised at the same moment his own face. While they stood dumb and motionless with horror, the woman began to speak, saying slowly and loudly: “Did you see my son? He has a crown of silver on his head, and there are rubies in the crown.” Then the oldest of the troopers, he who had been most often wounded, drew his sword and cried: “I have fought for the truth of my God, and need not fear the shadows of Satan,” and with that rushed into the water. In a moment he returned. The woman had vanished, and though he had thrust his sword into air and water he had found nothing.

The five troopers remounted, and set their horses at the ford, but all to no purpose. They tried again and again, and went plunging hither and thither, the horses foaming and rearing. “Let us,” said the old trooper, “ride back a little into the wood, and strike the river higher up.” They rode in under the boughs, the ground-ivy crackling under the hoofs, and the branches striking against their steel caps. After about twenty minutes’ riding they came out again upon the river, and after another ten minutes found a place where it was possible to cross without sinking below the stirrups. The wood upon the other side was very thin, and broke the moonlight into long streams. The wind had arisen, and had begun to drive the clouds rapidly across the face of the moon, so that thin streams of light seemed to be dancing a grotesque dance among the scattered bushes and small fir-trees. The tops of the trees began also to moan, and the sound of it was like the voice of the dead in the wind; and the troopers remembered the belief that tells how the dead in purgatory are spitted upon the points of the trees and upon the points of the rocks. They turned a little to the south, in the hope that they might strike the beaten path again, but they could find no trace of it.

Meanwhile, the moaning grew louder and louder, and the dance of the white moon-fires more and more rapid. Gradually they began to be aware of a sound of distant music. It was the sound of a bagpipe, and they rode towards it with great joy. It came from the bottom of a deep, cup-like hollow. In the midst of the hollow was an old man with a red cap and withered face. He sat beside a fire of sticks, and had a burning torch thrust into the earth at his feet, and played an old bagpipe furiously. His red hair dripped over his face like the iron rust upon a rock. “Did you see my wife?” he cried, looking up a moment; “she was washing! she was washing!” “I am afraid of him,” said the young trooper, “I fear he is one of the Sidhe.” “No,” said the old trooper, “he is a man, for I can see the sun-freckles upon his face. We will compel him to be our guide”; and at that he drew his sword, and the others did the same. They stood in a ring round the piper, and pointed their swords at him, and the old trooper then told him that they must kill two rebels, who had taken the road between Ben Bulben and the great mountain spur that is called Cashel-na-Gael, and that he must get up before one of them and be their guide, for they had lost their way. The piper turned, and pointed to a neighbouring tree, and they saw an old white horse ready bitted, bridled, and saddled. He slung the pipe across his back, and, taking the torch in his hand, got upon the horse, and started off before them, as hard as he could go.

The wood grew thinner and thinner, and the ground began to slope up toward the mountain. The moon had already set, and the little white flames of the stars had come out everywhere. The ground sloped more and more until at last they rode far above the woods upon the wide top of the mountain. The woods lay spread out mile after mile below, and away to the south shot up the red glare of the burning town. But before and above them were the little white flames. The guide drew rein suddenly, and pointing upwards with the hand that did not hold the torch, shrieked out, “Look; look at the holy candles!” and then plunged forward at a gallop, waving the torch hither and thither. “Do you hear the hoofs of the messengers?” cried the guide. “Quick, quick! or they will be gone out of your hands!” and he laughed as with delight of the chase. The troopers thought they could hear far off, and as if below them, rattle of hoofs; but now the ground began to slope more and more, and the speed grew more headlong moment by moment. They tried to pull up, but in vain, for the horses seemed to have gone mad. The guide had thrown the reins on to the neck of the old white horse, and was waving his arms and singing a wild Gaelic song. Suddenly they saw the thin gleam of a river, at an immense distance below, and knew that they were upon the brink of the abyss that is now called Lug-na-Gael, or in English the Stranger’s Leap. The six horses sprang forward, and five screams went up into the air, a moment later five men and horses fell with a dull crash upon the green slopes at the foot of the rocks.

TALES OF GIANTS

Introduction

GIANTS ARE commonly-appearing creatures in Celtic tales. They are usually a force to be reckoned with, standing as monstrously large obstacles between the heroes and their goals or the women they love. Influences from other cultures can clearly be seen, for example the episode in ‘Conall Yellowclaw’ featuring a one-eyed giant which resembles the story of Polyphemus from the Greek epic The Odyssey. Of course, not all giants are malevolent, for example the Celtic hero Finn mac Cumaill is often portrayed as a giant and the Giant’s Causeway in Ireland is attributed to his making. The following stories however tend to focus on the more hostile kind. Though the giant first encountered in the story ‘The Lad with the Goat-skin’ is not the main antagonist, he plays an integral part in the tale by giving Tom his special club.

Conall Yellowclaw

CONALL YELLOWCLAW WAS A STURDY TENANT in Erin: he had three sons. There was at that time a king over every fifth of Erin. It fell out for the children of the king that was near Conall, that they themselves and the children of Conall came to blows. The children of Conall got the upper hand, and they killed the king’s big son. The king sent a message for Conall, and he said to him – “Oh, Conall! what made your sons go to spring on my sons till my big son was killed by your children? but I see that though I follow you revengefully, I shall not be much better for it, and I will now set a thing before you, and if you will do it, I will not follow you with revenge. If you and your sons will get me the brown horse of the king of Lochlann, you shall get the souls of your sons.”

“Why,” said Conall, “should not I do the pleasure of the king, though there should be no souls of my sons in dread at all. Hard is the matter you require of me, but I will lose my own life, and the life of my sons, or else I will do the pleasure of the king.”

After these words Conall left the king, and he went home: when he got home he was under much trouble and perplexity. When he went to lie down he told his wife the thing the king had set before him. His wife took much sorrow that he was obliged to part from herself, while she knew not if she should see him more.

“Oh, Conall,” said she, “why didst not thou let the king do his own pleasure to thy sons, rather than be going now, while I know not if ever I shall see thee more?”

When he rose on the morrow, he set himself and his three sons in order, and they took their journey towards Lochlann, and they made no stop but tore through ocean till they reached it. When they reached Lochlann they did not know what they should do. Said the old man to his sons, “Stop ye, and we will seek out the house of the king’s miller.”

When they went into the house of the king’s miller, the man asked them to stop there for the night. Conall told the miller that his own children and the children of his king had fallen out, and that his children had killed the king’s son, and there was nothing that would please the king but that he should get the brown horse of the king of Lochlann.

“If you will do me a kindness, and will put me in a way to get him, for certain I will pay ye for it.”

“The thing is silly that you are come to seek,” said the miller; “for the king has laid his mind on him so greatly that you will not get him in any way unless you steal him; but if you can make out a way, I will keep it secret.”

“This is what I am thinking,” said Conall, “since you are working every day for the king, you and your gillies could put myself and my sons into five sacks of bran.”

“The plan that has come into your head is not bad,” said the miller.

The miller spoke to his gillies, and he said to them to do this, and they put them in five sacks. The king’s gillies came to seek the bran, and they took the five sacks with them, and they emptied them before the horses. The servants locked the door, and they went away.

When they rose to lay hand on the brown horse, said Conall, “You shall not do that. It is hard to get out of this; let us make for ourselves five hiding holes, so that if they hear us we may go and hide.” They made the holes, then they laid hands on the horse. The horse was pretty well unbroken, and he set to making a terrible noise through the stable. The king heard the noise. “It must be my brown horse,” said he to his gillies; “find out what is wrong with him.”

The servants went out, and when Conall and his sons saw them coming they went into the hiding holes. The servants looked amongst the horses, and they did not find anything wrong; and they returned and they told this to the king, and the king said to them that if nothing was wrong they should go to their places of rest. When the gillies had time to be gone, Conall and his sons laid their hands again on the horse. If the noise was great that he made before, the noise he made now was seven times greater. The king sent a message for his gillies again, and said for certain there was something troubling the brown horse. “Go and look well about him.” The servants went out, and they went to their hiding holes. The servants rummaged well, and did not find a thing. They returned and they told this.

“That is marvellous for me,” said the king: “go you to lie down again, and if I notice it again I will go out myself.”

When Conall and his sons perceived that the gillies were gone, they laid hands again on the horse, and one of them caught him, and if the noise that the horse made on the two former times was great, he made more this time.

“Be this from me,” said the king; “it must be that some one is troubling my brown horse.” He sounded the bell hastily, and when his waiting-man came to him, he said to him to let the stable gillies know that something was wrong with the horse. The gillies came, and the king went with them. When Conall and his sons perceived the company coming they went to the hiding holes.

The king was a wary man, and he saw where the horses were making a noise.

“Be wary,” said the king, “there are men within the stable, let us get at them somehow.”

The king followed the tracks of the men, and he found them. Every one knew Conall, for he was a valued tenant of the king of Erin, and when the king brought them up out of the holes he said, “Oh, Conall, is it you that are here?”

“I am, O king, without question, and necessity made me come. I am under thy pardon, and under thine honour, and under thy grace.” He told how it happened to him, and that he had to get the brown horse for the king of Erin, or that his sons were to be put to death. “I knew that I should not get him by asking, and I was going to steal him.”

“Yes, Conall, it is well enough, but come in,” said the king. He desired his look-out men to set a watch on the sons of Conall, and to give them meat. And a double watch was set that night on the sons of Conall.

“Now, O Conall,” said the king, “were you ever in a harder place than to be seeing your lot of sons hanged tomorrow? But you set it to my goodness and to my grace, and say that it was necessity brought it on you, so I must not hang you. Tell me any case in which you were as hard as this, and if you tell that, you shall get the soul of your youngest son.”

“I will tell a case as hard in which I was,” said Conall. “I was once a young lad, and my father had much land, and he had parks of year-old cows, and one of them had just calved, and my father told me to bring her home. I found the cow, and took her with us. There fell a shower of snow. We went into the herd’s bothy, and we took the cow and the calf in with us, and we were letting the shower pass from us. Who should come in but one cat and ten, and one great one-eyed fox-coloured cat as head bard over them. When they came in, in very deed I myself had no liking for their company. ‘Strike up with you,’ said the head bard, ‘why should we be still? and sing a cronan to Conall Yellowclaw.’ I was amazed that my name was known to the cats themselves. When they had sung the cronan, said the head bard, ‘Now, O Conall, pay the reward of the cronan that the cats have sung to thee.’ ‘Well then,’ said I myself, ‘I have no reward whatsoever for you, unless you should go down and take that calf.’ No sooner said I the word than the two cats and ten went down to attack the calf, and in very deed, he did not last them long. ‘Play up with you, why should you be silent? Make a cronan to Conall Yellowclaw,’ said the head bard. Certainly I had no liking at all for the cronan, but up came the one cat and ten, and if they did not sing me a cronan then and there! ‘Pay them now their reward,’ said the great fox-coloured cat. ‘I am tired myself of yourselves and your rewards,’ said I. ‘I have no reward for you unless you take that cow down there.’ They betook themselves to the cow, and indeed she did not last them long.

“‘Why will you be silent? Go up and sing a cronan to Conall Yellowclaw,’ said the head bard. And surely, oh king, I had no care for them or for their cronan, for I began to see that they were not good comrades. When they had sung me the cronan they betook themselves down where the head bard was. ‘Pay now their reward, said the head bard; and for sure, oh king, I had no reward for them; and I said to them, ‘I have no reward for you.’ And surely, oh king, there was catterwauling between them. So I leapt out at a turf window that was at the back of the house. I took myself off as hard as I might into the wood. I was swift enough and strong at that time; and when I felt the rustling toirm of the cats after me I climbed into as high a tree as I saw in the place, and one that was close in the top; and I hid myself as well as I might. The cats began to search for me through the wood, and they could not find me; and when they were tired, each one said to the other that they would turn back. ‘But,’ said the one-eyed fox-coloured cat that was commander-in-chief over them, ‘you saw him not with your two eyes, and though I have but one eye, there’s the rascal up in the tree.’ When he had said that, one of them went up in the tree, and as he was coming where I was, I drew a weapon that I had and I killed him. ‘Be this from me!’ said the one-eyed one – ‘I must not be losing my company thus; gather round the root of the tree and dig about it, and let down that villain to earth.’ On this they gathered about the tree, and they dug about the root, and the first branching root that they cut, she gave a shiver to fall, and I myself gave a shout, and it was not to be wondered at.

“There was in the neighbourhood of the wood a priest, and he had ten men with him delving, and he said, ‘There is a shout of a man in extremity and I must not be without replying to it.’ And the wisest of the men said, ‘Let it alone till we hear it again.’ The cats began again digging wildly, and they broke the next root; and I myself gave the next shout, and in very deed it was not a weak one. ‘Certainly,’ said the priest, ‘it is a man in extremity – let us move.’ They set themselves in order for moving. And the cats arose on the tree, and they broke the third root, and the tree fell on her elbow. Then I gave the third shout. The stalwart men hastened, and when they saw how the cats served the tree, they began at them with the spades; and they themselves and the cats began at each other, till the cats ran away. And surely, oh king, I did not move till I saw the last one of them off. And then I came home. And there’s the hardest case in which I ever was; and it seems to me that tearing by the cats were harder than hanging tomorrow by the king of Lochlann.”

“Och! Conall,” said the king, “you are full of words. You have freed the soul of your son with your tale; and if you tell me a harder case than that you will get your second youngest son, and then you will have two sons.”

“Well then,” said Conall, “on condition that thou dost that, I will tell thee how I was once in a harder case than to be in thy power in prison tonight.”

“Let’s hear,” said the king.

“I was then,” said Conall, “quite a young lad, and I went out hunting, and my father’s land was beside the sea, and it was rough with rocks, caves, and rifts. When I was going on the top of the shore, I saw as if there were a smoke coming up between two rocks, and I began to look what might be the meaning of the smoke coming up there. When I was looking, what should I do but fall; and the place was so full of heather, that neither bone nor skin was broken. I knew not how I should get out of this. I was not looking before me, but I kept looking overhead the way I came – and thinking that the day would never come that I could get up there. It was terrible for me to be there till I should die. I heard a great clattering coming, and what was there but a great giant and two dozen of goats with him, and a buck at their head. And when the giant had tied the goats, he came up and he said to me, ‘Hao O! Conall, it’s long since my knife has been rusting in my pouch waiting for thy tender flesh.’ ‘Och!’ said I, ‘It’s not much you will be bettered by me, though you should tear me asunder; I will make but one meal for you. But I see that you are one-eyed. I am a good leech, and I will give you the sight of the other eye.’ The giant went and he drew the great caldron on the site of the fire. I myself was telling him how he should heat the water, so that I should give its sight to the other eye. I got heather and I made a rubber of it, and I set him upright in the caldron. I began at the eye that was well, pretending to him that I would give its sight to the other one, till I left them as bad as each other; and surely it was easier to spoil the one that was well than to give sight to the other.

“When he saw that he could not see a glimpse, and when I myself said to him that I would get out in spite of him, he gave a spring out of the water, and he stood in the mouth of the cave, and he said that he would have revenge for the sight of his eye. I had but to stay there crouched the length of the night, holding in my breath in such a way that he might not find out where I was.

“When he felt the birds calling in the morning, and knew that the day was, he said – ‘Art thou sleeping? Awake and let out my lot of goats.’ I killed the buck. He cried, ‘I do believe that thou art killing my buck.’

“‘I am not,’ said I, ‘but the ropes are so tight that I take long to loose them.’ I let out one of the goats, and there he was caressing her, and he said to her, ‘There thou art thou shaggy, hairy white goat; and thou seest me, but I see thee not.’ I kept letting them out by the way of one and one, as I flayed the buck, and before the last one was out I had him flayed bag-wise. Then I went and I put my legs in place of his legs, and my hands in place of his forelegs, and my head in place of his head, and the horns on top of my head, so that the brute might think that it was the buck. I went out. When I was going out the giant laid his hand on me, and he said, ‘There thou art, thou pretty buck; thou seest me, but I see thee not.’ When I myself got out, and I saw the world about me, surely, oh, king! joy was on me. When I was out and had shaken the skin off me, I said to the brute, ‘I am out now in spite of you.’

“‘Aha!’ said he, ‘Hast thou done this to me. Since thou wert so stalwart that thou hast got out, I will give thee a ring that I have here; keep the ring, and it will do thee good.’

“‘I will not take the ring from you,’ said I, ‘but throw it, and I will take it with me.’ He threw the ring on the flat ground, I went myself and I lifted the ring, and I put it on my finger. When he said me then, ‘Is the ring fitting thee?’ I said to him, ‘It is.’ Then he said, ‘Where art thou, ring?’ And the ring said, ‘I am here.’ The brute went and went towards where the ring was speaking, and now I saw that I was in a harder case than ever I was. I drew a dirk. I cut the finger from off me, and I threw it from me as far as I could out on the loch, and there was a great depth in the place. He shouted, ‘Where art thou, ring?’ And the ring said, ‘I am here,’ though it was on the bed of ocean. He gave a spring after the ring, and out he went in the sea. And I was as pleased then when I saw him drowning, as though you should grant my own life and the life of my two sons with me, and not lay any more trouble on me.

“When the giant was drowned I went in, and I took with me all he had of gold and silver, and I went home, and surely great joy was on my people when I arrived. And as a sign now look, the finger is off me.”

“Yes, indeed, Conall, you are wordy and wise,” said the king. “I see the finger is off you. You have freed your two sons, but tell me a case in which you ever were that is harder than to be looking on your son being hanged tomorrow, and you shall get the soul of your eldest son.”

“Then went my father,” said Conall, “and he got me a wife, and I was married. I went to hunt. I was going beside the sea, and I saw an island over in the midst of the loch, and I came there where a boat was with a rope before her, and a rope behind her, and many precious things within her. I looked myself on the boat to see how I might get part of them. I put in the one foot, and the other foot was on the ground, and when I raised my head what was it but the boat over in the middle of the loch, and she never stopped till she reached the island. When I went out of the boat the boat returned where she was before. I did not know now what I should do. The place was without meat or clothing, without the appearance of a house on it. I came out on the top of a hill. Then I came to a glen; I saw in it, at the bottom of a hollow, a woman with a child, and the child was naked on her knee, and she had a knife in her hand. She tried to put the knife to the throat of the babe, and the babe began to laugh in her face, and she began to cry, and she threw the knife behind her. I thought to myself that I was near my foe and far from my friends, and I called to the woman, ‘What are you doing here?’ And she said to me, ‘What brought you here?’ I told her myself word upon word how I came. ‘Well then,’ said she, ‘it was so I came also.’ She showed me to the place where I should come in where she was. I went in, and I said to her, ‘What was the matter that you were putting the knife on the neck of the child?’ ‘It is that he must be cooked for the giant who is here, or else no more of my world will be before me.’ Just then we could be hearing the footsteps of the giant, ‘What shall I do? What shall I do?’ cried the woman. I went to the caldron, and by luck it was not hot, so in it I got just as the brute came in. ‘Hast thou boiled that youngster for me?’ he cried. ‘He’s not done yet,’ said she, and I cried out from the caldron, ‘Mammy, mammy, it’s boiling I am.’ Then the giant laughed out HAI, HAW, HOGARAICH, and heaped on wood under the caldron.

“And now I was sure I would scald before I could get out of that. As fortune favoured me, the brute slept beside the caldron. There I was scalded by the bottom of the caldron. When she perceived that he was asleep, she set her mouth quietly to the hole that was in the lid, and she said to me ‘was I alive?’ I said I was. I put up my head, and the hole in the lid was so large, that my head went through easily. Everything was coming easily with me till I began to bring up my hips. I left the skin of my hips behind me, but I came out. When I got out of the caldron I knew not what to do; and she said to me that there was no weapon that would kill him but his own weapon. I began to draw his spear and every breath that he drew I thought I would be down his throat, and when his breath came out I was back again just as far. But with every ill that befell me I got the spear loosed from him. Then I was as one under a bundle of straw in a great wind for I could not manage the spear. And it was fearful to look on the brute, who had but one eye in the midst of his face; and it was not agreeable for the like of me to attack him. I drew the dart as best I could, and I set it in his eye. When he felt this he gave his head a lift, and he struck the other end of the dart on the top of the cave, and it went through to the back of his head. And he fell cold dead where he was; and you may be sure, oh king, that joy was on me. I myself and the woman went out on clear ground, and we passed the night there. I went and got the boat with which I came, and she was no way lightened, and took the woman and the child over on dry land; and I returned home.”

The king of Lochlann’s mother was putting on a fire at this time, and listening to Conall telling the tale about the child.

“Is it you,” said she, “that were there?”

“Well then,” said he, “’twas I.”

“Och! och!” said she, “’twas I that was there, and the king is the child whose life you saved; and it is to you that life thanks should be given.” Then they took great joy.

The king said, “Oh, Conall, you came through great hardships. And now the brown horse is yours, and his sack full of the most precious things that are in my treasury.”

They lay down that night, and if it was early that Conall rose, it was earlier than that that the queen was on foot making ready. He got the brown horse and his sack full of gold and silver and stones of great price, and then Conall and his three sons went away, and they returned home to the Erin realm of gladness. He left the gold and silver in his house, and he went with the horse to the king. They were good friends evermore. He returned home to his wife, and they set in order a feast; and that was a feast if ever there was one, oh son and brother.

The Battle of the Birds

I WILL TELL YOU A STORY about the wren. There was once a farmer who was seeking a servant, and the wren met him and said: “What are you seeking?”

“I am seeking a servant,” said the farmer to the wren.

“Will you take me?” said the wren.

“You, you poor creature, what good would you do?”

“Try me,” said the wren.

So he engaged him, and the first work he set him to do was threshing in the barn. The wren threshed (what did he thresh with? Why a flail to be sure), and he knocked off one grain. A mouse came out and she eats that.

“I’ll trouble you not to do that again,” said the wren.

He struck again, and he struck off two grains. Out came the mouse and she eats them. So they arranged a contest to see who was strongest, and the wren brings his twelve birds, and the mouse her tribe.

“You have your tribe with you,” said the wren.

“As well as yourself,” said the mouse, and she struck out her leg proudly. But the wren broke it with his flail, and there was a pitched battle on a set day.

When every creature and bird was gathering to battle, the son of the king of Tethertown said that he would go to see the battle, and that he would bring sure word home to his father the king, who would be king of the creatures this year. The battle was over before he arrived all but one fight, between a great black raven and a snake. The snake was twined about the raven’s neck, and the raven held the snake’s throat in his beak, and it seemed as if the snake would get the victory over the raven. When the king’s son saw this he helped the raven, and with one blow takes the head off the snake. When the raven had taken breath, and saw that the snake was dead, he said, “For thy kindness to me this day, I will give thee a sight. Come up now on the root of my two wings.” The king’s son put his hands about the raven before his wings, and, before he stopped, he took him over nine Bens, and nine Glens, and nine Mountain Moors.

“Now,” said the raven, “see you that house yonder? Go now to it. It is a sister of mine that makes her dwelling in it; and I will go bail that you are welcome. And if she asks you, Were you at the battle of the birds? say you were. And if she asks, “Did you see any one like me,” say you did, but be sure that you meet me tomorrow morning here, in this place.” The king’s son got good and right good treatment that night. Meat of each meat, drink of each drink, warm water to his feet, and a soft bed for his limbs.

On the next day the raven gave him the same sight over six Bens, and six Glens, and six Mountain Moors. They saw a bothy far off, but, though far off, they were soon there. He got good treatment this night, as before – plenty of meat and drink, and warm water to his feet, and a soft bed to his limbs – and on the next day it was the same thing, over three Bens and three Glens, and three Mountain Moors.

On the third morning, instead of seeing the raven as at the other times, who should meet him but the handsomest lad he ever saw, with gold rings in his hair, with a bundle in his hand. The king’s son asked this lad if he had seen a big black raven.

Said the lad to him, “You will never see the raven again, for I am that raven. I was put under spells by a bad druid; it was meeting you that loosed me, and for that you shall get this bundle. Now,” said the lad, “you must turn back on the self-same steps, and lie a night in each house as before; but you must not loose the bundle which I gave ye, till in the place where you would most wish to dwell.”

The king’s son turned his back to the lad, and his face to his father’s house; and he got lodging from the raven’s sisters, just as he got it when going forward. When he was nearing his father’s house he was going through a close wood. It seemed to him that the bundle was growing heavy, and he thought he would look what was in it.

When he loosed the bundle he was astonished. In a twinkling he sees the very grandest place he ever saw. A great castle, and an orchard about the castle, in which was every kind of fruit and herb. He stood full of wonder and regret for having loosed the bundle – for it was not in his power to put it back again – and he would have wished this pretty place to be in the pretty little green hollow that was opposite his father’s house; but he looked up and saw a great giant coming towards him.

“Bad’s the place where you have built the house, king’s son,” says the giant.

“Yes, but it is not here I would wish it to be, though it happens to be here by mishap,” says the king’s son.

“What’s the reward for putting it back in the bundle as it was before?”

“What’s the reward you would ask?” says the king’s son.

“That you will give me the first son you have when he is seven years of age,” says the giant.

“If I have a son you shall have him,” said the king’s son.

In a twinkling the giant put each garden, and orchard, and castle in the bundle as they were before.

“Now,” says the giant, “take your own road, and I will take mine; but mind your promise, and if you forget I will remember.”

The king’s son took to the road, and at the end of a few days he reached the place he was fondest of. He loosed the bundle, and the castle was just as it was before. And when he opened the castle door he sees the handsomest maiden he ever cast eye upon.

“Advance, king’s son,” said the pretty maid; “everything is in order for you, if you will marry me this very day.”

“It’s I that am willing,” said the king’s son. And on the same day they married.

But at the end of a day and seven years, who should be seen coming to the castle but the giant. The king’s son was reminded of his promise to the giant, and till now he had not told his promise to the queen.

“Leave the matter between me and the giant,” says the queen.

“Turn out your son,” says the giant; “mind your promise.”

“You shall have him,” says the king, “when his mother puts him in order for his journey.”

The queen dressed up the cook’s son, and she gave him to the giant by the hand. The giant went away with him; but he had not gone far when he put a rod in the hand of the little laddie. The giant asked him –

“If thy father had that rod what would he do with it?”

“If my father had that rod he would beat the dogs and the cats, so that they shouldn’t be going near the king’s meat,” said the little laddie.

“Thou’rt the cook’s son,” said the giant. He catches him by the two small ankles and knocks him against the stone that was beside him. The giant turned back to the castle in rage and madness, and he said that if they did not send out the king’s son to him, the highest stone of the castle would be the lowest.

Said the queen to the king, “We’ll try it yet; the butler’s son is of the same age as our son.”

She dressed up the butler’s son, and she gives him to the giant by the hand. The giant had not gone far when he put the rod in his hand.

“If thy father had that rod,” says the giant, “what would he do with it?”

“He would beat the dogs and the cats when they would be coming near the king’s bottles and glasses.”

“Thou art the son of the butler,” says the giant and dashed his brains out too. The giant returned in a very great rage and anger. The earth shook under the sole of his feet, and the castle shook and all that was in it.

“OUT HERE WITH THY SON,” says the giant, “or in a twinkling the stone that is highest in the dwelling will be the lowest.” So they had to give the king’s son to the giant.

When they were gone a little bit from the earth, the giant showed him the rod that was in his hand and said: “What would thy father do with this rod if he had it?”

The king’s son said: “My father has a braver rod than that.”

And the giant asked him, “Where is thy father when he has that brave rod?”

And the king’s son said: “He will be sitting in his kingly chair.”

Then the giant understood that he had the right one.

The giant took him to his own house, and he reared him as his own son. On a day of days when the giant was from home, the lad heard the sweetest music he ever heard in a room at the top of the giant’s house. At a glance he saw the finest face he had ever seen. She beckoned to him to come a bit nearer to her, and she said her name was Auburn Mary but she told him to go this time, but to be sure to be at the same place about that dead midnight.

And as he promised he did. The giant’s daughter was at his side in a twinkling, and she said, “Tomorrow you will get the choice of my two sisters to marry; but say that you will not take either, but me. My father wants me to marry the son of the king of the Green City, but I don’t like him.” On the morrow the giant took out his three daughters, and he said:

“Now, son of the king of Tethertown, thou hast not lost by living with me so long. Thou wilt get to wife one of the two eldest of my daughters, and with her leave to go home with her the day after the wedding.”

“If you will give me this pretty little one,” says the king’s son, “I will take you at your word.”

The giant’s wrath kindled, and he said: “Before thou gett’st her thou must do the three things that I ask thee to do.”

“Say on,” says the king’s son.

The giant took him to the byre.

“Now,” says the giant, “a hundred cattle are stabled here, and it has not been cleansed for seven years. I am going from home today, and if this byre is not cleaned before night comes, so clean that a golden apple will run from end to end of it, not only thou shalt not get my daughter, but ’tis only a drink of thy fresh, goodly, beautiful blood that will quench my thirst this night.”

He begins cleaning the byre, but he might just as well to keep baling the great ocean. After midday when sweat was blinding him, the giant’s youngest daughter came where he was, and she said to him:

“You are being punished, king’s son.”

“I am that,” says the king’s son.

“Come over,” says Auburn Mary, “and lay down your weariness.”

“I will do that,” says he, “there is but death awaiting me, at any rate.” He sat down near her. He was so tired that he fell asleep beside her. When he awoke, the giant’s daughter was not to be seen, but the byre was so well cleaned that a golden apple would run from end to end of it and raise no stain. In comes the giant, and he said:

“Hast thou cleaned the byre, king’s son?”

“I have cleaned it,” says he.

“Somebody cleaned it,” says the giant.

“You did not clean it, at all events,” said the king’s son.

“Well, well!” says the giant, “since thou wert so active today, thou wilt get to this time tomorrow to thatch this byre with birds’ down, from birds with no two feathers of one colour.”

The king’s son was on foot before the sun; he caught up his bow and his quiver of arrows to kill the birds. He took to the moors, but if he did, the birds were not so easy to take. He was running after them till the sweat was blinding him. About midday who should come but Auburn Mary.

“You are exhausting yourself, king’s son,” says she.

“I am,” said he.

“There fell but these two blackbirds, and both of one colour.”

“Come over and lay down your weariness on this pretty hillock,” says the giant’s daughter.

“It’s I am willing,” said he.

He thought she would aid him this time, too, and he sat down near her, and he was not long there till he fell asleep.

When he awoke, Auburn Mary was gone. He thought he would go back to the house, and he sees the byre thatched with feathers. When the giant came home, he said:

“Hast thou thatched the byre, king’s son?”

“I thatched it,” says he.

“Somebody thatched it,” says the giant.

“You did not thatch it,” says the king’s son.

“Yes, yes!” says the giant. “Now,” says the giant, “there is a fir tree beside that loch down there, and there is a magpie’s nest in its top. The eggs thou wilt find in the nest. I must have them for my first meal. Not one must be burst or broken, and there are five in the nest.”

Early in the morning the king’s son went where the tree was, and that tree was not hard to hit upon. Its match was not in the whole wood. From the foot to the first branch was five hundred feet. The king’s son was going all round the tree. She came who was always bringing help to him.

“You are losing the skin of your hands and feet.”

“Ach! I am,” says he. “I am no sooner up than down.”

“This is no time for stopping,” says the giant’s daughter. “Now you must kill me, strip the flesh from my bones, take all those bones apart, and use them as steps for climbing the tree. When you are climbing the tree, they will stick to the glass as if they had grown out of it; but when you are coming down, and have put your foot on each one, they will drop into your hand when you touch them. Be sure and stand on each bone, leave none untouched; if you do, it will stay behind. Put all my flesh into this clean cloth by the side of the spring at the roots of the tree. When you come to the earth, arrange my bones together, put the flesh over them, sprinkle it with water from the spring, and I shall be alive before you. But don’t forget a bone of me on the tree.”

“How could I kill you,” asked the king’s son, “after what you have done for me?”

“If you won’t obey, you and I are done for,” said Auburn Mary. “You must climb the tree, or we are lost; and to climb the tree you must do as I say.” The king’s son obeyed. He killed Auburn Mary, cut the flesh from her body, and unjointed the bones, as she had told him.

As he went up, the king’s son put the bones of Auburn Mary’s body against the side of the tree, using them as steps, till he came under the nest and stood on the last bone.

Then he took the eggs, and coming down, put his foot on every bone, then took it with him, till he came to the last bone, which was so near the ground that he failed to touch it with his foot.

He now placed all the bones of Auburn Mary in order again at the side of the spring, put the flesh on them, sprinkled it with water from the spring. She rose up before him, and said: “Didn’t I tell you not to leave a bone of my body without stepping on it? Now I am lame for life! You left my little finger on the tree without touching it, and I have but nine fingers.”

“Now,” says she, “go home with the eggs quickly, and you will get me to marry tonight if you can know me. I and my two sisters will be arrayed in the same garments, and made like each other, but look at me when my father says, ‘Go to thy wife, king’s son’; and you will see a hand without a little finger.”

He gave the eggs to the giant.

“Yes, yes!” says the giant, “be making ready for your marriage.”

Then, indeed, there was a wedding, and it was a wedding! Giants and gentlemen, and the son of the king of the Green City was in the midst of them. They were married, and the dancing began, that was a dance! The giant’s house was shaking from top to bottom.

But bed time came, and the giant said, “It is time for thee to go to rest, son of the king of Tethertown; choose thy bride to take with thee from amidst those.”

She put out the hand off which the little finger was, and he caught her by the hand.

“Thou hast aimed well this time too; but there is no knowing but we may meet thee another way,” said the giant.

But to rest they went. “Now,” says she, “sleep not, or else you are a dead man. We must fly quick, quick, or for certain my father will kill you.”

Out they went, and on the blue grey filly in the stable they mounted. “Stop a while,” says she, “and I will play a trick to the old hero.” She jumped in, and cut an apple into nine shares, and she put two shares at the head of the bed, and two shares at the foot of the bed, and two shares at the door of the kitchen, and two shares at the big door, and one outside the house.

The giant awoke and called, “Are you asleep?”

“Not yet,” said the apple that was at the head of the bed.

At the end of a while he called again.

“Not yet,” said the apple that was at the foot of the bed.

A while after this he called again: “Are your asleep?”

“Not yet,” said the apple at the kitchen door.

The giant called again.

The apple that was at the big door answered.

“You are now going far from me,” says the giant.

“Not yet,” says the apple that was outside the house.

“You are flying,” says the giant. The giant jumped on his feet, and to the bed he went, but it was cold – empty.

“My own daughter’s tricks are trying me,” said the giant. “Here’s after them,” says he.

At the mouth of day, the giant’s daughter said that her father’s breath was burning her back.

“Put your hand, quick,” said she, “in the ear of the grey filly, and whatever you find in it, throw it behind us.”

“There is a twig of sloe tree,” said he.

“Throw it behind us,” said she.

No sooner did he that, than there were twenty miles of blackthorn wood, so thick that scarce a weasel could go through it.

The giant came headlong, and there he is fleecing his head and neck in the thorns.

“My own daughter’s tricks are here as before,” said the giant; “but if I had my own big axe and wood knife here, I would not be long making a way through this.”

He went home for the big axe and the wood knife, and sure he was not long on his journey, and he was the boy behind the big axe. He was not long making a way through the blackthorn.

“I will leave the axe and the wood knife here till I return,” says he.

“If you leave ’em, leave ’em,” said a hoodie that was in a tree, “we’ll steal ’em, steal ’em.”

“If you will do that,” says the giant, “I must take them home.” He returned home and left them at the house.

At the heat of day the giant’s daughter felt her father’s breath burning her back.

“Put your finger in the filly’s ear, and throw behind whatever you find in it.”

He got a splinter of grey stone, and in a twinkling there were twenty miles, by breadth and height, of great grey rock behind them.

The giant came full pelt, but past the rock he could not go.

“The tricks of my own daughter are the hardest things that ever met me,” says the giant; “but if I had my lever and my mighty mattock, I would not be long in making my way through this rock also.”

There was no help for it, but to turn the chase for them; and he was the boy to split the stones. He was not long in making a road through the rock.

“I will leave the tools here, and I will return no more.”

“If you leave ’em, leave ’em,” says the hoodie, “we will steal ’em, steal ’em.”

“Do that if you will; there is no time to go back.”

At the time of breaking the watch, the giant’s daughter said that she felt her father’s breath burning her back.

“Look in the filly’s ear, king’s son, or else we are lost.”

He did so, and it was a bladder of water that was in her ear this time. He threw it behind him and there was a fresh-water loch, twenty miles in length and breadth, behind them.

The giant came on, but with the speed he had on him, he was in the middle of the loch, and he went under, and he rose no more.

On the next day the young companions were come in sight of his father’s house. “Now,” says she, “my father is drowned, and he won’t trouble us any more; but before we go further,” says she, “go you to your father’s house, and tell that you have the likes of me; but let neither man nor creature kiss you, for if you do, you will not remember that you have ever seen me.”

Every one he met gave him welcome and luck, and he charged his father and mother not to kiss him; but as mishap was to be, an old greyhound was indoors, and she knew him, and jumped up to his mouth, and after that he did not remember the giant’s daughter.

She was sitting at the well’s side as he left her, but the king’s son was not coming. In the mouth of night she climbed up into a tree of oak that was beside the well, and she lay in the fork of that tree all night. A shoemaker had a house near the well, and about midday on the morrow, the shoemaker asked his wife to go for a drink for him out of the well. When the shoemaker’s wife reached the well, and when she saw the shadow of her that was in the tree, thinking it was her own shadow – and she never thought till now that she was so handsome – she gave a cast to the dish that was in her hand, and it was broken on the ground, and she took herself to the house without vessel or water.

“Where is the water, wife?” said the shoemaker.

“You shambling, contemptible old carle, without grace, I have stayed too long your water and wood thrall.”

“I think, wife, that you have turned crazy. Go you, daughter, quickly, and fetch a drink for your father.”

His daughter went, and in the same way so it happened to her. She never thought till now that she was so lovable, and she took herself home.

“Up with the drink,” said her father.

“You home-spun shoe carle, do you think I am fit to be your thrall?”

The poor shoemaker thought that they had taken a turn in their understandings, and he went himself to the well. He saw the shadow of the maiden in the well, and he looked up to the tree, and he sees the finest woman he ever saw.

“Your seat is wavering, but your face is fair,” said the shoemaker.

“Come down, for there is need of you for a short while at my house.”

The shoemaker understood that this was the shadow that had driven his people mad. The shoemaker took her to his house, and he said that he had but a poor bothy, but that she should get a share of all that was in it.

One day, the shoemaker had shoes ready, for on that very day the king’s son was to be married. The shoemaker was going to the castle with the shoes of the young people, and the girl said to the shoemaker, “I would like to get a sight of the king’s son before he marries.”

“Come with me,” says the shoemaker, “I am well acquainted with the servants at the castle, and you shall get a sight of the king’s son and all the company.”

And when the gentles saw the pretty woman that was here they took her to the wedding-room, and they filled for her a glass of wine. When she was going to drink what is in it, a flame went up out of the glass, and a golden pigeon and a silver pigeon sprang out of it. They were flying about when three grains of barley fell on the floor. The silver pigeon sprung, and ate that up.

Said the golden pigeon to him, “If you remembered when I cleared the byre, you would not eat that without giving me a share.”

Again there fell three other grains of barley, and the silver pigeon sprung, and ate that up as before.

“If you remembered when I thatched the byre, you would not eat that without giving me my share,” says the golden pigeon.

Three other grains fall, and the silver pigeon sprung, and ate that up.

“If you remembered when I harried the magpie’s nest, you would not eat that without giving me my share,” says the golden pigeon; “I lost my little finger bringing it down, and I want it still.”

The king’s son minded, and he knew who it was that was before him.

“Well,” said the king’s son to the guests at the feast, “when I was a little younger than I am now, I lost the key of a casket that I had. I had a new key made, but after it was brought to me I found the old one. Now, I’ll leave it to any one here to tell me what I am to do. Which of the keys should I keep?”

“My advice to you,” said one of the guests, “is to keep the old key, for it fits the lock better and you’re more used to it.”

Then the king’s son stood up and said: “I thank you for a wise advice and an honest word. This is my bride the daughter of the giant who saved my life at the risk of her own. I’ll have her and no other woman.”

So the king’s son married Auburn Mary and the wedding lasted long and all were happy. But all I got was butter on a live coal, porridge in a basket, and they sent me for water to the stream, and the paper shoes came to an end.

The Lad with the Goat-Skin

LONG AGO, a poor widow woman lived down near the iron forge, by Enniscorth, and she was so poor she had no clothes to put on her son; so she used to fix him in the ash-hole, near the fire, and pile the warm ashes about him; and according as he grew up, she sunk the pit deeper. At last, by hook or by crook, she got a goat-skin, and fastened it round his waist, and he felt quite grand, and took a walk down the street. So says she to him next morning, “Tom, you thief, you never done any good yet, and you six foot high, and past nineteen; – take that rope and bring me a faggot from the wood.”

“Never say’t twice, mother,” says Tom – “here goes.”

When he had it gathered and tied, what should come up but a big giant, nine foot high, and made a lick of a club at him. Well become Tom, he jumped a-one side, and picked up a ram-pike; and the first crack he gave the big fellow, he made him kiss the clod.

“If you have e’er a prayer,” says Tom, “now’s the time to say it, before I make fragments of you.”

“I have no prayers,” says the giant; “but if you spare my life I’ll give you that club; and as long as you keep from sin, you’ll win every battle you ever fight with it.”

Tom made no bones about letting him off; and as soon as he got the club in his hands, he sat down on the bresna, and gave it a tap with the kippeen, and says, “Faggot, I had great trouble gathering you, and run the risk of my life for you, the least you can do is to carry me home.” And sure enough, the wind o’ the word was all it wanted. It went off through the wood, groaning and crackling, till it came to the widow’s door.

Well, when the sticks were all burned, Tom was sent off again to pick more; and this time he had to fight with a giant that had two heads on him. Tom had a little more trouble with him – that’s all; and the prayers he said, was to give Tom a fife; that nobody could help dancing when he was playing it. Begonies, he made the big faggot dance home, with himself sitting on it. The next giant was a beautiful boy with three heads on him. He had neither prayers nor catechism no more nor the others; and so he gave Tom a bottle of green ointment, that wouldn’t let you be burned, nor scalded, nor wounded. “And now,” says he, “there’s no more of us. You may come and gather sticks here till little Lunacy Day in Harvest, without giant or fairy-man to disturb you.”

Well, now, Tom was prouder nor ten paycocks, and used to take a walk down street in the heel of the evening; but some o’ the little boys had no more manners than if they were Dublin jackeens, and put out their tongues at Tom’s club and Tom’s goat-skin. He didn’t like that at all, and it would be mean to give one of them a clout. At last, what should come through the town but a kind of a bellman, only it’s a big bugle he had, and a huntsman’s cap on his head, and a kind of a painted shirt. So this – he wasn’t a bellman, and I don’t know what to call him – bugleman, maybe, proclaimed that the King of Dublin’s daughter was so melancholy that she didn’t give a laugh for seven years, and that her father would grant her in marriage to whoever could make her laugh three times.

“That’s the very thing for me to try,” says Tom; and so, without burning any more daylight, he kissed his mother, curled his club at the little boys, and off he set along the yalla highroad to the town of Dublin.

At last Tom came to one of the city gates, and the guards laughed and cursed at him instead of letting him in. Tom stood it all for a little time, but at last one of them – out of fun, as he said – drove his bayonet half an inch or so into his side. Tom done nothing but take the fellow by the scruff o’ the neck and the waistband of his corduroys, and fling him into the canal. Some run to pull the fellow out, and others to let manners into the vulgarian with their swords and daggers; but a tap from his club sent them headlong into the moat or down on the stones, and they were soon begging him to stay his hands.

So at last one of them was glad enough to show Tom the way to the palace-yard; and there was the king, and the queen, and the princess, in a gallery, looking at all sorts of wrestling, and sword-playing, and long-dances, and mumming, all to please the princess; but not a smile came over her handsome face.

Well, they all stopped when they seen the young giant, with his boy’s face, and long black hair, and his short curly beard – for his poor mother couldn’t afford to buy razors – and his great strong arms, and bare legs, and no covering but the goat-skin that reached from his waist to his knees. But an envious wizened bit of a fellow, with a red head, that wished to be married to the princess, and didn’t like how she opened her eyes at Tom, came forward, and asked his business very snappishly.

“My business,” says Tom, says he, “is to make the beautiful princess,

God bless her, laugh three times.”

“Do you see all them merry fellows and skilful swordsmen,” says the other, “that could eat you up with a grain of salt, and not a mother’s soul of ’em ever got a laugh from her these seven years?”

So the fellows gathered round Tom, and the bad man aggravated him till he told them he didn’t care a pinch o’ snuff for the whole bilin’ of ’em; let ’em come on, six at a time, and try what they could do.

The king, who was too far off to hear what they were saying, asked what did the stranger want.

“He wants,” says the red-headed fellow, “to make hares of your best men.”

“Oh!” says the king, “if that’s the way, let one of ’em turn out and try his mettle.”

So one stood forward, with sword and pot-lid, and made a cut at Tom. He struck the fellow’s elbow with the club, and up over their heads flew the sword, and down went the owner of it on the gravel from a thump he got on the helmet. Another took his place, and another, and another, and then half a dozen at once, and Tom sent swords, helmets, shields, and bodies, rolling over and over, and themselves bawling out that they were kilt, and disabled, and damaged, and rubbing their poor elbows and hips, and limping away. Tom contrived not to kill any one; and the princess was so amused, that she let a great sweet laugh out of her that was heard over all the yard.

“King of Dublin,” says Tom, “I’ve quarter your daughter.”

And the king didn’t know whether he was glad or sorry, and all the blood in the princess’s heart run into her cheeks.

So there was no more fighting that day, and Tom was invited to dine with the royal family. Next day, Redhead told Tom of a wolf, the size of a yearling heifer, that used to be serenading about the walls, and eating people and cattle; and said what a pleasure it would give the king to have it killed.

“With all my heart,” says Tom; “send a jackeen to show me where he lives, and we’ll see how he behaves to a stranger.”

The princess was not well pleased, for Tom looked a different person with fine clothes and a nice green birredh over his long curly hair; and besides, he’d got one laugh out of her. However, the king gave his consent; and in an hour and a half the horrible wolf was walking into the palace-yard, and Tom a step or two behind, with his club on his shoulder, just as a shepherd would be walking after a pet lamb.

The king and queen and princess were safe up in their gallery, but the officers and people of the court that wor padrowling about the great bawn, when they saw the big baste coming in, gave themselves up, and began to make for doors and gates; and the wolf licked his chops, as if he was saying, “Wouldn’t I enjoy a breakfast off a couple of yez!”

The king shouted out, “O Tom with the Goat-skin, take away that terrible wolf, and you must have all my daughter.”

But Tom didn’t mind him a bit. He pulled out his flute and began to play like vengeance; and dickens a man or boy in the yard but began shovelling away heel and toe, and the wolf himself was obliged to get on his hind legs and dance ‘Tatther Jack Walsh,’ along with the rest. A good deal of the people got inside, and shut the doors, the way the hairy fellow wouldn’t pin them; but Tom kept playing, and the outsiders kept dancing and shouting, and the wolf kept dancing and roaring with the pain his legs were giving him; and all the time he had his eyes on Redhead, who was shut out along with the rest. Wherever Redhead went, the wolf followed, and kept one eye on him and the other on Tom, to see if he would give him leave to eat him. But Tom shook his head, and never stopped the tune, and Redhead never stopped dancing and bawling, and the wolf dancing and roaring, one leg up and the other down, and he ready to drop out of his standing from fair tiresomeness.

When the princess seen that there was no fear of any one being kilt, she was so divarted by the stew that Redhead was in, that she gave another great laugh; and well become Tom, out he cried, “King of Dublin, I have two halves of your daughter.”

“Oh, halves or alls,” says the king, “put away that divel of a wolf, and we’ll see about it.”

So Tom put his flute in his pocket, and says he to the baste that was sittin’ on his currabingo ready to faint, “Walk off to your mountain, my fine fellow, and live like a respectable baste; and if ever I find you come within seven miles of any town, I’ll –”

He said no more, but spit in his fist, and gave a flourish of his club. It was all the poor divel of a wolf wanted: he put his tail between his legs, and took to his pumps without looking at man or mortal, and neither sun, moon, or stars ever saw him in sight of Dublin again.

At dinner every one laughed but the foxy fellow; and sure enough he was laying out how he’d settle poor Tom next day.

“Well, to be sure!” says he, “King of Dublin, you are in luck. There’s the Danes moidhering us to no end. Deuce run to Lusk wid ’em! and if any one can save us from ’em, it is this gentleman with the goat-skin. There is a flail hangin’ on the collar-beam, in hell, and neither Dane nor devil can stand before it.”

“So,” says Tom to the king, “will you let me have the other half of the princess if I bring you the flail?”

“No, no,” says the princess; “I’d rather never be your wife than see you in that danger.”

But Redhead whispered and nudged Tom about how shabby it would look to reneague the adventure. So he asked which way he was to go, and Redhead directed him.

Well, he travelled and travelled, till he came in sight of the walls of hell; and, bedad, before he knocked at the gates, he rubbed himself over with the greenish ointment. When he knocked, a hundred little imps popped their heads out through the bars, and axed him what he wanted.

“I want to speak to the big divel of all,” says Tom: “open the gate.”

It wasn’t long till the gate was thrune open, and the Ould Boy received

Tom with bows and scrapes, and axed his business.

“My business isn’t much,” says Tom. “I only came for the loan of that flail that I see hanging on the collar-beam, for the king of Dublin to give a thrashing to the Danes.”

“Well,” says the other, “the Danes is much better customers to me; but since you walked so far I won’t refuse. Hand that flail,” says he to a young imp; and he winked the far-off eye at the same time. So, while some were barring the gates, the young devil climbed up, and took down the flail that had the handstaff and booltheen both made out of red-hot iron. The little vagabond was grinning to think how it would burn the hands o’ Tom, but the dickens a burn it made on him, no more nor if it was a good oak sapling.

“Thankee,” says Tom. “Now would you open the gate for a body, and I’ll give you no more trouble.”

“Oh, tramp!” says Ould Nick; “is that the way? It is easier getting inside them gates than getting out again. Take that tool from him, and give him a dose of the oil of stirrup.”

So one fellow put out his claws to seize on the flail, but Tom gave him such a welt of it on the side of the head that he broke off one of his horns, and made him roar like a devil as he was. Well, they rushed at Tom, but he gave them, little and big, such a thrashing as they didn’t forget for a while. At last says the ould thief of all, rubbing his elbow, “Let the fool out; and woe to whoever lets him in again, great or small.”

So out marched Tom, and away with him, without minding the shouting and cursing they kept up at him from the tops of the walls; and when he got home to the big bawn of the palace, there never was such running and racing as to see himself and the flail. When he had his story told, he laid down the flail on the stone steps, and bid no one for their lives to touch it. If the king, and queen, and princess, made much of him before, they made ten times more of him now; but Redhead, the mean scruff-hound, stole over, and thought to catch hold of the flail to make an end of him. His fingers hardly touched it, when he let a roar out of him as if heaven and earth were coming together, and kept flinging his arms about and dancing, that it was pitiful to look at him. Tom run at him as soon as he could rise, caught his hands in his own two, and rubbed them this way and that, and the burning pain left them before you could reckon one. Well the poor fellow, between the pain that was only just gone, and the comfort he was in, had the comicalest face that you ever see, it was such a mixtherum-gatherum of laughing and crying. Everybody burst out a laughing – the princess could not stop no more than the rest; and then says Tom, “Now, ma’am, if there were fifty halves of you, I hope you’ll give me them all.”

Well, the princess looked at her father, and by my word, she came over to Tom, and put her two delicate hands into his two rough ones, and I wish it was myself was in his shoes that day!

Tom would not bring the flail into the palace. You may be sure no other body went near it; and when the early risers were passing next morning, they found two long clefts in the stone, where it was after burning itself an opening downwards, nobody could tell how far. But a messenger came in at noon, and said that the Danes were so frightened when they heard of the flail coming into Dublin, that they got into their ships, and sailed away.

Well, I suppose, before they were married, Tom got some man, like Pat Mara of Tomenine, to learn him the ‘principles of politeness,’ fluxions, gunnery, and fortification, decimal fractions, practice, and the rule of three direct, the way he’d be able to keep up a conversation with the royal family. Whether he ever lost his time learning them sciences, I’m not sure, but it’s as sure as fate that his mother never more saw any want till the end of her days.

The Shee An Gannon and the Gruagach Gaire

THE SHEE AN GANNON was born in the morning, named at noon, and went in the evening to ask his daughter of the king of Erin.

“I will give you my daughter in marriage,” said the king of Erin; “you won’t get her, though, unless you go and bring me back the tidings that I want, and tell me what it is that put a stop to the laughing of the Gruagach Gaire, who before this laughed always, and laughed so loud that the whole world heard him. There are twelve iron spikes out here in the garden behind my castle. On eleven of the spikes are the heads of kings’ sons who came seeking my daughter in marriage, and all of them went away to get the knowledge I wanted. Not one was able to get it and tell me what stopped the Gruagach Gaire from laughing. I took the heads off them all when they came back without the tidings for which they went, and I’m greatly in dread that your head’ll be on the twelfth spike, for I’ll do the same to you that I did to the eleven kings’ sons unless you tell what put a stop to the laughing of the Gruagach.”

The Shee an Gannon made no answer, but left the king and pushed away to know could he find why the Gruagach was silent.

He took a glen at a step, a hill at a leap, and travelled all day till evening. Then he came to a house. The master of the house asked him what sort was he, and he said: “A young man looking for hire.”

“Well,” said the master of the house, “I was going tomorrow to look for a man to mind my cows. If you’ll work for me, you’ll have a good place, the best food a man could have to eat in this world, and a soft bed to lie on.”

The Shee an Gannon took service, and ate his supper. Then the master of the house said: “I am the Gruagach Gaire; now that you are my man and have eaten your supper, you’ll have a bed of silk to sleep on.”

Next morning after breakfast the Gruagach said to the Shee an Gannon: “Go out now and loosen my five golden cows and my bull without horns, and drive them to pasture; but when you have them out on the grass, be careful you don’t let them go near the land of the giant.”

The new cowboy drove the cattle to pasture, and when near the land of the giant, he saw it was covered with woods and surrounded by a high wall. He went up, put his back against the wall, and threw in a great stretch of it; then he went inside and threw out another great stretch of the wall, and put the five golden cows and the bull without horns on the land of the giant.

Then he climbed a tree, ate the sweet apples himself, and threw the sour ones down to the cattle of the Gruagach Gaire.

Soon a great crashing was heard in the woods, – the noise of young trees bending, and old trees breaking. The cowboy looked around and saw a five-headed giant pushing through the trees; and soon he was before him.

“Poor miserable creature!” said the giant; “but weren’t you impudent to come to my land and trouble me in this way? You’re too big for one bite, and too small for two. I don’t know what to do but tear you to pieces.”

“You nasty brute,” said the cowboy, coming down to him from the tree, “’tis little I care for you;” and then they went at each other. So great was the noise between them that there was nothing in the world but what was looking on and listening to the combat.

They fought till late in the afternoon, when the giant was getting the upper hand; and then the cowboy thought that if the giant should kill him, his father and mother would never find him or set eyes on him again, and he would never get the daughter of the king of Erin. The heart in his body grew strong at this thought. He sprang on the giant, and with the first squeeze and thrust he put him to his knees in the hard ground, with the second thrust to his waist, and with the third to his shoulders.

“I have you at last; you’re done for now!”, said the cowboy. Then he took out his knife, cut the five heads off the giant, and when he had them off he cut out the tongues and threw the heads over the wall.

Then he put the tongues in his pocket and drove home the cattle. That evening the Gruagach couldn’t find vessels enough in all his place to hold the milk of the five golden cows.

But when the cowboy was on the way home with the cattle, the son of the king of Tisean came and took the giant’s heads and claimed the princess in marriage when the Gruagach Gaire should laugh.

After supper the cowboy would give no talk to his master, but kept his mind to himself, and went to the bed of silk to sleep.

On the morning the cowboy rose before his master, and the first words he said to the Gruagach were:

“What keeps you from laughing, you who used to laugh so loud that the whole world heard you?”

“I’m sorry,” said the Gruagach, “that the daughter of the king of Erin sent you here.”

“If you don’t tell me of your own will, I’ll make you tell me,” said the cowboy; and he put a face on himself that was terrible to look at, and running through the house like a madman, could find nothing that would give pain enough to the Gruagach but some ropes made of untanned sheepskin hanging on the wall.

He took these down, caught the Gruagach, fastened him by the three smalls, and tied him so that his little toes were whispering to his ears. When he was in this state the Gruagach said: “I’ll tell you what stopped my laughing if you set me free.”

So the cowboy unbound him, the two sat down together, and the Gruagach said:

“I lived in this castle here with my twelve sons. We ate, drank, played cards, and enjoyed ourselves, till one day when my sons and I were playing, a slender brown hare came rushing in, jumped on to the hearth, tossed up the ashes to the rafters and ran away.

“On another day he came again; but if he did, we were ready for him, my twelve sons and myself. As soon as he tossed up the ashes and ran off, we made after him, and followed him till nightfall, when he went into a glen. We saw a light before us. I ran on, and came to a house with a great apartment, where there was a man named Yellow Face with twelve daughters, and the hare was tied to the side of the room near the women.

“There was a large pot over the fire in the room, and a great stork boiling in the pot. The man of the house said to me: “There are bundles of rushes at the end of the room, go there and sit down with your men!”

“He went into the next room and brought out two pikes, one of wood, the other of iron, and asked me which of the pikes would I take. I said, “I’ll take the iron one;” for I thought in my heart that if an attack should come on me, I could defend myself better with the iron than the wooden pike.

“Yellow Face gave me the iron pike, and the first chance of taking what I could out of the pot on the point of the pike. I got but a small piece of the stork, and the man of the house took all the rest on his wooden pike. We had to fast that night; and when the man and his twelve daughters ate the flesh of the stork, they hurled the bare bones in the faces of my sons and myself. We had to stop all night that way, beaten on the faces by the bones of the stork.

“Next morning, when we were going away, the man of the house asked me to stay a while; and going into the next room, he brought out twelve loops of iron and one of wood, and said to me: “Put the heads of your twelve sons into the iron loops, or your own head into the wooden one;” and I said: “I’ll put the twelve heads of my sons in the iron loops, and keep my own out of the wooden one.”

“He put the iron loops on the necks of my twelve sons, and put the wooden one on his own neck. Then he snapped the loops one after another, till he took the heads off my twelve sons and threw the heads and bodies out of the house; but he did nothing to hurt his own neck.

“When he had killed my sons he took hold of me and stripped the skin and flesh from the small of my back down, and when he had done that he took the skin of a black sheep that had been hanging on the wall for seven years and clapped it on my body in place of my own flesh and skin; and the sheepskin grew on me, and every year since then I shear myself, and every bit of wool I use for the stockings that I wear I clip off my own back.”

When he had said this, the Gruagach showed the cowboy his back covered with thick black wool.

After what he had seen and heard, the cowboy said: “I know now why you don’t laugh, and small blame to you. But does that hare come here still?”

“He does indeed,” said the Gruagach.

Both went to the table to play, and they were not long playing cards when the hare ran in; and before they could stop him he was out again.

But the cowboy made after the hare, and the Gruagach after the cowboy, and they ran as fast as ever their legs could carry them till nightfall; and when the hare was entering the castle where the twelve sons of the Gruagach were killed, the cowboy caught him by the two hind legs and dashed out his brains against the wall; and the skull of the hare was knocked into the chief room of the castle, and fell at the feet of the master of the place.

“Who has dared to interfere with my fighting pet?” screamed Yellow Face.

“I,” said the cowboy; “and if your pet had had manners, he might be alive now.”

The cowboy and the Gruagach stood by the fire. A stork was boiling in the pot, as when the Gruagach came the first time. The master of the house went into the next room and brought out an iron and a wooden pike, and asked the cowboy which would he choose.

“I’ll take the wooden one,” said the cowboy; “and you may keep the iron one for yourself.”

So he took the wooden one; and going to the pot, brought out on the pike all the stork except a small bite, and he and the Gruagach fell to eating, and they were eating the flesh of the stork all night. The cowboy and the Gruagach were at home in the place that time.

In the morning the master of the house went into the next room, took down the twelve iron loops with a wooden one, brought them out, and asked the cowboy which would he take, the twelve iron or the one wooden loop.

“What could I do with the twelve iron ones for myself or my master?

I’ll take the wooden one.”

He put it on, and taking the twelve iron loops, put them on the necks of the twelve daughters of the house, then snapped the twelve heads off them, and turning to their father, said: “I’ll do the same thing to you unless you bring the twelve sons of my master to life, and make them as well and strong as when you took their heads.”

The master of the house went out and brought the twelve to life again; and when the Gruagach saw all his sons alive and as well as ever, he let a laugh out of himself, and all the Eastern world heard the laugh.

Then the cowboy said to the Gruagach: “It’s a bad thing you have done to me, for the daughter of the king of Erin will be married the day after your laugh is heard.”

“Oh! then we must be there in time,” said the Gruagach; and they all made away from the place as fast as ever they could, the cowboy, the Gruagach, and his twelve sons.

They hurried on; and when within three miles of the king’s castle there was such a throng of people that no one could go a step ahead. “We must clear a road through this,” said the cowboy.

“We must indeed,” said the Gruagach; and at it they went, threw the people some on one side and some on the other, and soon they had an opening for themselves to the king’s castle.

As they went in, the daughter of the king of Erin and the son of the king of Tisean were on their knees just going to be married. The cowboy drew his hand on the bride-groom, and gave a blow that sent him spinning till he stopped under a table at the other side of the room.

“What scoundrel struck that blow?” asked the king of Erin.

“It was I,” said the cowboy.

“What reason had you to strike the man who won my daughter?”

“It was I who won your daughter, not he; and if you don’t believe me, the Gruagach Gaire is here himself. He’ll tell you the whole story from beginning to end, and show you the tongues of the giant.”

So the Gruagach came up and told the king the whole story, how the Shee an Gannon had become his cowboy, had guarded the five golden cows and the bull without horns, cut off the heads of the five-headed giant, killed the wizard hare, and brought his own twelve sons to life. “And then,” said the Gruagach, “he is the only man in the whole world I have ever told why I stopped laughing, and the only one who has ever seen my fleece of wool.”

When the king of Erin heard what the Gruagach said, and saw the tongues of the giant fitted in the head, he made the Shee an Gannon kneel down by his daughter, and they were married on the spot.

Then the son of the king of Tisean was thrown into prison, and the next day they put down a great fire, and the deceiver was burned to ashes.

The wedding lasted nine days, and the last day was better than the first.

A Legend of Knockmany

WHAT IRISH MAN, woman, or child has not heard of our renowned Hibernian Hercules, the great and glorious Fin M’Coul?1 Not one, from Cape Clear to the Giant’s Causeway, nor from that back again to Cape Clear. And, by-the-way, speaking of the Giant’s Causeway brings me at once to the beginning of my story. Well, it so happened that Fin and his men were all working at the Causeway, in order to make a bridge across to Scotland; when Fin, who was very fond of his wife Oonagh, took it into his head that he would go home and see how the poor woman got on in his absence. So, accordingly, he pulled up a fir-tree, and, after lopping off the roots and branches, made a walking-stick of it, and set out on his way to Oonagh.

Oonagh, or rather Fin, lived at this time on the very tip-top of Knockmany Hill, which faces a cousin of its own called Cullamore, that rises up, half-hill, half-mountain, on the opposite side.

There was at that time another giant, named Cucullin^2 – some say he was Irish, and some say he was Scotch – but whether Scotch or Irish, sorrow doubt of it but he was a targer. No other giant of the day could stand before him; and such was his strength, that, when well vexed, he could give a stamp that shook the country about him. The fame and name of him went far and near; and nothing in the shape of a man, it was said, had any chance with him in a fight. By one blow of his fists he flattened a thunderbolt and kept it in his pocket, in the shape of a pancake, to show to all his enemies, when they were about to fight him. Undoubtedly he had given every giant in Ireland a considerable beating, barring Fin M’Coul himself; and he swore that he would never rest, night or day, winter or summer, till he would serve Fin with the same sauce, if he could catch him. However, the short and long of it was, with reverence be it spoken, that Fin heard Cucullin was coming to the Causeway to have a trial of strength with him; and he was seized with a very warm and sudden fit of affection for his wife, poor woman, leading a very lonely, uncomfortable life of it in his absence. He accordingly pulled up the fir-tree, as I said before, and having snedded it into a walking-stick, set out on his travels to see his darling Oonagh on the top of Knockmany, by the way.

In truth, the people wondered very much why it was that Fin selected such a windy spot for his dwelling-house, and they even went so far as to tell him as much.

“What can you mane, Mr. M’Coul,” said they, “by pitching your tent upon the top of Knockmany, where you never are without a breeze, day or night, winter or summer, and where you’re often forced to take your nightcap without either going to bed or turning up your little finger; ay, an’where, besides this, there’s the sorrow’s own want of water?”

“Why,” said Fin, “ever since I was the height of a round tower, I was known to be fond of having a good prospect of my own; and where the dickens, neighbours, could I find a better spot for a good prospect than the top of Knockmany? As for water, I am sinking a pump, and, plase goodness, as soon as the Causeway’s made, I intend to finish it.”

Now, this was more of Fin’s philosophy; for the real state of the case was, that he pitched upon the top of Knockmany in order that he might be able to see Cucullin coming towards the house. All we have to say is, that if he wanted a spot from which to keep a sharp look-out – and, between ourselves, he did want it grievously – barring Slieve Croob, or Slieve Donard, or its own cousin, Cullamore, he could not find a neater or more convenient situation for it in the sweet and sagacious province of Ulster.

“God save all here!” said Fin, good-humouredly, on putting his honest face into his own door.

“Musha, Fin, avick, an’ you’re welcome home to your own Oonagh, you darlin’ bully.” Here followed a smack that is said to have made the waters of the lake at the bottom of the hill curl, as it were, with kindness and sympathy.

Fin spent two or three happy days with Oonagh, and felt himself very comfortable, considering the dread he had of Cucullin. This, however, grew upon him so much that his wife could not but perceive something lay on his mind which he kept altogether to himself. Let a woman alone, in the meantime, for ferreting or wheedling a secret out of her good man, when she wishes. Fin was a proof of this.

“It’s this Cucullin,” said he, “that’s troubling me. When the fellow gets angry, and begins to stamp, he’ll shake you a whole townland; and it’s well known that he can stop a thunderbolt, for he always carries one about him in the shape of a pancake, to show to any one that might misdoubt it.”

As he spoke, he clapped his thumb in his mouth, which he always did when he wanted to prophesy, or to know anything that happened in his absence; and the wife asked him what he did it for.

“He’s coming,” said Fin; “I see him below Dungannon.”

“Thank goodness, dear! an’ who is it, avick? Glory be to God!”

“That baste, Cucullin,” replied Fin; “and how to manage I don’t know. If I run away, I am disgraced; and I know that sooner or later I must meet him, for my thumb tells me so.”

“When will he be here?” said she.

“Tomorrow, about two o’clock,” replied Fin, with a groan.

“Well, my bully, don’t be cast down,” said Oonagh; “depend on me, and maybe I’ll bring you better out of this scrape than ever you could bring yourself, by your rule o’ thumb.”

She then made a high smoke on the top of the hill, after which she put her finger in her mouth, and gave three whistles, and by that Cucullin knew he was invited to Cullamore – for this was the way that the Irish long ago gave a sign to all strangers and travellers, to let them know they were welcome to come and take share of whatever was going.

In the meantime, Fin was very melancholy, and did not know what to do, or how to act at all. Cucullin was an ugly customer to meet with; and, the idea of the ‘cake’ aforesaid flattened the very heart within him. What chance could he have, strong and brave though he was, with a man who could, when put in a passion, walk the country into earthquakes and knock thunderbolts into pancakes? Fin knew not on what hand to turn him. Right or left – backward or forward – where to go he could form no guess whatsoever.

“Oonagh,” said he, “can you do nothing for me? Where’s all your invention? Am I to be skivered like a rabbit before your eyes, and to have my name disgraced for ever in the sight of all my tribe, and me the best man among them? How am I to fight this man-mountain – this huge cross between an earthquake and a thunderbolt? – with a pancake in his pocket that was once –”

“Be easy, Fin,” replied Oonagh; “troth, I’m ashamed of you. Keep your toe in your pump, will you? Talking of pancakes, maybe, we’ll give him as good as any he brings with him – thunderbolt or otherwise. If I don’t treat him to as smart feeding as he’s got this many a day, never trust Oonagh again. Leave him to me, and do just as I bid you.”

This relieved Fin very much; for, after all, he had great confidence in his wife, knowing, as he did, that she had got him out of many a quandary before. Oonagh then drew the nine woollen threads of different colours, which she always did to find out the best way of succeeding in anything of importance she went about. She then platted them into three plats with three colours in each, putting one on her right arm, one round her heart, and the third round her right ankle, for then she knew that nothing could fail with her that she undertook.

Having everything now prepared, she sent round to the neighbours and borrowed one-and-twenty iron griddles, which she took and kneaded into the hearts of one-and-twenty cakes of bread, and these she baked on the fire in the usual way, setting them aside in the cupboard according as they were done. She then put down a large pot of new milk, which she made into curds and whey. Having done all this, she sat down quite contented, waiting for his arrival on the next day about two o’clock, that being the hour at which he was expected – for Fin knew as much by the sucking of his thumb. Now this was a curious property that Fin’s thumb had. In this very thing, moreover, he was very much resembled by his great foe, Cucullin; for it was well known that the huge strength he possessed all lay in the middle finger of his right hand, and that, if he happened by any mischance to lose it, he was no more, for all his bulk, than a common man.

At length, the next day, Cucullin was seen coming across the valley, and Oonagh knew that it was time to commence operations. She immediately brought the cradle, and made Fin to lie down in it, and cover himself up with the clothes.

“You must pass for your own child,” said she; “so just lie there snug, and say nothing, but be guided by me.”

About two o’clock, as he had been expected, Cucullin came in. “God save all here!” said he; “is this where the great Fin M’Coul lives?”

“Indeed it is, honest man,” replied Oonagh; “God save you kindly – won’t you be sitting?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” says he, sitting down; “you’re Mrs. M’Coul, I suppose?”

“I am,” said she; “and I have no reason, I hope, to be ashamed of my husband.”

“No,” said the other, “he has the name of being the strongest and bravest man in Ireland; but for all that, there’s a man not far from you that’s very desirous of taking a shake with him. Is he at home?”

“Why, then, no,” she replied; “and if ever a man left his house in a fury, he did. It appears that some one told him of a big basthoon of a – giant called Cucullin being down at the Causeway to look for him, and so he set out there to try if he could catch him. Troth, I hope, for the poor giant’s sake, he won’t meet with him, for if he does, Fin will make paste of him at once.”

“Well,” said the other, “I am Cucullin, and I have been seeking him these twelve months, but he always kept clear of me; and I will never rest night or day till I lay my hands on him.”

At this Oonagh set up a loud laugh, of great contempt, by-the-way, and looked at him as if he was only a mere handful of a man.

“Did you ever see Fin?” said she, changing her manner all at once.

“How could I?” said he; “he always took care to keep his distance.”

“I thought so,” she replied; “I judged as much; and if you take my advice, you poor-looking creature, you’ll pray night and day that you may never see him, for I tell you it will be a black day for you when you do. But, in the meantime, you perceive that the wind’s on the door, and as Fin himself is from home, maybe you’d be civil enough to turn the house, for it’s always what Fin does when he’s here.”

This was a startler even to Cucullin; but he got up, however, and after pulling the middle finger of his right hand until it cracked three times, he went outside, and getting his arms about the house, turned it as she had wished. When Fin saw this, he felt the sweat of fear oozing out through every pore of his skin; but Oonagh, depending upon her woman’s wit, felt not a whit daunted.

“Arrah, then,” said she, “as you are so civil, maybe you’d do another obliging turn for us, as Fin’s not here to do it himself. You see, after this long stretch of dry weather we’ve had, we feel very badly off for want of water. Now, Fin says there’s a fine spring-well somewhere under the rocks behind the hill here below, and it was his intention to pull them asunder; but having heard of you, he left the place in such a fury, that he never thought of it. Now, if you try to find it, troth I’d feel it a kindness.”

She then brought Cucullin down to see the place, which was then all one solid rock; and, after looking at it for some time, he cracked his right middle finger nine times, and, stooping down, tore a cleft about four hundred feet deep, and a quarter of a mile in length, which has since been christened by the name of Lumford’s Glen.

“You’ll now come in,” said she, “and eat a bit of such humble fare as we can give you. Fin, even although he and you are enemies, would scorn not to treat you kindly in his own house; and, indeed, if I didn’t do it even in his absence, he would not be pleased with me.”

She accordingly brought him in, and placing half-a-dozen of the cakes we spoke of before him, together with a can or two of butter, a side of boiled bacon, and a stack of cabbage, she desired him to help himself – for this, be it known, was long before the invention of potatoes. Cucullin put one of the cakes in his mouth to take a huge whack out of it, when he made a thundering noise, something between a growl and a yell. “Blood and fury!” he shouted; “how is this? Here are two of my teeth out! What kind of bread this is you gave me.”

“What’s the matter?” said Oonagh coolly.

“Matter!” shouted the other again; “why, here are the two best teeth in my head gone.”

“Why,” said she, “that’s Fin’s bread – the only bread he ever eats when at home; but, indeed, I forgot to tell you that nobody can eat it but himself, and that child in the cradle there. I thought, however, that, as you were reported to be rather a stout little fellow of your size, you might be able to manage it, and I did not wish to affront a man that thinks himself able to fight Fin. Here’s another cake – maybe it’s not so hard as that.”

Cucullin at the moment was not only hungry, but ravenous, so he accordingly made a fresh set at the second cake, and immediately another yell was heard twice as loud as the first. “Thunder and gibbets!” he roared, “take your bread out of this, or I will not have a tooth in my head; there’s another pair of them gone!”

“Well, honest man,” replied Oonagh, “if you’re not able to eat the bread, say so quietly, and don’t be wakening the child in the cradle there. There, now, he’s awake upon me.”

Fin now gave a skirl that startled the giant, as coming from such a youngster as he was supposed to be.

“Mother,” said he, “I’m hungry – get me something to eat.” Oonagh went over, and putting into his hand a cake that had no griddle in it, Fin, whose appetite in the meantime had been sharpened by seeing eating going forward, soon swallowed it. Cucullin was thunderstruck, and secretly thanked his stars that he had the good fortune to miss meeting Fin, for, as he said to himself, “I’d have no chance with a man who could eat such bread as that, which even his son that’s but in his cradle can munch before my eyes.”

“I’d like to take a glimpse at the lad in the cradle,” said he to Oonagh; “for I can tell you that the infant who can manage that nutriment is no joke to look at, or to feed of a scarce summer.”

“With all the veins of my heart,” replied Oonagh; “get up, acushla, and show this decent little man something that won’t be unworthy of your father, Fin M’Coul.”

Fin, who was dressed for the occasion as much like a boy as possible, got up, and bringing Cucullin out, “Are you strong?” said he.

“Thunder an’ ounds!” exclaimed the other, “what a voice in so small a chap!”

“Are you strong?” said Fin again; “are you able to squeeze water out of that white stone?” he asked, putting one into Cucullin’s hand. The latter squeezed and squeezed the stone, but in vain.

“Ah, you’re a poor creature!” said Fin. “You a giant! Give me the stone here, and when I’ll show what Fin’s little son can do, you may then judge of what my daddy himself is.”

Fin then took the stone, and exchanging it for the curds, he squeezed the latter until the whey, as clear as water, oozed out in a little shower from his hand.

“I’ll now go in,” said he, “to my cradle; for I scorn to lose my time with any one that’s not able to eat my daddy’s bread, or squeeze water out of a stone. Bedad, you had better be off out of this before he comes back; for if he catches you, it’s in flummery he’d have you in two minutes.”

Cucullin, seeing what he had seen, was of the same opinion himself; his knees knocked together with the terror of Fin’s return, and he accordingly hastened to bid Oonagh farewell, and to assure her, that from that day out, he never wished to hear of, much less to see, her husband. “I admit fairly that I’m not a match for him,” said he, “strong as I am; tell him I will avoid him as I would the plague, and that I will make myself scarce in this part of the country while I live.”

Fin, in the meantime, had gone into the cradle, where he lay very quietly, his heart at his mouth with delight that Cucullin was about to take his departure, without discovering the tricks that had been played off on him.

“It’s well for you,” said Oonagh, “that he doesn’t happen to be here, for it’s nothing but hawk’s meat he’d make of you.”

“I know that,” says Cucullin; “divil a thing else he’d make of me; but before I go, will you let me feel what kind of teeth Fin’s lad has got that can eat griddle-bread like that?”

“With all pleasure in life,” said she; “only, as they’re far back in his head, you must put your finger a good way in.”

Cucullin was surprised to find such a powerful set of grinders in one so young; but he was still much more so on finding, when he took his hand from Fin’s mouth, that he had left the very finger upon which his whole strength depended, behind him. He gave one loud groan, and fell down at once with terror and weakness. This was all Fin wanted, who now knew that his most powerful and bitterest enemy was at his mercy. He started out of the cradle, and in a few minutes the great Cucullin, that was for such a length of time the terror of him and all his followers, lay a corpse before him. Thus did Fin, through the wit and invention of Oonagh, his wife, succeed in overcoming his enemy by cunning, which he never could have done by force.

Footnotes for A Legend of Knockmany

1. Fin M’Coul a.k.a Finn mac Cumaill of Fenian legend.

2. Cucullin a.k.a. a giant version of Cúchulainn.

The Leeching of Kayn’s Leg

THERE WERE FIVE HUNDRED blind men, and five hundred deaf men, and five hundred limping men, and five hundred dumb men, and five hundred cripple men. The five hundred deaf men had five hundred wives, and the five hundred limping men had five hundred wives, and the five hundred dumb men had five hundred wives, and the five hundred cripple men had five hundred wives. Each five hundred of these had five hundred children and five hundred dogs. They were in the habit of going about in one band, and were called the Sturdy Strolling Beggarly Brotherhood. There was a knight in Erin called O’Cronicert, with whom they spent a day and a year; and they ate up all that he had, and made a poor man of him, till he had nothing left but an old tumble-down black house, and an old lame white horse. There was a king in Erin called Brian Boru; and O’Cronicert went to him for help. He cut a cudgel of grey oak on the outskirts of the wood, mounted the old lame white horse, and set off at speed through wood and over moss and rugged ground, till he reached the king’s house. When he arrived he went on his knees to the king; and the king said to him, “What is your news, O’Cronicert?”

“I have but poor news for you, king.”

“What poor news have you?” said the king.

“That I have had the Sturdy Strolling Beggarly Brotherhood for a day and a year, and they have eaten all that I had, and made a poor man of me,” said he.

“Well!” said the king, “I am sorry for you; what do you want?”

“I want help,” said O’Cronicert; “anything that you may be willing to give me.”

The king promised him a hundred cows. He went to the queen, and made his complaint to her, and she gave him another hundred. He went to the king’s son, Murdoch Mac Brian, and he got another hundred from him. He got food and drink at the king’s; and when he was going away he said, “Now I am very much obliged to you. This will set me very well on my feet. After all that I have got there is another thing that I want.”

“What is it?” said the king.

“It is the lap-dog that is in and out after the queen that I wish for.”

“Ha!” said the king, “it is your mightiness and pride that has caused the loss of your means; but if you become a good man you shall get this along with the rest.”

O’Cronicert bade the king goodbye, took the lap-dog, leapt on the back of the old lame white horse, and went off at speed through wood, and over moss and rugged ground. After he had gone some distance through the wood a roebuck leapt up and the lap-dog went after it. In a moment the deer started up as a woman behind O’Cronicert, the handsomest that eye had ever seen from the beginning of the universe till the end of eternity. She said to him, “Call your dog off me.”

“I will do so if you promise to marry me,” said O’Cronicert.

“If you keep three vows that I shall lay upon you I will marry you,” said she.

“What vows are they?” said he.

“The first is that you do not go to ask your worldly king to a feast or a dinner without first letting me know,” said she.

“Hoch!” said O’Cronicert, “do you think that I cannot keep that vow? I would never go to invite my worldly king without informing you that I was going to do so. It is easy to keep that vow.”

“You are likely to keep it!” said she.

“The second vow is,” said she, “that you do not cast up to me in any company or meeting in which we shall be together, that you found me in the form of a deer.”

“Hoo!” said O’Cronicert, “you need not to lay that vow upon me. I would keep it at any rate.”

“You are likely to keep it!” said she.

“The third vow is,” said she, “that you do not leave me in the company of only one man while you go out.” It was agreed between them that she should marry him.

They reached the old tumble-down black house. Grass they cut in the clefts and ledges of the rocks; a bed they made and laid down. O’Cronicert’s wakening from sleep was the lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep and the neighing of mares, while he himself was in a bed of gold on wheels of silver, going from end to end of the Tower of Castle Town.

“I am sure that you are surprised,” said she.

“I am indeed,” said he.

“You are in your own room,” said she.

“In my own room,” said he. “I never had such a room.”

“I know well that you never had,” said she; “but you have it now. So long as you keep me you shall keep the room.”

He then rose, and put on his clothes, and went out. He took a look at the house when he went out; and it was a palace, the like of which he had never seen, and the king himself did not possess. He then took a walk round the farm; and he never saw so many cattle, sheep, and horses as were on it. He returned to the house, and said to his wife that the farm was being ruined by other people’s cattle and sheep. “It is not,” said she: “your own cattle and sheep are on it.”

“I never had so many cattle and sheep,” said he.

“I know that,” said she; “but so long as you keep me you shall keep them. There is no good wife whose tocher does not follow her.”

He was now in good circumstances, indeed wealthy. He had gold and silver, as well as cattle and sheep. He went about with his gun and dogs hunting every day, and was a great man. It occurred to him one day that he would go to invite the King of Erin to dinner, but he did not tell his wife that he was going. His first vow was now broken. He sped away to the King of Erin, and invited him and his great court to dinner. The King of Erin said to him, “Do you intend to take away the cattle that I promised you?”

“Oh! no, King of Erin,” said O’Cronicert; “I could give you as many today.”

“Ah!” said the king, “how well you have got on since I saw you last!”

“I have indeed,” said O’Cronicert! “I have fallen in with a rich wife who has plenty of gold and silver, and of cattle and sheep.”

“I am glad of that,” said the King of Erin.

O’Cronicert said, “I shall feel much obliged if you will go with me to dinner, yourself and your great court.”

“We will do so willingly,” said the king.

They went with him on that same day. It did not occur to O’Cronicert how a dinner could be prepared for the king without his wife knowing that he was coming. When they were going on, and had reached the place where O’Cronicert had met the deer, he remembered that his vow was broken, and he said to the king, “Excuse me; I am going on before to the house to tell that you are coming.”

The king said, “We will send off one of the lads.”

“You will not,” said O’Cronicert; “no lad will serve the purpose so well as myself.”

He set off to the house; and when he arrived his wife was diligently preparing dinner. He told her what he had done, and asked her pardon. “I pardon you this time,” said she: “I know what you have done as well as you do yourself. The first of your vows is broken.”

The king and his great court came to O’Cronicert’s house; and the wife had everything ready for them as befitted a king and great people; every kind of drink and food. They spent two or three days and nights at dinner, eating and drinking. They were praising the dinner highly, and O’Cronicert himself was praising it; but his wife was not. O’Cronicert was angry that she was not praising it and he went and struck her in the mouth with his fist and knocked out two of her teeth. “Why are you not praising the dinner like the others, you contemptible deer?” said he.

“I am not,” said she: “I have seen my father’s big dogs having a better dinner than you are giving tonight to the King of Erin and his court.”

O’Cronicert got into such a rage that he went outside of the door. He was not long standing there when a man came riding on a black horse, who in passing caught O’Cronicert by the collar of his coat, and took him up behind him: and they set off. The rider did not say a word to O’Cronicert. The horse was going so swiftly that O’Cronicert thought the wind would drive his head off. They arrived at a big, big palace, and came off the black horse. A stableman came out, and caught the horse, and took it in. It was with wine that he was cleaning the horse’s feet. The rider of the black horse said to O’Cronicert, “Taste the wine to see if it is better than the wine that you are giving to Brian Boru and his court tonight.”

O’Cronicert tasted the wine, and said, “This is better wine.”

The rider of the black horse said, “How unjust was the fist a little ago! The wind from your fist carried the two teeth to me.”

He then took him into that big, handsome, and noble house, and into a room that was full of gentlemen eating and drinking, and he seated him at the head of the table, and gave him wine to drink, and said to him, “Taste that wine to see if it is better than the wine that you are giving to the King of Erin and his court tonight.”

“This is better wine,” said O’Cronicert.

“How unjust was the fist a little ago!” said the rider of the black horse.

When all was over the rider of the black horse said, “Are you willing to return home now?”

“Yes,” said O’Cronicert, ’very willing.”

They then rose, and went to the stable: and the black horse was taken out; and they leaped on its back, and went away. The rider of the black horse said to O’Cronicert, after they had set off, “Do you know who I am?”

“I do not,” said O’Cronicert.

“I am a brother-in-law of yours,” said the rider of the black horse; “and though my sister is married to you there is not a king or knight in Erin who is a match for her. Two of your vows are now broken; and if you break the other vow you shall lose your wife and all that you possess.”

They arrived at O’Cronicert’s house; and O’Cronicert said, “I am ashamed to go in, as they do not know where I have been since night came.”

“Hoo!” said the rider, “they have not missed you at all. There is so much conviviality among them, that they have not suspected that you have been anywhere. Here are the two teeth that you knocked out of the front of your wife’s mouth. Put them in their place, and they will be as strong as ever.”

“Come in with me,” said O’Cronicert to the rider of the black horse.

“I will not: I disdain to go in,” said the rider of the black horse.

The rider of the black horse bade O’Cronicert goodbye, and went away.

O’Cronicert went in; and his wife met him as she was busy waiting on the gentlemen. He asked her pardon, and put the two teeth in the front of her mouth, and they were as strong as ever. She said, “Two of your vows are now broken.” No one took notice of him when he went in, or said “Where have you been?” They spent the night in eating and drinking, and the whole of the next day.

In the evening the king said, “I think that it is time for us to be going”; and all said that it was. O’Cronicert said, “You will not go tonight. I am going to get up a dance. You will go tomorrow.”

“Let them go,” said his wife.

“I will not,” said he.

The dance was set a-going that night. They were playing away at dancing and music till they became warm and hot with perspiration. They were going out one after another to cool themselves at the side of the house. They all went out except O’Cronicert and his wife, and a man called Kayn Mac Loy. O’Cronicert himself went out, and left his wife and Kayn Mac Loy in the house, and when she saw that he had broken his third vow she gave a spring through a room, and became a big filly, and gave Kayn Mac Loy a kick with her foot, and broke his thigh in two. She gave another spring, and smashed the door and went away, and was seen no more. She took with her the Tower of Castle Town as an armful on her shoulder and a light burden on her back, and she left Kayn Mac Loy in the old tumble-down black house in a pool of rain-drip on the floor.

At daybreak next day poor O’Cronicert could only see the old house that he had before. Neither cattle nor sheep, nor any of the fine things that he had was to be seen. One awoke in the morning beside a bush, another beside a dyke, and another beside a ditch. The king only had the honour of having O’Cronicert’s little hut over his head. As they were leaving, Murdoch Mac Brian remembered that he had left his own foster-brother Kayn Mac Loy behind, and said there should be no separation in life between them and that he would go back for him. He found Kayn in the old tumble-down black house, in the middle of the floor, in a pool of rain-water, with his leg broken; and he said the earth should make a nest in his sole and the sky a nest in his head if he did not find a man to cure Kayn’s leg.

They told him that on the Isle of Innisturk was a herb that would heal him.

So Kayn Mac Loy was then borne away, and sent to the island, and he was supplied with as much food as would keep him for a month, and with two crutches on which he would be going out and in as he might desire. At last the food was spent, and he was destitute, and he had not found the herb. He was in the habit of going down to the shore, and gathering shell-fish, and eating it.

As he was one day on the shore, he saw a big, big man landing on the island, and he could see the earth and the sky between his legs. He set off with the crutches to try if he could get into the hut before the big man would come upon him. Despite his efforts, the big man was between him and the door, and said to him, “Unless you deceive me, you are Kayn Mac Loy.”

Kayn Mac Loy said, “I have never deceived a man: I am he.”

The big man said to him:

“Stretch out your leg, Kayn, till I put a salve of herbs and healing to it. Salve and binding herb and the poultice are cooling; the worm is channering. Pressure and haste hard bind me, for I must hear Mass in the great church at Rome, and be in Norway before I sleep.”

Kayn Mac Loy said:

“May it be no foot to Kayn or a foot to any one after one, or I be Kayn son of Loy, if I stretch out my foot for you to put a salve of herbs and healing on it, till you tell me why you have no church of your own in Norway, so as, as now, to be going to the great church of Rome to Rome tomorrow. Unless you deceive me you are Machkan-an-Athar, the son of the King of Lochlann.”

The big man said, “I have never deceived any man: I am he. I am now going to tell you why we have not a church in Lochlann. Seven masons came to build a church, and they and my father were bargaining about the building of it. The agreement that the masons wanted was that my mother and sister would go to see the interior of the church when it would be finished. My father was glad to get the church built so cheaply. They agreed accordingly; and the masons went in the morning to the place where the church was to be built. My father pointed out the spot for the foundation. They began to build in the morning, and the church was finished before the evening. When it was finished they requested my mother and sister to go to see its interior. They had no sooner entered than the doors were shut; and the church went away into the skies in the form of a tuft of mist.

“Stretch out your leg, Kayn, till I put a salve of herbs and healing to it. Salve and binding herb and the poultice are cooling; the worm is channering. Pressure and haste hard bind me, for I must hear Mass in the great church at Rome, and be in Norway before I sleep.”

Kayn Mac Loy said:

“May it be no foot to Kayn or a foot to any one after one, or I be Kayn son of Loy, if I stretch out my foot for you to put a salve of herbs and healing on it, till you tell me if you heard what befell your mother and sister.”

“Ah!” said the big man, “the mischief is upon you; that tale is long to tell; but I will tell you a short tale about the matter. On the day on which they were working at the church I was away in the hill hunting game; and when I came home in the evening my brother told me what had happened, namely, that my mother and sister had gone away in the form of a tuft of mist. I became so cross and angry that I resolved to destroy the world till I should find out where my mother and sister were. My brother said to me that I was a fool to think of such a thing. “I’ll tell you,” said he, “what you’ll do. You will first go to try to find out where they are. When you find out where they are you will demand them peaceably, and if you do not get them peaceably you will fight for them.”

“I took my brother’s advice, and prepared a ship to set off with. I set off alone, and embraced the ocean. I was overtaken by a great mist, and I came upon an island, and there was a large number of ships at anchor near it; I went in amongst them, and went ashore. I saw there a big, big woman reaping rushes; and when she would raise her head she would throw her right breast over her shoulder and when she would bend it would fall down between her legs. I came once behind her, and caught the breast with my mouth, and said to her, ‘You are yourself witness, woman, that I am the foster-son of your right breast.’ ‘I perceive that, great hero,’ said the old woman, ‘but my advice to you is to leave this island as fast as you can.’ ‘Why?’ said I. ‘There is a big giant in the cave up there,’ said she, ‘and every one of the ships that you see he has taken in from the ocean with his breath, and he has killed and eaten the men. He is asleep at present, and when he wakens he will have you in a similar manner. A large iron door and an oak door are on the cave. When the giant draws in his breath the doors open, and when he emits his breath the doors shut; and they are shut as fast as though seven small bars, and seven large bars, and seven locks were on them. So fast are they that seven crowbars could not force them open.’ I said to the old woman, ‘Is there any way of destroying him?’ ‘I’ll tell you,’ said she, ‘how it can be done. He has a weapon above the door that is called the short spear: and if you succeed in taking off his head with the first blow it will be well; but if you do not, the case will be worse than it was at first.’

“I set off, and reached the cave, the two doors of which opened. The giant’s breath drew me into the cave; and stools, chairs, and pots were by its action dashing against each other, and like to break my legs. The door shut when I went in, and was shut as fast as though seven small bars, and seven large bars, and seven locks were on it; and seven crowbars could not force it open; and I was a prisoner in the cave. The giant drew in his breath again, and the doors opened. I gave a look upwards, and saw the short spear, and laid hold of it. I drew the short spear, and I warrant you that I dealt him such a blow with it as did not require to be repeated; I swept the head off him. I took the head down to the old woman, who was reaping the rushes, and said to her, ‘There is the giant’s head for you.’ The old woman said, ‘Brave man! I knew that you were a hero. This island had need of your coming to it today. Unless you deceive me, you are Mac Connachar son of the King of Lochlann.’ ‘I have never deceived a man. I am he,’ said I. ‘I am a soothsayer,’ said she, ‘and know the object of your journey. You are going in quest of your mother and sister.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I am so far on the way if I only knew where to go for them.’ ‘I’ll tell you where they are,’ said she; ‘they are in the kingdom of the Red Shield, and the King of the Red Shield is resolved to marry your mother, and his son is resolved to marry your sister. I’ll tell you how the town is situated. A canal of seven times seven paces breadth surrounds it. On the canal there is a drawbridge, which is guarded during the day by two creatures that no weapon can pierce, as they are covered all over with scales, except two spots below the neck in which their death-wounds lie. Their names are Roar and Rustle. When night comes the bridge is raised, and the monsters sleep. A very high and big wall surrounds the king’s palace.’

“Stretch out your leg, Kayn, till I put a salve of herbs and healing to it. Salve and binding herb and the poultice are cooling; the worm is channering. Pressure and haste hard bind me, for I must hear Mass in the great church at Rome, and be in Norway before I sleep.”

Kayn Mac Loy said:

“May it be no foot to Kayn or a foot to any one after one, or I be Kayn son of Loy, if I stretch out my foot for you to put a salve of herbs and healing on it, till you tell me if you went farther in search of your mother and sister, or if you returned home, or what befell you.”

“Ah!” said the big man, “the mischief is upon you; that tale is long to tell; but I will tell you another tale. I set off, and reached the big town of the Red Shield; and it was surrounded by a canal, as the old woman told me; and there was a drawbridge on the canal. It was night when I arrived, and the bridge was raised, and the monsters were asleep. I measured two feet before me and a foot behind me of the ground on which I was standing, and I sprang on the end of my spear and on my tiptoes, and reached the place where the monsters were asleep; and I drew the short spear, and I warrant you that I dealt them such a blow below the neck as did not require to be repeated. I took up the heads and hung them on one of the posts of the bridge. I then went on to the wall that surrounded the king’s palace. This wall was so high that it was not easy for me to spring over it; and I set to work with the short spear, and dug a hole through it, and got in. I went to the door of the palace and knocked; and the doorkeeper called out, ‘Who is there?’ ‘It is I,’ said I. My mother and sister recognised my speech; and my mother called, ‘Oh! It is my son; let him in.’ I then got in, and they rose to meet me with great joy. I was supplied with food, drink, and a good bed. In the morning breakfast was set before us; and after it I said to my mother and sister that they had better make ready, and go with me. The King of the Red Shield said, ‘It shall not be so. I am resolved to marry your mother, and my son is resolved to marry your sister.’ ‘If you wish to marry my mother, and if your son wishes to marry my sister, let both of you accompany me to my home, and you shall get them there.’ The King of the Red Shield said, ‘So be it.’

“We then set off, and came to where my ship was, went on board of it, and sailed home. When we were passing a place where a great battle was going on, I asked the King of the Red Shield what battle it was, and the cause of it. ‘Don’t you know at all?’ said the King of the Red Shield. ‘I do not,’ said I. The King of the Red Shield said, ‘That is the battle for the daughter of the King of the Great Universe, the most beautiful woman in the world; and whoever wins her by his heroism shall get her in marriage. Do you see yonder castle?’ ‘I do,’ said I. ‘She is on the top of that castle, and sees from it the hero that wins her,’ said the King of the Red Shield. I requested to be put on shore, that I might win her by my swiftness and strength. They put me on shore; and I got a sight of her on the top of the castle. Having measured two feet behind me and a foot before me, I sprang on the end of my spear and on my tiptoes, and reached the top of the castle; and I caught the daughter of the King of the Universe in my arms and flung her over the castle. I was with her and intercepted her before she reached the ground, and I took her away on my shoulder, and set off to the shore as fast as I could, and delivered her to the King of the Red Shield to be put on board the ship. ‘Am I not the best warrior that ever sought you?’ said I. ‘You can jump well’ said she, ‘but I have not seen any of your prowess.’ I turned back to meet the warriors, and attacked them with the short spear, and did not leave a head on a neck of any of them. I then returned, and called to the King of the Red Shield to come in to the shore for me. Pretending not to hear me, he set the sails in order to return home with the daughter of the King of the Great Universe, and marry her. I measured two feet behind me and a foot before me, and sprang on the end of my spear and on my tiptoes and got on board the ship. I then said to the King of the Red Shield, ‘What were you going to do? Why did you not wait for me?’ ‘Oh!’ said the king, ‘I was only making the ship ready and setting the sails to her before going on shore for you. Do you know what I am thinking of?’ ‘I do not,’ said I. ‘It is,’ said the King, ‘that I will return home with the daughter of the King of the Great Universe, and that you shall go home with your mother and sister.’ ‘That is not to be the way of it,’ said I. ‘She whom I have won by my prowess neither you nor any other shall get.’

“The king had a red shield, and if he should get it on, no weapon could make an impression on him. He began to put on the red shield, and I struck him with the short spear in the middle of his body, and cut him in two, and threw him overboard. I then struck the son, and swept his head off, and threw him overboard.

“Stretch out your leg, Kayn, till I put a salve of herbs and healing to it. Salve and binding herb and the poultice are cooling; the worm is channering. Pressure and haste hard bind me, for I must hear Mass in the great church at Rome, and be in Norway before I sleep.”

Kayn Mac Loy said:

“May it be no foot to Kayn or a foot to any one after one, or I be Kayn son of Loy, if I stretch out my foot for you to put a salve of herbs and healing on it, till you tell me whether any search was made for the daughter of the King of the Universe.”

“Ah! the mischief is upon you,” said the big man; “I will tell you another short tale. I came home with my mother and sister, and the daughter of the King of the Universe, and I married the daughter of the King of the Universe. The first son I had I named Machkan-na-skaya-jayrika (son of the red shield). Not long after this a hostile force came to enforce compensation for the King of the Red Shield, and a hostile force came from the King of the Universe to enforce compensation for the daughter of the King of the Universe. I took the daughter of the King of the Universe with me on the one shoulder and Machkan-na-skaya-jayrika on the other, and I went on board the ship and set the sails to her, and I placed the ensign of the King of the Great Universe on the one mast, and that of the King of the Red Shield on the other, and I blew a trumpet, and passed through the midst of them, and I said to them that here was the man, and that if they were going to enforce their claims, this was the time. All the ships that were there chased me; and we set out on the expanse of ocean. My ship would be equalled in speed by but few. One day a thick dark mist came on, and they lost sight of me. It happened that I came to an island called The Wet Mantle. I built a hut there; and another son was born to me, and I called him Son of the Wet Mantle.

“I was a long time in that island; but there was enough of fruit, fish, and birds in it. My two sons had grown to be somewhat big. As I was one day out killing birds, I saw a big, big man coming towards the island, and I ran to try if I could get into the house before him. He met me, and caught me, and put me into a bog up to the armpits, and he went into the house, and took out on his shoulder the daughter of the King of the Universe, and passed close to me in order to irritate me the more. The saddest look that I ever gave or ever shall give was that I gave when I saw the daughter of the King of the Universe on the shoulder of another, and could not take her from him. The boys came out where I was; and I bade them bring me the short spear from the house. They dragged the short spear after them, and brought it to me; and I cut the ground around me with it till I got out.

“I was a long time in the Wet Mantle, even till my two sons grew to be big lads. They asked me one day if I had any thought of going to seek their mother. I told them that I was waiting till they were stronger, and that they should then go with me. They said that they were ready to go with me at any time. I said to them that we had better get the ship ready, and go. They said, ‘Let each of us have a ship to himself.’ We arranged accordingly; and each went his own way.

“As I happened one day to be passing close to land I saw a great battle going on. Being under vows never to pass a battle without helping the weaker side, I went on shore, and set to work with the weaker side, and I knocked the head off every one with the short spear. Being tired, I lay myself down among the bodies and fell asleep.

“Stretch out your leg, Kayn, till I put a salve of herbs and healing to it. Salve and binding herb and the poultice are cooling; the worm is channering. Pressure and haste hard bind me, for I must hear Mass in the great church at Rome, and be in Norway before I sleep.”

Kayn Mac Loy said:

“May it be no foot to Kayn or a foot to any one after one, or I be Kayn son of Loy, if I stretch out my foot for you to put a salve of herbs and healing on it, till you tell me if you found the daughter of the King of the Universe, or if you went home, or what happened to you.”

“The mischief is upon you,” said the big man; “that tale is long to tell, but I will tell another short tale. When I awoke out of sleep I saw a ship making for the place where I was lying, and a big giant with only one eye dragging it after him: and the ocean reached no higher than his knees. He had a big fishing-rod with a big strong line hanging from it on which was a very big hook. He was throwing the line ashore, and fixing the hook in a body, and lifting it on board, and he continued this work till the ship was loaded with bodies. He fixed the hook once in my clothes; but I was so heavy that the rod could not carry me on board. He had to go on shore himself, and carry me on board in his arms. I was then in a worse plight than I ever was in. The giant set off with the ship, which he dragged after him, and reached a big, precipitous rock, in the face of which he had a large cave: and a damsel as beautiful as I ever saw came out, and stood in the door of the cave. He was handing the bodies to her, and she was taking hold of them and putting them into the cave. As she took hold of each body she said, ‘Are you alive?’ At last the giant took hold of me, and handed me in to her, and said, ‘Keep him apart; he is a large body, and I will have him to breakfast the first day that I go from home.’ My best time was not when I heard the giant’s sentence upon me. When he had eaten enough of the bodies, his dinner and supper, he lay down to sleep. When he began to snore the damsel came to speak to me; and she told me that she was a king’s daughter the giant had stolen away and that she had no way of getting away from him. ‘I am now,’ she said, ‘seven years except two days with him, and there is a drawn sword between us. He dared not come nearer me than that till the seven years should expire.’ I said to her, ‘Is there no way of killing him?’ ‘It is not easy to kill him, but we will devise an expedient for killing him,’ said she. ‘Look at that pointed bar that he uses for roasting the bodies. At dead of night gather the embers of the fire together, and put the bar in the fire till it be red. Go, then, and thrust it into his eye with all your strength, and take care that he does not get hold of you, for if he does he will mince you as small as midges.’ I then went and gathered the embers together, and put the bar in the fire, and made it red, and thrust it into his eye; and from the cry that he gave I thought that the rock had split. The giant sprang to his feet and chased me through the cave in order to catch me; and I picked up a stone that lay on the floor of the cave, and pitched it into the sea; and it made a plumping noise. The bar was sticking in his eye all the time. Thinking it was I that had sprung into the sea, he rushed to the mouth of the cave, and the bar struck against the doorpost of the cave, and knocked off his brain-cap. The giant fell down cold and dead, and the damsel and I were seven years and seven days throwing him into the sea in pieces.

“I wedded the damsel, and a boy was born to us. After seven years I started forth again.

“I gave her a gold ring, with my name on it, for the boy, and when he was old enough he was sent out to seek me.

“I then set off to the place where I fought the battle, and found the short spear where I left it; and I was very pleased that I found it, and that the ship was safe. I sailed a day’s distance from that place, and entered a pretty bay that was there, hauled my ship up above the shore, and erected a hut there, in which I slept at night. When I rose next day I saw a ship making straight for the place where I was. When it struck the ground, a big, strong champion came out of it, and hauled it up; and if it did not surpass my ship it was not a whit inferior to it; and I said to him, ‘What impertinent fellow are you that has dared to haul up your ship alongside of my ship?’ ‘I am Machkan-na-skaya-jayrika,’ said the champion, ‘going to seek the daughter of the King of the Universe for Mac Connachar, son of the King of Lochlann.’ I saluted and welcomed him, and said to him, ‘I am your father: it is well that you have come.’ We passed the night cheerily in the hut.

“When I arose on the following day I saw another ship making straight for the place where I was; and a big, strong hero came out of it, and hauled it up alongside of our ships; and if it did not surpass them it was not a whit inferior to them. ‘What impertinent fellow are you that has dared to haul up your ship alongside of our ships?’ said I. ‘I am,’ said he, ‘the Son of the Wet Mantle, going to seek the daughter of the King of the Universe for Mac Connachar, son of the King of Lochlann.’ ‘I am your father, and this is your brother: it is well that you have come,’ said I. We passed the night together in the hut, my two sons and I.

“When I rose next day I saw another ship coming, and making straight for the place where I was. A big, strong champion sprang out of it, and hauled it up alongside of our ships; and if it was not higher than they, it was not lower. I went down where he was, and said to him, ‘What impertinent fellow are you that has dared to haul up your ship alongside of our ships?’ ‘I am the Son of the Wet Mantle,’ said he, ‘going to seek the daughter of the King of the Universe for Mac Connachar, son of the King of Lochlann.’ ‘Have you any token in proof of that?’ said I. ‘I have,’ said he: ‘here is a ring that my mother gave me at my father’s request.’ I took hold of the ring, and saw my name on it: and the matter was beyond doubt. I said to him, ‘I am your father, and here are two half-brothers of yours. We are now stronger for going in quest of the daughter of the King of the Universe. Four piles are stronger than three piles.’ We spent that night cheerily and comfortably together in the hut.

“On the morrow we met a soothsayer, and he spoke to us: ‘You are going in quest of the daughter of the King of the Universe. I will tell you where she is: she is with the Son of the Blackbird.’

“Machkan-na-skaya-jayrika then went and called for combat with a hundred fully trained heroes, or the sending out to him of the daughter of the King of the Universe. The hundred went out; and he and they began on each other, and he killed every one of them. The Son of the Wet Mantle called for combat with another hundred, or the sending out of the daughter of the King of the Universe. He killed that hundred with the short spear. The Son of Secret called for combat with another hundred, or the daughter of the King of the Universe. He killed every one of these with the short spear. I then went out to the field, and sounded a challenge on the shield, and made the town tremble. The Son of the Blackbird had not a man to send out: he had to come out himself; and he and I began on each other, and I drew the short spear, and swept his head off. I then went into the castle, and took out the daughter of the King of the Universe. It was thus that it fared with me.

“Stretch out your leg, Kayn, till I put a salve of herbs and healing to it. Salve and binding herb and the poultice are cooling; the worm is channering. Pressure and haste hard bind me, for I must hear Mass in the great church at Rome, and be in Norway before I sleep.”

Kayn Mac Loy stretched his leg; and the big man applied to it leaves of herbs and healing; and it was healed. The big man took him ashore from the island, and allowed him to go home to the king.

Thus did O’Cronicert win and lose a wife, and thus befell the Leeching of the leg of Kayn, son of Loy.

How Fin Went to the Kingdom of the Big Men

FIN^1 AND HIS MEN were in the Harbour of the Hill of Howth on a hillock, behind the wind and in front of the sun, where they could see every person, and nobody could see them, when they saw a speck coming from the west. They thought at first it was the blackness of a shower; but when it came nearer, they saw it was a boat. It did not lower sail till it entered the harbour. There were three men in it; one for guide in the bow, one for steering in the stern, and one for the tackle in the centre. They came ashore, and drew it up seven times its own length in dry grey grass, where the scholars of the city could not make it stock for derision or ridicule.

They then went up to a lovely green spot, and the first lifted a handful of round pebbles or shingle, and commanded them to become a beautiful house, that no better could be found in Ireland; and this was done. The second one lifted a slab of slate, and commanded it to be slate on the top of the house, that there was not better in Ireland; and this was done. The third one caught a bunch of shavings and commanded them to be pine-wood and timber in the house, that there was not in Ireland better; and this was done.

This caused much wonder to Fin, who went down where the men were, and made inquiries of them, and they answered him. He asked whence they were, or whither they were going. They said, “We are three Heroes whom the King of the Big Men has sent to ask combat of the Fians.” He then asked, “What was the reason for doing this?” They said they did not know, but they heard that they were strong men, and they came to ask combat of Heroes from them. “Is Fin at Home?” “He is not.” (Great is a man’s leaning towards his own life). Fin then put them under crosses and under enchantments, that they were not to move from the place where they were till they saw him again.

He went away and made ready his coracle, gave its stern to land and prow to sea, hoisted the spotted towering sails against the long, tough, lance-shaped mast, cleaving the billows in the embrace of the wind in whirls, with a soft gentle breeze from the height of the sea-coast, and from the rapid tide of the red rocks, that would take willom from the hill, foliage from the tree, and heather from its stock and roots. Fin was guide in her prow, helm in her stern, and tackle in her middle; and stopping of head or foot he did not make till he reached the Kingdom of the Big Men. He went ashore and drew up his coracle in grey grass. He went up, and a Big Wayfarer met him. Fin asked who he was. “I am,” he said, “the Red-haired Coward of the King of the Big Men; and,” said he to Fin, “you are the one I am in quest of. Great is my esteem and respect towards you; you are the best maiden I have ever seen; you will yourself make a dwarf for the King, and your dog (this was Bran) a lapdog. It is long since the King has been in want of a dwarf and a lapdog.” He took with him Fin; but another Big Man came, and was going to take Fin from him. The two fought; but when they had torn each other’s clothes, they left it to Fin to judge. He chose the first one. He took Fin with him to the palace of the King, whose worthies and high nobles assembled to see the little man. The king lifted him upon the palm of his hand, and went three times round the town with Fin upon one palm and Bran upon the other. He made a sleeping-place for him at the end of his own bed. Fin was waiting, watching, and observing everything that was going on about the house. He observed that the King, as soon as night came, rose and went out, and returned no more till morning. This caused him much wonder, and at last he asked the King why he went away every night and left the Queen by herself. “Why,” said the King, “do you ask?” “For satisfaction to myself,” said Fin; “for it is causing me much wonder.” Now the King had a great liking for Fin; he never saw anything that gave him more pleasure than he did; and at last he told him. “There is,” he said, “a great Monster who wants my daughter in marriage, and to have half my kingdom to himself; and there is not another man in the kingdom who can meet him but myself; and I must go every night to hold combat with him.” “Is there,” said Fin, “no man to combat with him but yourself?” “There is not,” said the King, “one who will war with him for a single night.” “It is a pity,” said Fin, “that this should be called the Kingdom of the Big Men. Is he bigger than yourself?” “Never you mind,” said the King. “I will mind,” said Fin; “take your rest and sleep tonight, and I shall go to meet him.” “Is it you?” said the King; “you would not keep half a stroke against him.”

When night came, and all men went to rest, the King was for going away as usual; but Fin at last prevailed upon him to allow himself to go. “I shall combat him,” said he, “or else he knows a trick.” “I think much,” said the King, “of allowing you to go, seeing he gives myself enough to do.” “Sleep you soundly tonight,” said Fin, “and let me go; if he comes too violently upon me, I shall hasten home.”

Fin went and reached the place where the combat was to be. He saw no one before him, and he began to pace backwards and forwards. At last he saw the sea coming in kilns of fire and as a darting serpent, till it came down below where he was. A Huge Monster came up and looked towards him, and from him. “What little speck do I see there?” he said. “It is I,” said Fin. “What are you doing here?” “I am a messenger from the King of the Big Men; he is under much sorrow and distress; the Queen has just died, and I have come to ask if you will be so good as to go home tonight without giving trouble to the kingdom.” “I shall do that,” said he; and he went away with the rough humming of a song in his mouth.

Fin went home when the time came, and lay down in his own bed, at the foot of the King’s bed. When the King awoke, he cried out in great anxiety, “My kingdom is lost, and my dwarf and my lapdog are killed!” “They are not,” said Fin; “I am here yet; and you have got your sleep, a thing you were saying it was rare for you to get.” “How,” said the King, “did you escape, when you are so little, while he is enough for myself, though I am so big.” “Though you,” said Fin, “are so big and strong, I am quick and active.”

Next night the King was for going; but Fin told him to take his sleep tonight again. “I shall stand myself in your place, or else a better hero than yonder one must come.” “He will kill you,” said the King. “I shall take my chance,” said Fin.

He went, and as happened the night before, he saw no one; and he began to pace backwards and forwards. He saw the sea coming in fiery kilns and as a darting serpent; and that Huge Man came up. “Are you here tonight again?” said he. “I am, and this is my errand: when the Queen was being put in the coffin, and the King heard the coffin being nailed, and the joiner’s stroke, he broke his heart with pain and grief; and the Parliament has sent me to ask you to go home tonight till they get the King buried.” The Monster went this night also, roughly humming a song; and Fin went home when the time came.

In the morning the King awoke in great anxiety, and called out, “My kingdom is lost, and my dwarf and my lapdog are killed!” and he greatly rejoiced that Fin and Bran were alive, and that he himself got rest, after being so long without sleep.

Fin went the third night, and things happened as before. There was no one before him, and he took to pacing to and fro. He saw the sea coming till it came down below him: the Big Monster came up; he saw the little black speck, and asked who was there, and what he wanted. “I have come to combat you,” said Fin.

Fin and Bran began the combat. Fin was going backwards, and the Huge Man was following. Fin called to Bran, “Are you going to let him kill me?” Bran had a venomous shoe; and he leaped and struck the Huge Man with the venomous shoe on the breast-bone, and took the heart and lungs out of him. Fin drew his sword, Mac-a-Luin, cut off his head, put it on a hempen rope, and went with it to the Palace of the King. He took it into the Kitchen, and put it behind the door. In the morning the servant could not turn it, nor open the door. The King went down; he saw the Huge Mass, caught it by the top of the head, and lifted it, and knew it was the head of the Man who was for so long a time asking combat from him, and keeping him from sleep. “How at all,” said he, “has this head come here? Surely it is not my dwarf that has done it.” “Why,” said Fin, “should he not?”

Next night the King wanted to go himself to the place of combat; “because,” said he, “a bigger one than the former will come tonight, and the kingdom will be destroyed, and you yourself killed; and I shall lose the pleasure I take in having you with me.” But Fin went, and that Big Man came, asking vengeance for his son, and to have the kingdom for himself, or equal combat. He and Fin fought; and Fin was going backwards. He spoke to Bran, “Are you going to allow him to kill me?” Bran whined, and went and sat down on the beach. Fin was ever being driven back, and he called out again to Bran. Then Bran jumped and struck the Big Man with the venomous shoe, and took the heart and the lungs out of him. Fin cut the head off, and took it with him, and left it in front of the house. The King awoke in great terror, and cried out, “My kingdom is lost, and my dwarf and my lapdog are killed!” Fin raised himself up and said, “They are not”; and the King’s joy was not small when he went out and saw the head that was in front of the house.

The next night a Big Hag came ashore, and the tooth in the door of her mouth would make a distaff. She sounded a challenge on her shield: “You killed,” she said, “my husband and my son.” “I did kill them,” said Fin. They fought; and it was worse for Fin to guard himself from the tooth than from the hand of the Big Hag. When she had nearly done for him Bran struck her with the venomous shoe, and killed her as he had done to the rest. Fin took with him the head, and left it in front of the house. The King awoke in great anxiety, and called out, “My kingdom is lost, and my dwarf and my lapdog are killed!” “They are not,” said Fin, answering him; and when they went out and saw the head, the King said, “I and my kingdom will have peace ever after this. The mother herself of the brood is killed; but tell me who you are. It was foretold for me that it would be Fin-mac-Coul that would give me relief, and he is only now eighteen years of age. Who are you, then, or what is your name?” “There never stood,” said Fin, “on hide of cow or horse, one to whom I would deny my name. I am Fin, the Son of Coul, son of Looach, son of Trein, son of Fin, son of Art, son of the young High King of Erin; and it is time for me now to go home. It has been with much wandering out of my way that I have come to your kingdom; and this is the reason why I have come, that I might find out what injury I have done to you, or the reason why you sent the three heroes to ask combat from me, and bring destruction on my Men.” “You never did any injury to me,” said the King; “and I ask a thousand pardons. I did not send the heroes to you. It is not the truth they told. They were three men who were courting three fairy women, and these gave them their shirts; and when they have on their shirts, the combat of a hundred men is upon the hand of every one of them. But they must put off the shirts every night, and put them on the backs of chairs; and if the shirts were taken from them they would be next day as weak as other people.”

Fin got every honour, and all that the King could give him, and when he went away, the King and the Queen and the people went down to the shore to give him their blessing.

Fin now went away in his coracle, and was sailing close by the side of the shore, when he saw a young man running and calling out to him. Fin came in close to land with his coracle, and asked what he wanted. “I am,” said the young man, “a good servant wanting a master.” “What work can you do?” said Fin. “I am,” said he, “the best soothsayer that there is.” “Jump into the boat then.” The soothsayer jumped in, and they went forward.

They did not go far when another youth came running. “I am,” he said, “a good servant wanting a master.” “What work can you do?” said Fin. “I am as good a thief as there is.” “Jump into the boat, then”; and Fin took with him this one also. They saw then a third young man running and calling out. They came close to land. “What man are you?” said Fin. “I am,” said he, “the best climber that there is. I will take up a hundred pounds on my back in a place where a fly could not stand on a calm summer day.” “Jump in”; and this one came in also. “I have my pick of servants now,” said Fin; “it cannot be but these will suffice.”

They went; and stop of head or foot they did not make till they reached the Harbour of the Hill of Howth. He asked the soothsayer what the three Big Men were doing. “They are,” he said, “after their supper, and making ready for going to bed.”

He asked a second time. “They are,” he said, “after going to bed; and their shirts are spread on the back of chairs.”

After a while, Fin asked him again, “What are the Big Men doing now?” “They are,” said the soothsayer, “sound asleep.” “It would be a good thing if there was now a thief to go and steal the shirts.” “I would do that,” said the thief, “but the doors are locked, and I cannot get in.” “Come,” said the climber, “on my back, and I shall put you in.” He took him up upon his back to the top of the chimney, and let him down, and he stole the shirts.

Fin went where the Fian band was; and in the morning they came to the house where the three Big Men were. They sounded a challenge upon their shields, and asked them to come out to combat.

They came out. “Many a day,” said they, “have we been better for combat than we are today,” and they confessed to Fin everything as it was. “You were,” said Fin, “impertinent, but I will forgive you”; and he made them swear that they would be faithful to himself ever after, and ready in every enterprise he would place before them.

Footnotes for How Fin went to the Kingdom of the Big Men

1. Fin M’Coul a.k.a Finn mac Cumaill of Fenian legend.

The Ridere of Riddles

THERE WAS A KING ONCE, and he married a great lady, and she departed on the birth of her first son. And a little after this the king married another wife, and she too had a son. The two lads grew up tall and strong. Then it struck the queen that it was not her son who would come into the kingdom; and she set it before her that she would poison the eldest son. And so she sent advice to the cooks that they should put poison in the drink of the heir; but as luck was in it, the youngest brother heard them, and he told his brother not to take the draught, nor to drink it at all; and so he did. But the queen wondered that the lad was not dead; and she thought that there was not enough of poison in the drink, and she asked the cook to put in more on the second night. It was thus they did: and when the cook made up the drink, she said that he would not be long alive after this draught. But his brother heard this also, and told him likewise. The eldest thought he would put the draught into a little bottle, and he said to his brother – “If I stay in this house I have no doubt she will do for me some way or other, and the quicker I leave the house the better. I will take the world for my pillow, and there is no knowing what fortune will be on me.” His brother said that he would go with him, and they took themselves off to the stable, and they put saddles on two horses and they took their soles out of that.

They had not gone very far from the house when the eldest one said – “There is no knowing if poison was in the drink at all, though we went away. Try it in the horse’s ear and we shall see.” The horse did not go far before he fell. “That was only a rattle-bones of a horse anyway,” said the eldest one, and they got up together on the other horse, and so they went forwards. “But,” said he, “I can scarce believe that there is any poison in the drink; let’s try it on this horse.” That he did, and they went not far when the horse fell cold dead. They thought they’d take the hide off him, and that it would keep them warm at night which was close at hand. In the morning when they woke they saw twelve ravens come and light on the carcase of the horse, and they were not long there when they fell down dead.

They went and lifted the ravens, and they took them with them, and the first town they reached they gave the ravens to a baker, and they asked him to make a dozen pies of the ravens. They took the pies with them, and they went forward on their journey. About the mouth of night, and when they were in a great thick wood, there came four and twenty robbers who bade them to deliver up their purses; but they said that they had no purse, but only a little food which they were carrying with them. “Good is even meat!” said the robbers, and they began to eat it, but had not eaten much when they fell hither and thither, all stone dead. When they saw that the robbers were dead they ransacked their pockets, and got much gold and silver. They went forward till they reached the Knight of Riddles.

The house of the Knight of Riddles was in the finest place in that country, and if his house was pretty, his daughter was prettier, and she had twelve maidens with her only less fair than she. Her like was not on the surface of the world, altogether so handsome was she; and no one would get her to marry but the man who could put a question to her father that he could not solve. The brothers thought that they would go and try to put a question to him; and the youngest was to stand in place of gillie to the elder brother. They reached the house of the Knight of Riddles and this was the question they put to him – “One killed two, and two killed twelve, and twelve killed four and twenty, and two got out of it”; and they were to be kept in great majesty and high honour till he should solve the riddle.

They were thus a while with the Ridere, and try as he might he could not guess the riddle. On a day of days came one of the maidens who were with the knight’s daughter to the gillie, and asked him to tell her the question. He took her plaid from her and let her go, but he told her nothing. The same thing happened to the twelve maidens, day after day, and the gillie said to the last one that no creature had the answer to the riddle but his master down below. One day after this came the knight’s daughter to the eldest brother, and looking her finest and handsomest, and she asked him to tell her the question. And now there was no refusing her, and he told her, but he kept her plaid. The Knight of Riddles sent for him, and he gave him the answer of the riddle. And the knight said that he had two choices: to lose his head, or to be set adrift in a crazy boat without food or drink, without oar or scoop. The elder brother spoke, and he said – “I have another riddle to put to thee before all these things happen.” “Say on,” said the knight. “Myself and my gillie were one day in the forest shooting. My gillie fired at a hare, and she fell, and he took her skin off, and let her go; and so he did to twelve, he took their skins off and let them go. And at last came a great fine hare, and I myself fired at her, and I took her skin off, and I let her go.” “Indeed thy riddle is not hard to solve, my lad,” said the knight, and he knew the lad knew he had not really guessed the riddle, but had been told the answer. So he gave him his daughter to wife, to make him hold his peace, and they made a great hearty wedding that lasted a day and a year. The youngest one went home now that his brother had got so well on his way, and the eldest brother gave him every right over the kingdom that was at home.

Now there were near the march of the kingdom of the Knight of Riddles three giants, and they were always murdering and slaying some of the knight’s people, and taking spoil from them. On a day of days the Knight of Riddles said to his son-in-law, that if the spirit of a man were in him, he would go to kill the giants, as they were always bringing such losses on the country. Well, so it was, he went and he met the giants, and he came home with the three giants’ heads, and he threw them at the knight’s feet. “Thou art an able lad doubtless, and thy name hereafter is the Hero of the White Shield.” The name of the Hero of the White Shield went far and near.

Meanwhile the brother of the Hero of the White Shield had wandered afar in many countries, and after long years had come to the land of the giants where the Hero of the White Shield was now dwelling, and the knight’s daughter with him. His brother came and he asked to make a covrag or fight as a bull with him. The men began at each other, and they took to wrestling from morning till evening. At last and at length, when they were tired, weak, and spent, the Hero of the White Shield jumped over a great rampart, and he asked the stranger to meet him in the morning. This leap put the other to shame, and he said to him, “Well may it be that thou wilt not be so supple about this time tomorrow.” The young brother now went to a poor little bothy that was near to the house of the Hero of the White Shield, tired and drowsy, and in the morning they dared the fight again. And the Hero of the White Shield began to go back, till he went backwards into a river. “There must be some of my blood in thee before that was done to me.” “Of what blood art thou?” said the youngest. “’Tis I am son of Ardan, great King of the Albann.” “’Tis I am thy brother.” It was now they knew each other. They gave luck and welcome to each other, and the Hero of the White Shield now took him into the palace, and she it was that was pleased to see him – the knight’s daughter. He stayed a while with them, and after that he thought that he would go home to his own kingdom; and when he was going past a great palace that was there he saw twelve men playing at shinny over against the palace. He thought he would go for a while and play shinny with them; but they were not long playing shinny when they fell out, and the weakest of them caught him and shook him as he would a child. He thought it was no use for him to lift a hand amongst these twelve worthies, and he asked them to whom they were sons. They said they were children of the one father, the brother of the Hero of the White Shield, who had not been heard of for many years. “I am your father,” said he; and he asked them if their mother was alive. They said that she was. He went with them till he found the mother, and he took her home with him and the twelve sons; and I don’t know but that his seed are kings on Alba till this very day.

TALES OF FAIRIES & SEA-FOLK

Introduction

WHEN DARKNESS FELL across the land, and the hush of evening brought sounds that belonged to no mortal man, the time was ripe for fairies and other wee folk to leave their realm and enter our own. Anything strange, complex or perhaps a little frightening must have a cause, and it was these creatures who were held responsible for acts for which no one else would take the blame. The mischievous deeds of the fairies and their compatriots were the cause of much illness and heartache, but by the same token, they could make a hero of a man, and bring roses to the face of a sickly baby. Fairies were dangerous, and folk from the sea could be fierce and unfamiliar, but the infinite battle to live with them provided a formula, a structure for daily existence, when life and death and nature held all the fear of the unknown, and a crying baby, that tapping on the window, the light that glinted over the treetops meant something altogether different.

MacCodrum’s Seal Wife

DEEP IN THE COLD SEA, long before men chanced the waves for the first time, there lived a king and his queen, and their lovely sea-children. The children were elegant, graceful creatures, with deep brown eyes and voices that filled the sea with laughter and song. They dwelt deep in that sea, in happiness and in comfort, and spent days chasing one another through the schools of fish, catching a ride on a tail, hiding in a murky cave, frolicking in the waves that caressed their young bodies and made them strong.

And so their days were spent, and they were fed and loved by the kindly queen and her husband, who brushed their hair, and stroked their heads, and gave them a home like none other. Until the sad day when the queen became ill and died, and left her children forlorn and lonely, but still with the sea as their home, and the fish, and the warm waves to comfort them. Their voices were softer now, and their music still sweet, but the king was concerned about their uncombed hair, and their unstroked heads, and he began to search for a mother for the sea-children.

The king found them a mother in a darker part of the sea, where the sun could not light the coral reefs, or dance upon the weeds and the shimmering scales of the fish. The mother was in fact a witch, and she charmed the king with a magic potion that put him under her spell. She came with him to the lighter part of the sea, where the sun kissed the elegant bodies of the sea-children, glowed in their soft brown eyes, and she made her home there, combing their hair, and stroking their heads, but never loving them, and so the friendly waters grew cold, and although the light continued to dance, and the waves lapped at their bodies, the children were sad and downcast.

And so it was that the witch decided to dispose of these sea-children, and from the depths of her wicked being she created a cruel spell that would rid the sea-children of their elegance and their beauty. She turned them to seals, who could live no longer in the marine palace of their father the king, their graceful limbs replaced by heavy bodies and sleek dark fur. They were to live in the sea for all but one day each year when they could find a secluded shore and transform, for just that day, into children once more.

But the witch could not rob the children of everything, and although their bodies were ungainly, and they were beautiful children no longer, they re-tained their soft brown eyes, and their music was as pure and mellifluous as the wind in the trees, as the birds who flew above the water.

Time went on, and the seals grew used to their shiny coats, and to the sea, where they played once again in the waves, and fished, and sang, but they loved too becoming children again, that one day each year, and it was when they had shed their coats, beautiful children once more, that they were seen for the first time by human eyes, those belonging to a fisherman who lived on an isolated rock, a man called Roderic MacCodrum, of the Clan Donald, in the Outer Hebrides.

On this fateful day he walked to the beach to rig his boat when he heard the sound of exquisite singing, and he hid himself behind some driftwood and watched the delightful dance of the sea-children, who waved arms that were no longer clumsy seal flippers, and who ran with legs that were long and lean. Their soft brown eyes were alight with happiness and never before had Roderic MacCodrum seen such a sight.

His eyes sparkled. He must have one. And so it was that Roderic MacCodrum stole one of the glistening pelts that lay cast to the side of the beach, and put it above the rafters in his barn, safe from the searching eyes of the young seal woman who came to call.

The seal woman was elegant and beautiful, her long hair hiding her comely nakedness. She implored him to return her coat to her, but he feigned concern and told her that he knew not where it was. In despair she sat down on his doorstep, her head in her hands, and it was then that he offered her a life on land, as his wife and lover. Because she had no seal skin like her brothers and sisters, and no place to go, she agreed, and so it was that the seal woman came to live with Roderic MacCodrum, where she lived happily, or so it was thought, and bore him many children.

But the seal woman, or Selkie as she came to be called, had a cold, lonely heart, and although she loved and nurtured her children, and grew to find a kind of peace with her husband, she longed for the waves, for the cold fresh waters of the sea. And she would sit on its shores and she would sing a song that was so haunting, so melancholy that the seals would come to her here and cease their frolicking to return her unhappy song, to sing with her of times gone by when the waves and the water comforted them and made them strong, when the sun in the lighter part of the sea kissed their elegant bodies and made them gleam with light.

And then at night she would return to her cottage, and light the peat in the hearth, and make a home for her family, all the while living her life in her dreams of the sea.

It was her unknowing child who found the beautiful fur coat, fallen from its hiding place in the rafters, where it had remained unseen for all those years, and she brought it to her mother whose eyes glowed with a warmth that none had seen before. Her mother kissed her then, and all her brothers and sisters, and whispered that they must look out for her, for she would be back.

Roderic MacCodrum of the Seals, as he had come to be known, returned to his cottage that night to find it empty and cold, like the heart of the seal woman he had married, and his children were lined on the beaches, bereft and alone, for their mother had left for the chill waters and she had not come back.

Their mother never came back, for she had gone with that lustrous fur coat, that gleamed in the light like her soft brown eyes when she saw it. They heard her, though, for from the sea came those same lilting melodies, happier now, to be sure. And they often saw a graceful seal, who came closer to shore than the others, and who seemed to beckon, and in whose presence they felt a strange comfort, a familiar warmth, especially when the sun caught those soft brown eyes they knew so well.

The Fairies and the Blacksmith

THERE ONCE WAS A BLACKSMITH by the name of Alasdair MacEachern, and he lived in a cottage on the Isle of Islay with his son Neil. They lived alone for the blacksmith’s poor wife had breathed no more than once or twice when Neil was born to them, but Alasdair MacEachern, or Alasdair of the Strong Arm, as he came to be known, found great comfort in his son and they lived contentedly, with familiar habits and routines that brought them much happiness.

Neil was a slim youth, with unruly hair and eyes that shone with dreams. He was quiet, but easy, and his slight, pale frame gave him the countenance of one weaker than he was. When Neil was but a child the neighbours of Alasdair MacEachern had warned the blacksmith of the fairies who lived just over the knoll, the fairies who would find one so slight and dreamy a perfect prize for their Land of Light. And so it was that each night Alasdair MacEachern hung above the door to his cottage a branch of rowan, a charm against the fairies who might come to steal away his son.

They lived many years this way, until the day came when Alasdair MacEachern had to travel some distance, sleeping the night away from his cottage and his son. Before he left, he warned his son about the rowan branch, and Neil agreed to put it in its place above the door that night. Neil loved the green grass of the hills, and to breathe in the crisp, sunlit air of the banks of the streams that trickled through their land, but he loved more his life with his father and his work on the forge. He had no wish for a life of dancing and eternal merriment in the Land of Light.

And so it was that Neil wished his father a fond farewell, swept the cottage, tended to the goats and to the chickens, and made himself a feast of corn-bread and oatcakes, and goat’s cheese and milk, and took himself to the soft green grass of the hills, and walked there by the sunlit banks of the streams until dark fell upon him. And then Neil returned to his cottage next to the forge, and he swept the crumbs from his pockets, and tended to the goats and to the chickens, and laid himself in his tiny box-bed in the corner of the room, by the roaring hearth, and fell fast asleep. Not once had the thought of the branch of rowan crept across his sleepy mind.

It was late in the afternoon when Alasdair of the Strong Arm returned to his cottage, and he found the hearth quite cold, and the floor unswept, and the goats and the chickens untended. His son was there, for he answered his father’s call, but there was no movement from his box-bed in the corner and Alasdair crossed the room with great concern.

“I am ill, Father,” said a small, weak voice, and there laid the body of Neil, yellowed and shrunk, hardly denting his meagre mattress.

“But how ... how could, in just one day ...” Alasdair stared with shock at his son, for he smelled old, of decay, and his skin was like charred paper, folded and crisp and creased. But it was his son, no doubt, for the shape and the face were the same. And Neil laid like this for days on end, changing little, but eating steadily, his appetite strange and fathomless. And it was because of this strange illness that Alasdair MacEachern paid a visit to a wiseman, who came at once to the bedside of Neil, for he was a boy well regarded by his neighbours.

The wiseman looked only once at Neil, and drew the unhappy blacksmith outside the cottage. He asked many questions and then he was quiet. When he finally spoke his words were measured, and his tone quite fearful. The blood of Alasdair MacEachern ran cold.

“This is not your son Neil,” said the man of knowledge. “He has been carried off by the Little People and they have left a changeling in his place.”

“Alas, then, what can I do?” The great blacksmith was visibly trembling now, for Neil was as central to his life as the fiery heat of the forge itself. And then the wiseman spoke, and he told Alasdair MacEachern how to proceed.

“You must first be sure that is a changeling lying in the bed of Neil, and you must go back to the cottage and collect as many egg shells as you can, filling them with water and carrying them as if they weighed more than ten tons of iron and bricks. And then, arrange them round the side of the fire where the changeling can see you. His words will give him away.”

So Alasdair MacEachern gathered together the shells of twenty eggs and did as he was bidden, and soon a thin voice called out from his son’s bed, “In all of my eight hundred years I have never seen such a sight.” And with a hoot and a cackle, the changeling sank back into the bed.

Alasdair returned to the wiseman and confirmed what had taken place. The old man nodded his head.

“It is indeed a changeling and he must be disposed of, before you can bring back your son. You must follow these steps: light a large, hot fire in the centre of the cottage, where it can be easily seen by the changeling. And then, when he asks you “What’s the use of that”, you must grab him by the shirtfront, and thrust him deep into the fire. Then he’ll fly through the roof of the cottage.”

Alasdair of the Strong Arm did as requested, certain now that that wizened, strange creature was not his son, and as the fire began to roar, the voice called out, reedy and slim, “What’s the use of that?” at which the brave blacksmith seized the body that lay in Neil’s bed and placed it firmly in the flames. There was a terrible scream, and the changeling flew straight through the roof, a sour yellow smoke all that remained of him.

And so Alasdair MacEachern cleared away the traces of the fire, and returned once more to the man of knowledge, for it was time to find his son, and he could delay no longer.

The wiseman bade him go to fetch three things: a Bible, a sword, and a crow-ing cock. He was to follow the stream that trickled through their land to the grassy green knoll where the fairies danced and played eternally. On the night of the next full moon, that hill would open, and it was through this door that Alasdair must go to seek his son.

It was many days before the moon had waned, and then waxed again, but it stood, a gleaming beacon in the sky at last, and Alasdair MacEachern collected together his sword and his Bible and his crowing cock and set out for the green knoll where the fairies danced. And as the moon rose high in the sky, and lit the shadowy land, a door burst open in the hill, spilling out laughter and song and a bright light that blazed like the fire in the hearth of the blacksmith’s cottage. And it was into that light and sound that the courageous Alasdair MacEachern stepped, firmly thrusting his sword into the frame of the door to stop it closing, for no fairy can touch the sword of a mortal man.

There, at a steaming forge, stood his son, as small and as wild-looking as the little folk themselves. He worked silently, absorbed in his labours, and started only when he heard the voice of his father.

“Release my son from this enchantment,” shouted Alasdair MacEachern, holding the Bible high in the air, for fairies have no power over mortals who hold the good Lord’s book, and they stood back now, cross and foiled.

“Return him to me, to his own land,” bawled the blacksmith, but the fairies began to smirk, and they slowly crept around him in a circle, taunting him, poking at him with blades of honed green grass. They began to dance, a slow and wiry gyration, moving to a weird song that tugged at the mind of the black-smith, that threatened to overcome him. He struggled to stay upright, and as he stabbed his arms out in front of him, he dropped his cock, who woke with a howl and gave one mighty crow that sent the little fairies shrieking from the doorway to the other side, sent them howling away from the cock and the blacksmith and his son, who they pushed now towards him, sending them all slipping towards the threshold of their world. For daylight was the curfew of the fairies, and it was with true fear that the crow of the red-combed cock was heard, for little people may never see the light of day per chance they turn at once to stone.

They struggled now, prodding the mortals from their world, and begging in an awkward chant for Alasdair MacEachern to release his dirk from their door. And as he drew it from the threshold, and stood once more in the land of mortals with his son, a small and crafty fairy thrust his face from the hill-side, and called out a curse that fell upon the son of the hapless blacksmith like the mist of a foggy night.

“May your son not speak until the day he breaks the curse.” The head popped back, and the fairy was gone, never to be seen again.

And so it was that Alasdair MacEachern and his son Neil went to live again in their familiar, cosy cottage next to the forge, and took up their work, their habits and their routines in place once more. Neil’s tongue was frozen by the curse of the fairies, but his manner was unchanged, and this father and his son lived contentedly, for speech is not always necessary to those who live simply, with things and people to which they have grown accustomed.

One day, a year and a week from the fairy’s fateful full moon, Alasdair set his son the task of forging the new claymore for the Chief of his clan. As his silent son held the metal to the fire, he started, and looked for one instant as wild as he had in the Land of the Light, for suddenly Neil had remembered, and in that flash of memory he recalled the intricate forging of the fairies’ swords, how he’d learned to temper the blades of their glowing weapons with words of wisdom and charms, with magic and spells as well as with fire. Now he leapt into action, and worked with a ferocity and speed that set his father, Alasdair of the Strong Arm, reeling with shock and with fear.

And then the motion stopped, and holding up a sword that gleamed like the light of the full moon, he said quietly, “There is a sword that will never fail the man who grasps it by the hilt.”

From that time onwards Neil spoke again, for unwittingly he had removed the curse of the fairies by fashioning a fairy sword to sever a fairy spell. Never again did he remember his days in the fairy kingdom, never again could he forge a fairy sword, but the Chief of his clan never lost a battle from that day, and the sword remained the greatest of his possessions.

Neil and his father, Alasdair MacEachern, returned to their cottage, the finest blacksmiths in all the land, their forge casting a glow that could be seen from hills all round, almost as far as the Land of Light, where the fairies kick up their heels in fury at the thought of that blacksmith and his clever son.

The Fairy Changeling

THERE ONCE WAS A WOMAN who lived on the sea, where the winds blew cold and damp. By day she combed the sands for seaweed, and by night she lay alone in her bed, weak and lonely, for her husband was a fisherman and by the light of the moon he trawled the rocky coasts, eking a cruel living, but one which kept them fed and warm in a cosy cottage.

The woman longed for a child, but it was many years before she was granted her wish, and when her baby finally came he was small and feeble. Her neighbours said he would die, or worse, be snatched by the fairies who loved a child so fair of complexion, so slight of build. He would be taken, they said, to the Land of Light where the fairies danced and sang and played all day, where they set traps and tricks for mortal folk who crossed their merry paths.

The fisherman’s poor wife could not help but think that a life of laughter would bring roses to the cheeks of her white child, and she wished with all her being that he would be stolen by the fairies, and taken to a land where he could become strong. And so it was that the fisherman’s wife set her child out on the rocks, on the edge of her land, and watched and waited. She slept for a few moments, but otherwise moved not, and still her baby lay there, swad-dled and spiritless, an invitation to the little folk which was not accepted.

At length she berated herself for the foolhardy actions, and brought her baby into the cottage once more. And there he surprised her by pulling himself up and demanding food, attaching himself to her teat with such relish that she drew back. He suckled the woman dry, and then demanded porridge, but still he lay small and wizened, more yellow than before, but so hungry that she could not feed him.

So the fisherman’s wife placed her baby at her breast, and went to see the wiseman in the village, anxious about her small but starving baby, frightened by his curious change.

The wiseman listened carefully to her story, silently shaking his head.

“You have not your own bairn, but a fairy changeling,” he said finally.

The wife of the fisherman balked, for there in front of her was the very shape and likeness of her baby, and the cry was as shrill as ever. She refused to believe him.

“Take him, then, to your cottage, and leave him in his cradle. Shut the door, but do not go. Spy upon him there and you will be sure.”

And so the fisherman’s wife returned to her cottage, and laid the baby upon his bed, shutting the door firmly behind her, but skulking back to peer in the window. And suddenly her baby sat up and drew from under the mattress a chanter, which he began to play. And instead of her baby there was an old fairy bodach.

She fairly flew back to the wiseman, and implored him to help her get rid of the changeling, sickened at the thought of having suckled that gnarled old creature. Calmly the wiseman told her what to do.

The very next day, the wife of the fisherman took her changeling baby and laid him on a rock by the sea, busying herself by collecting seaweed as she did on every day that passed, and comforted by this routine, the baby, or the fairy bodach as she now knew he was, fell asleep. As he slept the tide drew in, licking at the rock on which he slept, until the waters began to dampen his wrappings, and he woke with a start. When he realized that he could not reach the fisherman’s wife without swimming he rose to his full height, and a little fairy man once more he began to stamp his feet and howl, shaking his fist at the fisherman’s wife who stood entranced as the waters threatened to engulf the fierce fairy.

And so it was that ten or twelve small fairies appeared to rescue their kin, but since fairies cannot swim, they danced helplessly on the shore while the water grew higher and higher about the rock. The fisherman’s wife was smug, and she said, “I shall leave him there, until you return my baby.”

And the fairies disappeared and returned with her baby, who had grown in his time away from his mother, and whose cheeks were roses, whose white skin held the bloom of good health. And she thanked the fairies, and returned their bodach to them.

So the fisherman’s wife, flushed with her good fortune, went back to her cosy cottage, protected from the winds which blew cold and damp from the sea. She lived there with her blossoming baby, by day combing the sands for sea-weed, and at night nestling warm in her bed with her son, silently thanking the little people who had made him strong.

The Thirsty Ploughman

IT WAS IN BERNERAY that two men from Brusda walked along a hot and sun-burnt field, parched from the fiery sun, from a long day of ploughing. Sweat glistened on their brows and they talked little, saving words for a time when their tongues were moister. Their feet were bare and despite the great heat they moved quickly, thirsting for a drink, for cool refreshment.

They passed across a rocky knoll and then they heard a woman, working at a churn. They looked at one another with relief.

“Ah, Donald,” said Ewan, the slighter of the two men, “if the milkmaid had my thirst, what a drink of buttermilk she would drink.”

Donald was not sure. “Ah, it’s not buttermilk I would care for,” he said.

As they carried on over the dry brush that lined the hillock, the sound of the fresh milk splashing in the churn grew louder, more enticing, and both men licked their lips at the thought of it. There before them stood a fair maiden, her apron starched crisp white, holding a jug that foamed with pure butter-milk. She offered it to them then, Ewan first because he was the smaller of the two.

Ewan refused to drink because he knew neither the maiden nor the source of the buttermilk. He was afraid of what he did not know and though he thirsted for the cool milk, he would allow none to pass his lips.

Donald, who cared not for buttermilk, drank deeply from the jug, and wiping the frosting of white lather from his lip, he declared it the best he had ever tasted.

“Ah,” said the bonny maiden, whose face was cool with contempt, “you who asked for the drink and did not accept it will have a short life. And you,” she gestured to Donald, “you who took the drink, but did not ask for it, a long life and good living.”

She turned on her heel, and apron bright in the sunlight, left the men, one thirsty and one sated.

And so it was that Ewan returned home that night and took to his bed, never to waken, for the fear of God had been put into him that day by the maiden on the hill, who could be none other than a witch. And Donald lived a long and prosperous life, ploughing his field alone, but reaping better crops, and amassing great riches. He looked always across the knoll, listened intently for the sound of milk in the churn, but never again did he see the witch, or fairy, though he blessed her often.

Wee Johnnie in the Cradle

THERE ONCE WAS A MAN and his wife who lived on a farm on the edge of a wood where fairies were known to lay their small hats. They were a young man and wife and they had not been married long before a child was born to them, a child they called Johnnie. Now wee Johnnie was an unhappy baby, and from the beginning he cried so loudly that the birds ceased their flight over the farmer’s cottage, and the creatures of the woodland kept a surly distance. The man’s wife longed for the days when she could tend the fields with her husband, and chat to him of things which those who are newly wed have to chat of, and to go to market, where they would share a dram and have a carry-on like they had in the days before wee Johnnie was born.

But Johnnie was there now, and their cosy cottage became messy and damp, and some days the hearth was not lit because the man and his wife were so intent on silencing the squalling boy, and some days they could not even look one another in the eye, so unhappy and disillusioned they had become.

And then, perchance, a kindly neighbour, a tailor by trade, took pity on the man and his wife, who grew ever thinner and ever more hostile as the cries of wee Johnnie grew wilder and lustier as he grew larger and stronger.

“I’ll take yer bairn and ye can take yer wife to market,” he said to the farmer one day, and the man and his wife eagerly agreed and set off for the day.

They had not been gone longer than a minute or two, when the kindly tailor, who had placed himself beside the fire and was bracing himself for an afternoon of wailing, was startled from his reverie by a deep voice.

“Fetch me a glass o’ that whiskey, there, in the press,” it said. And the tailor looked about him in amazement, the room empty but for the wee Johnnie in the cradle who was mercifully silent.

“I said to ye, fetch me a glass,” and up from the cradle of wee Johnnie popped wee Johnnie’s head, and from the mouth on that head came that deep and bossy voice.

The tailor rose and did as he was bidden, and when the baby had drained the glass, and then another, and let out a belch that was very unbabyish indeed, he said to the wee bairn, “You aren’t Johnnie, are ye, ye are a fairy without a doubt.”

“And if I am,” said the fairy changeling, “what will ye say to them, me mam and da?”

“I, I dunna know,” said the tailor carefully, settling himself back into his chair to watch the fairy more carefully.

“Get me some pipes,” said Johnnie the fairy, “I like a bit of music with me drink.”

“I haven’t any ... and I dunna play,” said the tailor, crossing himself and moving further from the loathsome baby.

“Fetch me a straw then,” he replied. And when the tailor complied, the fairy Johnnie played a song which was so exquisite, so effortlessly beautiful that the tailor was quite calmed. Never before had he heard music so haunting, and he would remember that melody until his dying day, although he could never repeat it himself or pass it on. But he was broken from his reverie, for wee Johnnie was speaking.

“Me mam and da, when will they be back?” he whispered.

The tailor looked startled, for the day had been pulled from under him, and it was time indeed for the farmer and his wife to return. He looked anxiously from the window and as they drew up he heard wee Johnnie begin to howl with all the vigour of a slaughtered beast, and he watched as a deep frown furrowed the brow of the farmer’s wife, and a dull shadow cast itself across the face of her husband.

He must tell them, for the cruel fairy was manipulating them, taunting them with his tortuous cries. And their own wee bairn was somewhere lost to them.

He pulled the farmer aside as his wife went to tend to the wailing bairn, and told him of the fairy. A bemused look crossed his face and he struggled to keep his composure. “My wife, she’ll not believe it,” he said finally.

But the tailor had a plan. He told the farmer to pretend to leave for market the following day, and he, the tailor, would step in to look after the bairn once again. But the farmer and his wife were not really to leave, they should hide themselves outside the cottage walls and watch when the wee Johnnie thought them gone.

And so it happened that the next day the man and his wife set out for market again, but drove their horses only round the grassy bend, returning stealthily to look through the windows of their cottage. And there was wee Johnnie, sipping on a glass of their best whiskey, puffing idly on a straw pipe that played a song which was so exquisite, so effortlessly beautiful that they were quite calmed. Never before had they heard music so haunting, and they would remember that melody until their dying day, although they could never repeat it.

But when they heard that wee Johnnie’s coarse voice demanding more drink, they were snapped from their reverie, and they flew into the cottage and thrust the changeling intruder on the burning griddle which the tailor had prepared for that purpose.

And the scream that ensued was not that of their own baby, and the puff of sickening smoke which burst from the fairy as he disappeared renewed their determination.

And then there was silence, an empty peace that caused the man and his wife to look at one another in dismay, for what had they done to cause their baby to be stolen from them, and where was their own wee Johnnie now?

Then a gurgle burst forth, and there was a movement in the corner of the room where the tiny cradle lay. They rushed to its side, and there lay Johnnie, brought back from his fairy confinement, smiling and waving tiny fat arms, with cheeks like pink buttons, and a smile so merry that the cottage of the man and his wife was warmed once again.

The tailor left them then, a grin on his face as he whistled to himself a tune which was so exquisite, so effortlessly beautiful that he was quite calmed.

The Fairy Dancers

IT WAS CHRISTMAS EVE and by the Loch Etive sat two farmers, longing for a drink but with an empty barrel between them. And so it was decided, on that icy Christmas Eve, that these two farmers would walk the road to Kingshouse, their nearest inn, and they would buy a barrel of the best whiskey there, a three-gallon jar that would warm them through the frosty months to come.

So they set off along the winding road, and over the hills that glistened with snow, all frosted with ice, and came to the warm wooded inn at Kingshouse. It was there that a cup of tea was shared, and a wee dram or two, and so the two men were quite merry as they set off home again, the three-gallon jar heavy on the back of the youngest man, for they would take turns carrying its weight on the long journey down the winding road and over the hills.

And over the hills they went but they were stopped there, by the need for a taste of that whiskey, and for a smoke. Then the sound of a fantastic reel grew louder and louder, and a light shone brighter over the hills, towards the north.

“Och, it’s just a wee star,” said one man, ready for his smoke and his tipple.

“Nah, it’s a light, and there’s a party there to be sure,” said the other, who was a great dancer and loved a reel more than any other.

So they crossed the brae to the north, towards the light, and the sound of pipes, which played a fine tune. There in front of them were dancers, women in silk dresses, bowing and twirling, and men in highland dress, with pipes playing an enchanted, fine tune that drew them towards the hill.

The younger man, who carried the jar, went first, and as he entered the great door in the hillside, and joined the merry throng, the door was closed. When the other farmer, slower than the first, reached the site, there was nothing to be found. For his friend had disappeared and there was no trace of him.

It was a cold and lonely walk home, and the farmer puzzled over what had occurred on that moonlit hill, with a magical reel playing from a light that shone in the darkness. He went first to the farm of the other man, and he told his wife what had happened, but as he talked, faces closed, and brows became furrowed, and it was clear that he was not believed, that no man could lose his friend on a hill just a few miles from home.

And so it was that the policemen were called from Inveraray, and they took him away and asked him questions that made his head spin, and caused him to slump over in exhaustion, and he wished more than anything for a drop of the whiskey that was hung on the other man’s back. They kept him there, the police, and he was sent to trial, but he told them all the same thing, how a magical reel had played from a light that shone in the darkness, and how his friend had disappeared without trace.

He was sent back to that prison, and when they asked him again, he could only tell the truth of that fateful night, so they asked him no more, and sent him home, for he would not budge from his story, and that story never changed.

And it was near twelve months before this man had cause to travel past that hill again, and with him this time were some lads from the village who had set themselves the task of catching some fish for the Christmas feast. And with a basket full of fish, they stopped on their way back to their homes, with the need for a smoke and a taste of the whiskey that the farmer had tucked in his belt. And there again they heard that fantastic music, and saw the light beaming from the darkness of the hills.

But the lads from the village had heard too much of this madness, and they struggled home with the fish, ahead of the farmer who wanted more than anything to find his friend, and that barrel of whiskey. So the farmer climbed over the hills, towards that light, and he heard there the sound of pipes, which played a fine tune. There in front of him were dancers, women in silk dresses, bowing and twirling, and men in highland dress, with pipes playing an enchanted, fine tune that drew him towards the hill.

And he stuck his fishing hook in the threshold of the door, for no fairy can touch the metal of a mortal man, and he entered the room which spun with the music, and threatened to drag him into its midst. But this farmer never liked a dance, preferring instead a good smoke and a dram of whiskey, and he resisted the calls on his soul, and struggled through the crowd to find his friend the farmer, who danced in the middle of the reel like a man possessed.

“Och, lad, we’ve only just begun,” the dancer protested, as his friend dragged him away.

And since he had danced for near twelve months with that barrel on his back, he carried it home again, along the winding road and over the hills that glistened with snow, all frosted with ice. They came to the farm of the man who’d been dancing, and what a surprise met his poor lonely wife when she opened the door. For there was her husband, just skin and bones to be sure, but there nonetheless with his barrel of whiskey, just twelve months late.

And they sat up that night, the man and his friend, and each of their wives, and what a Christmas Eve they had with that barrel of whiskey, which had mellowed with the warmth of the fairy hill, and they drank it all, just twelve months late.

A Dead Wife Among the Fairies

THERE ONCE WAS A MAN who lived with a wife he loved. They had been married for many years, and they made their home in a lighthouse, on the rocky coast by the sea. The waves threw up a spray but never dampened them, for they were sealed tight in their little world inside that lighthouse, and they lived happily there together, needing little else but the other. And so they lived, working together and talking all the day, lighting their beacon in the mists and fogs which fell over the sea like a woollen blanket.

Then one day, the good wife died, and she was buried in the hillside, under the rocks. And on those rocks the man sat each day, never lighting his beacon when the mists and fogs fell over the sea, staring instead at the rock which marked her grave, which marked the end of his life too. And so it was that he became a little mad, and went to see a witch, a fairy midwife who practised the magic of the earth and who could tell him how to get her back, his wife that he loved so well.

He saw her in her cottage, over the hill and across the brae, and she shook her head, and warned him to leave the dead with the fairies, for after death there can be no real life on earth, where the light would turn into dust any mortal who tried to return. But for the poor widowed man there could be no real life either, and so he begged the fairy witch to tell him her secrets and at last she did.

He was to go, she said, to a cave at the brae of Versabreck, on the night of a full moon, and he should take with him a black cat, and a Bible, and a thick wooden staff. There he must cry for his wife, and read to her from the psalms, and when he heard her voice once more, he must throw in the black cat and wait quietly for her to appear. Now the fairy folk would never let a mortal who had died pass back to his own land, so they would rally round her, and fight to keep her in their dust-webbed cave, which led to the Land of Light. The staff was to beat them with, for they could be sent back into their cave by the force of his will.

The moon waned and then it waxed again, and soon the night of the full moon arrived. The man was shivering with the fear of seeing his wife once more, yet he longed to touch her body, to feel her warmth, to hear her tender voice, so he steeled his quivering nerves and set off for the cave at the brae of Versabreck, and under his arm he held a black cat, and a Bible and a thick wooden staff. There he cried for his wife, and he read to her from the psalms, and when he heard her voice once more, he threw in the black cat and waited quietly for her to appear.

Now the fairy folk fought for their mortal princess, and struggled to keep her in their dust-webbed cave, which led to the Land of Light, but he beat them with his staff, and sent them back into their cave by the force of his will.

And there was his wife, paler to be sure, and nothing more than skin and bones, but she smiled her same familiar smile, and although her body held no warmth and she smelled rather sour, he held her to him once again and heard her tender voice. And together they walked to their lighthouse home, snug in a warm embrace, and they lit their beacon in the mists and fogs which fell over the sea like a woollen blanket. When day broke, his wife was safe in the fairy cave again, for light would turn to dust any mortal who tried to return from the dead. And so her husband would watch carefully as the moon waned and then waxed, when they could meet again.

The Shepherd of Myddvai

UP IN THE BLACK MOUNTAINS in Caermarthenshire lies the lake known as Lyn y Van Vach. To the margin of this lake the shepherd of Myddvai once led his lambs, and lay there whilst they sought pasture. Suddenly, from the dark waters of the lake, he saw three maidens rise. Shaking the bright drops from their hair and gliding to the shore, they wandered about amongst his flock. They had more than mortal beauty, and he was filled with love for her that came nearest to him. He offered her the bread he had with him, and she took it and tried it, but then sang to him before running off laughing to the lake:

“Hard-baked is thy bread,

’Tis not easy to catch me,”

Next day he took with him bread not so well done, and watched for the maidens. When they came ashore he offered his bread as before, and the maiden tasted it and sang:

“Unbaked is thy bread,

I will not have thee,”

and again disappeared in the waves.

A third time did the shepherd of Myddvai try to attract the maiden, and this time he offered her bread that he had found floating about near the shore. This pleased her, and she promised to become his wife if he were able to pick her out from among her sisters on the following day. When the time came the shepherd knew his love by the strap of her sandal. Then she told him she would be as good a wife to him as any earthly maiden could be unless he should strike her three times without cause. Of course he deemed that this could never be; and she, summoning from the lake three cows, two oxen, and a bull, as her marriage portion, was led homeward by him as his bride.

The years passed happily, and three children were born to the shepherd and the lake-maiden. But one day here were going to a christening, and she said to her husband it was far to walk, so he told her to go for the horses.

“I will,” said she, “if you bring me my gloves which I’ve left in the house.”

But when he came back with the gloves, he found she had not gone for the horses; so he tapped her lightly on the shoulder with the gloves, and said, “Go, go.”

“That’s one,” said she.

Another time they were at a wedding, when suddenly the lake-maiden fell a-sobbing and a-weeping, amid the joy and mirth of all around her.

Her husband tapped her on the shoulder, and asked her, “Why do you weep?”

“Because they are entering into trouble; and trouble is upon you; for that is the second causeless blow you have given me. Be careful; the third is the last.”

The husband was careful never to strike her again. But one day at a funeral she suddenly burst out into fits of laughter. Her husband forgot, and touched her rather roughly on the shoulder, saying, “Is this a time for laughter?”

“I laugh,” she said, “because those that die go out of trouble, but your trouble has come. The last blow has been struck; our marriage is at an end, and so farewell.” And with that she rose up and left the house and went to their home.

Then she, looking round upon her home, called to the cattle she had brought with her:

“Brindle cow, white speckled,

Spotted cow, bold freckled,

Old white face, and gray Geringer,

And the white bull from the king’s coast,

Grey ox, and black calf,

All, all, follow me home.”

Now the black calf had just been slaughtered, and was hanging on the hook; but it got off the hook alive and well and followed her; and the oxen, though they were ploughing, trailed the plough with them and did her bidding. So she fled to the lake again, they following her, and with them plunged into the dark waters.

And to this day is the furrow seen which the plough left as it was dragged across the mountains to the tarn.

Only once did she come again, when her sons were grown to manhood, and then she gave them gifts of healing by which they won the name of Meddygon Myddvai, the physicians of Myddvai.

Brewery of Eggshells

IN TRENEGLWYS there is a certain shepherd’s cot known by the name of Twt y Cymrws because of the strange strife that occurred there. There once lived there a man and his wife, and they had twins whom the woman nursed tenderly. One day she was called away to the house of a neighbour at some distance. She did not much like going and leaving her little ones all alone in a solitary house, especially as she had heard tell of the good folk haunting the neighbourhood.

Well, she went and came back as soon as she could, but on her way back she was frightened to see some old elves of the blue petticoat crossing her path though it was midday. She rushed home, but found her two little ones in the cradle and everything seemed as it was before.

But after a time the good people began to suspect that something was wrong, for the twins didn’t grow at all.

The man said: “They’re not ours.”

The woman said: “Whose else should they be?”

And so arose the great strife so that the neighbours named the cottage after it. It made the woman very sad, so one evening she made up her mind to go and see the Wise Man of Llanidloes, for he knew everything and would advise her what to do.

So she went to Llanidloes and told the case to the Wise Man. Now there was soon to be a harvest of rye and oats, so the Wise Man said to her, “When you are getting dinner for the reapers, clear out the shell of a hen’s egg and boil some potage in it, and then take it to the door as if you meant it as a dinner for the reapers. Then listen if the twins say anything. If you hear them speaking of things beyond the understanding of children, go back and take them up and throw them into the waters of Lake Elvyn. But if you don’t hear anything remarkable, do them no injury.”

So when the day of the reap came the woman did all that the Wise Man ordered, and put the eggshell on the fire and took it off and carried it to the door, and there she stood and listened. Then she heard one of the children say to the other:

“Acorn before oak I knew,

’n egg before a hen,

But I never heard of an eggshell brew

A dinner for harvest men.”

So she went back into the house, seized the children and threw them into the Llyn, and the goblins in their blue trousers came and saved their dwarfs and the mother had her own children back and so the great strife ended.

Guleesh

THERE WAS ONCE A BOY in the County Mayo; Guleesh was his name. There was the finest rath a little way off from the gable of the house, and he was often in the habit of seating himself on the fine grass bank that was running round it. One night he stood, half leaning against the gable of the house, and looking up into the sky, and watching the beautiful white moon over his head. After he had been standing that way for a couple of hours, he said to himself: “My bitter grief that I am not gone away out of this place altogether. I’d sooner be any place in the world than here. Och, it’s well for you, white moon,” says he, “that’s turning round, turning round, as you please yourself, and no man can put you back. I wish I was the same as you.”

Hardly was the word out of his mouth when he heard a great noise coming like the sound of many people running together, and talking, and laughing, and making sport, and the sound went by him like a whirl of wind, and he was listening to it going into the rath. “Musha, by my soul,” says he, “but ye’re merry enough, and I’ll follow ye.”

What was in it but the fairy host, though he did not know at first that it was they who were in it, but he followed them into the rath. It’s there he heard the fulparnee, and the folpornee, the rap-lay-hoota, and the roolya-boolya, that they had there, and every man of them crying out as loud as he could: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My horse, and bridle, and saddle!”

“By my hand,” said Guleesh, “my boy, that’s not bad. I’ll imitate ye,” and he cried out as well as they: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My horse, and bridle, and saddle!” And on the moment there was a fine horse with a bridle of gold, and a saddle of silver, standing before him. He leaped up on it, and the moment he was on its back he saw clearly that the rath was full of horses, and of little people going riding on them.

Said a man of them to him: “Are you coming with us tonight, Guleesh?”

“I am surely,” said Guleesh.

“If you are, come along,” said the little man, and out they went all together, riding like the wind, faster than the fastest horse ever you saw a-hunting, and faster than the fox and the hounds at his tail.

The cold winter’s wind that was before them, they overtook her, and the cold winter’s wind that was behind them, she did not overtake them. And stop nor stay of that full race, did they make none, until they came to the brink of the sea.

Then every one of them said: “Hie over cap! Hie over cap!” and that moment they were up in the air, and before Guleesh had time to remember where he was, they were down on dry land again, and were going like the wind.

At last they stood still, and a man of them said to Guleesh: “Guleesh, do you know where you are now?”

“Not a know,” says Guleesh.

“You’re in France, Guleesh,” said he. “The daughter of the king of France is to be married tonight, the handsomest woman that the sun ever saw, and we must do our best to bring her with us; if we’re only able to carry her off; and you must come with us that we may be able to put the young girl up behind you on the horse, when we’ll be bringing her away, for it’s not lawful for us to put her sitting behind ourselves. But you’re flesh and blood, and she can take a good grip of you, so that she won’t fall off the horse. Are you satisfied, Guleesh, and will you do what we’re telling you?”

“Why shouldn’t I be satisfied?” said Guleesh. “I’m satisfied, surely, and anything that ye will tell me to do I’ll do it without doubt.”

They got off their horses there, and a man of them said a word that Guleesh did not understand, and on the moment they were lifted up, and Guleesh found himself and his companions in the palace. There was a great feast going on there, and there was not a nobleman or a gentleman in the kingdom but was gathered there, dressed in silk and satin, and gold and silver, and the night was as bright as the day with all the lamps and candles that were lit, and Guleesh had to shut his two eyes at the brightness. When he opened them again and looked from him, he thought he never saw anything as fine as all he saw there. There were a hundred tables spread out, and their full of meat and drink on each table of them, flesh-meat, and cakes and sweetmeats, and wine and ale, and every drink that ever a man saw. The musicians were at the two ends of the hall, and they were playing the sweetest music that ever a man’s ear heard, and there were young women and fine youths in the middle of the hall, dancing and turning, and going round so quickly and so lightly, that it put a soorawn in Guleesh’s head to be looking at them. There were more there playing tricks, and more making fun and laughing, for such a feast as there was that day had not been in France for twenty years, because the old king had no children alive but only the one daughter, and she was to be married to the son of another king that night. Three days the feast was going on, and the third night she was to be married, and that was the night that Guleesh and the sheehogues came, hoping, if they could, to carry off with them the king’s young daughter.

Guleesh and his companions were standing together at the head of the hall, where there was a fine altar dressed up, and two bishops behind it waiting to marry the girl, as soon as the right time should come. Now nobody could see the sheehogues, for they said a word as they came in, that made them all invisible, as if they had not been in it at all.

“Tell me which of them is the king’s daughter,” said Guleesh, when he was becoming a little used to the noise and the light.

“Don’t you see her there away from you?” said the little man that he was talking to.

Guleesh looked where the little man was pointing with his finger, and there he saw the loveliest woman that was, he thought, upon the ridge of the world. The rose and the lily were fighting together in her face, and one could not tell which of them got the victory. Her arms and hands were like the lime, her mouth as red as a strawberry when it is ripe, her foot was as small and as light as another one’s hand, her form was smooth and slender, and her hair was falling down from her head in buckles of gold. Her garments and dress were woven with gold and silver, and the bright stone that was in the ring on her hand was as shining as the sun.

Guleesh was nearly blinded with all the loveliness and beauty that was in her; but when he looked again, he saw that she was crying, and that there was the trace of tears in her eyes. “It can’t be,” said Guleesh, “that there’s grief on her, when everybody round her is so full of sport and merriment.”

“Musha, then, she is grieved,” said the little man; “for it’s against her own will she’s marrying, and she has no love for the husband she is to marry. The king was going to give her to him three years ago, when she was only fifteen, but she said she was too young, and requested him to leave her as she was yet. The king gave her a year’s grace, and when that year was up he gave her another year’s grace, and then another; but a week or a day he would not give her longer, and she is eighteen years old tonight, and it’s time for her to marry; but, indeed,” says he, and he crooked his mouth in an ugly way – “indeed, it’s no king’s son she’ll marry, if I can help it.”

Guleesh pitied the handsome young lady greatly when he heard that, and he was heart-broken to think that it would be necessary for her to marry a man she did not like, or, what was worse, to take a nasty sheehogue for a husband. However, he did not say a word, though he could not help giving many a curse to the ill-luck that was laid out for himself, to be helping the people that were to snatch her away from her home and from her father.

He began thinking, then, what it was he ought to do to save her, but he could think of nothing. “Oh! if I could only give her some help and relief,” said he, “I wouldn’t care whether I were alive or dead; but I see nothing that I can do for her.”

He was looking on when the king’s son came up to her and asked her for a kiss, but she turned her head away from him. Guleesh had double pity for her then, when he saw the lad taking her by the soft white hand, and drawing her out to dance. They went round in the dance near where Guleesh was, and he could plainly see that there were tears in her eyes.

When the dancing was over, the old king, her father, and her mother the queen, came up and said that this was the right time to marry her, that the bishop was ready, and it was time to put the wedding-ring on her and give her to her husband.

The king took the youth by the hand, and the queen took her daughter, and they went up together to the altar, with the lords and great people following them.

When they came near the altar, and were no more than about four yards from it, the little sheehogue stretched out his foot before the girl, and she fell. Before she was able to rise again he threw something that was in his hand upon her, said a couple of words, and upon the moment the maiden was gone from amongst them. Nobody could see her, for that word made her invisible. The little man seized her and raised her up behind Guleesh, and the king nor no one else saw them, but out with them through the hall till they came to the door.

Oro! dear Mary! it’s there the pity was, and the trouble, and the crying, and the wonder, and the searching, and the rookawn, when that lady disappeared from their eyes, and without their seeing what did it. Out of the door of the palace they went, without being stopped or hindered, for nobody saw them, and, “My horse, my bridle, and saddle!” says every man of them. “My horse, my bridle, and saddle!” says Guleesh; and on the moment the horse was standing ready caparisoned before him. “Now, jump up, Guleesh,” said the little man, “and put the lady behind you, and we will be going; the morning is not far off from us now.”

Guleesh raised her up on the horse’s back, and leaped up himself before her, and, “Rise, horse,” said he; and his horse, and the other horses with him, went in a full race until they came to the sea.

“Hie over cap!” said every man of them.

“Hie over cap!” said Guleesh; and on the moment the horse rose under him, and cut a leap in the clouds, and came down in Erin.

They did not stop there, but went of a race to the place where was Guleesh’s house and the rath. And when they came as far as that, Guleesh turned and caught the young girl in his two arms, and leaped off the horse.

“I call and cross you to myself, in the name of God!” said he; and on the spot, before the word was out of his mouth, the horse fell down, and what was in it but the beam of a plough, of which they had made a horse; and every other horse they had, it was that way they made it. Some of them were riding on an old besom, and some on a broken stick, and more on a bohalawn or a hemlock-stalk.

The good people called out together when they heard what Guleesh said:

“Oh! Guleesh, you clown, you thief, that no good may happen you, why did you play that trick on us?”

But they had no power at all to carry off the girl, after Guleesh had consecrated her to himself.

“Oh! Guleesh, isn’t that a nice turn you did us, and we so kind to you? What good have we now out of our journey to France. Never mind yet, you clown, but you’ll pay us another time for this. Believe us, you’ll repent it.”

“He’ll have no good to get out of the young girl,” said the little man that was talking to him in the palace before that, and as he said the word he moved over to her and struck her a slap on the side of the head. “Now,” says he, “she’ll be without talk any more; now, Guleesh, what good will she be to you when she’ll be dumb? It’s time for us to go – but you’ll remember us, Guleesh!”

When he said that he stretched out his two hands, and before Guleesh was able to give an answer, he and the rest of them were gone into the rath out of his sight, and he saw them no more.

He turned to the young woman and said to her: “Thanks be to God, they’re gone. Would you not sooner stay with me than with them?” She gave him no answer. “There’s trouble and grief on her yet,” said Guleesh in his own mind, and he spoke to her again: “I am afraid that you must spend this night in my father’s house, lady, and if there is anything that I can do for you, tell me, and I’ll be your servant.”

The beautiful girl remained silent, but there were tears in her eyes, and her face was white and red after each other.

“Lady,” said Guleesh, “tell me what you would like me to do now. I never belonged at all to that lot of sheehogues who carried you away with them. I am the son of an honest farmer, and I went with them without knowing it. If I’ll be able to send you back to your father I’ll do it, and I pray you make any use of me now that you may wish.”

He looked into her face, and he saw the mouth moving as if she was going to speak, but there came no word from it.

“It cannot be,” said Guleesh, “that you are dumb. Did I not hear you speaking to the king’s son in the palace tonight? Or has that devil made you really dumb, when he struck his nasty hand on your jaw?”

The girl raised her white smooth hand, and laid her finger on her tongue, to show him that she had lost her voice and power of speech, and the tears ran out of her two eyes like streams, and Guleesh’s own eyes were not dry, for as rough as he was on the outside he had a soft heart, and could not stand the sight of the young girl, and she in that unhappy plight.

He began thinking with himself what he ought to do, and he did not like to bring her home with himself to his father’s house, for he knew well that they would not believe him, that he had been in France and brought back with him the king of France’s daughter, and he was afraid they might make a mock of the young lady or insult her.

As he was doubting what he ought to do, and hesitating, he chanced to remember the priest. “Glory be to God,” said he, “I know now what I’ll do; I’ll bring her to the priest’s house, and he won’t refuse me to keep the lady and care for her.” He turned to the lady again and told her that he was loth to take her to his father’s house, but that there was an excellent priest very friendly to himself, who would take good care of her, if she wished to remain in his house; but that if there was any other place she would rather go, he said he would bring her to it.

She bent her head, to show him she was obliged, and gave him to understand that she was ready to follow him any place he was going. “We will go to the priest’s house, then,” said he; “he is under an obligation to me, and will do anything I ask him.”

They went together accordingly to the priest’s house, and the sun was just rising when they came to the door. Guleesh beat it hard, and as early as it was the priest was up, and opened the door himself. He wondered when he saw Guleesh and the girl, for he was certain that it was coming wanting to be married they were.

“Guleesh, Guleesh, isn’t it the nice boy you are that you can’t wait till ten o’clock or till twelve, but that you must be coming to me at this hour, looking for marriage, you and your sweetheart? You ought to know that I can’t marry you at such a time, or, at all events, can’t marry you lawfully. But ubbubboo!” said he, suddenly, as he looked again at the young girl, “in the name of God, who have you here? Who is she, or how did you get her?”

“Father,” said Guleesh, “you can marry me, or anybody else, if you wish; but it’s not looking for marriage I came to you now, but to ask you, if you please, to give a lodging in your house to this young lady.”

The priest looked at him as though he had ten heads on him; but without putting any other question to him, he desired him to come in, himself and the maiden, and when they came in, he shut the door, brought them into the parlour, and put them sitting.

“Now, Guleesh,” said he, “tell me truly who is this young lady, and whether you’re out of your senses really, or are only making a joke of me.”

“I’m not telling a word of lie, nor making a joke of you,” said Guleesh; “but it was from the palace of the king of France I carried off this lady, and she is the daughter of the king of France.”

He began his story then, and told the whole to the priest, and the priest was so much surprised that he could not help calling out at times, or clapping his hands together.

When Guleesh said from what he saw he thought the girl was not satisfied with the marriage that was going to take place in the palace before he and the sheehogues broke it up, there came a red blush into the girl’s cheek, and he was more certain than ever that she had sooner be as she was – badly as she was – than be the married wife of the man she hated. When Guleesh said that he would be very thankful to the priest if he would keep her in his own house, the kind man said he would do that as long as Guleesh pleased, but that he did not know what they ought to do with her, because they had no means of sending her back to her father again.

Guleesh answered that he was uneasy about the same thing, and that he saw nothing to do but to keep quiet until they should find some opportunity of doing something better. They made it up then between themselves that the priest should let on that it was his brother’s daughter he had, who was come on a visit to him from another county, and that he should tell everybody that she was dumb, and do his best to keep every one away from her. They told the young girl what it was they intended to do, and she showed by her eyes that she was obliged to them.

Guleesh went home then, and when his people asked him where he had been, he said that he had been asleep at the foot of the ditch, and had passed the night there.

There was great wonderment on the priest’s neighbours at the girl who came so suddenly to his house without any one knowing where she was from, or what business she had there. Some of the people said that everything was not as it ought to be, and others, that Guleesh was not like the same man that was in it before, and that it was a great story, how he was drawing every day to the priest’s house, and that the priest had a wish and a respect for him, a thing they could not clear up at all.

That was true for them, indeed, for it was seldom the day went by but Guleesh would go to the priest’s house, and have a talk with him, and as often as he would come he used to hope to find the young lady well again, and with leave to speak; but, alas! she remained dumb and silent, without relief or cure. Since she had no other means of talking, she carried on a sort of conversation between herself and himself, by moving her hand and fingers, winking her eyes, opening and shutting her mouth, laughing or smiling, and a thousand other signs, so that it was not long until they understood each other very well. Guleesh was always thinking how he should send her back to her father; but there was no one to go with her, and he himself did not know what road to go, for he had never been out of his own country before the night he brought her away with him. Nor had the priest any better knowledge than he; but when Guleesh asked him, he wrote three or four letters to the king of France, and gave them to buyers and sellers of wares, who used to be going from place to place across the sea; but they all went astray, and never a one came to the king’s hand.

This was the way they were for many months, and Guleesh was falling deeper and deeper in love with her every day, and it was plain to himself and the priest that she liked him. The boy feared greatly at last, lest the king should really hear where his daughter was, and take her back from himself, and he besought the priest to write no more, but to leave the matter to God.

So they passed the time for a year, until there came a day when Guleesh was lying by himself, on the grass, on the last day of the last month in autumn, and he was thinking over again in his own mind of everything that happened to him from the day that he went with the sheehogues across the sea. He remembered then, suddenly, that it was one November night that he was standing at the gable of the house, when the whirlwind came, and the sheehogues in it, and he said to himself: “We have November night again today, and I’ll stand in the same place I was last year, until I see if the good people come again. Perhaps I might see or hear something that would be useful to me, and might bring back her talk again to Mary” – that was the name himself and the priest called the king’s daughter, for neither of them knew her right name. He told his intention to the priest, and the priest gave him his blessing.

Guleesh accordingly went to the old rath when the night was darkening, and he stood with his bent elbow leaning on a grey old flag, waiting till the middle of the night should come. The moon rose slowly; and it was like a knob of fire behind him; and there was a white fog which was raised up over the fields of grass and all damp places, through the coolness of the night after a great heat in the day. The night was calm as is a lake when there is not a breath of wind to move a wave on it, and there was no sound to be heard but the cronawn of the insects that would go by from time to time, or the hoarse sudden scream of the wild-geese, as they passed from lake to lake, half a mile up in the air over his head; or the sharp whistle of the golden and green plover, rising and lying, lying and rising, as they do on a calm night. There were a thousand thousand bright stars shining over his head, and there was a little frost out, which left the grass under his foot white and crisp.

He stood there for an hour, for two hours, for three hours, and the frost increased greatly, so that he heard the breaking of the traneens under his foot as often as he moved. He was thinking, in his own mind, at last, that the sheehogues would not come that night, and that it was as good for him to return back again, when he heard a sound far away from him, coming towards him, and he recognised what it was at the first moment. The sound increased, and at first it was like the beating of waves on a stony shore, and then it was like the falling of a great waterfall, and at last it was like a loud storm in the tops of the trees, and then the whirlwind burst into the rath of one rout, and the sheehogues were in it.

It all went by him so suddenly that he lost his breath with it, but he came to himself on the spot, and put an ear on himself, listening to what they would say.

Scarcely had they gathered into the rath till they all began shouting, and screaming, and talking amongst themselves; and then each one of them cried out: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My horse, and bridle, and saddle!” and Guleesh took courage, and called out as loudly as any of them: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My horse, and bridle, and saddle!” But before the word was well out of his mouth, another man cried out: “Ora! Guleesh, my boy, are you here with us again? How are you getting on with your woman? There’s no use in your calling for your horse tonight. I’ll go bail you won’t play such a trick on us again. It was a good trick you played on us last year?”

“It was,” said another man; “he won’t do it again.”

“Isn’t he a prime lad, the same lad! to take a woman with him that never said as much to him as, “How do you do?” since this time last year!” says the third man.

“Perhaps be likes to be looking at her,” said another voice.

“And if the omadawn only knew that there’s an herb growing up by his own door, and if he were to boil it and give it to her, she’d be well,” said another voice.

“That’s true for you.”

“He is an omadawn.”

“Don’t bother your head with him; we’ll be going.”

“We’ll leave the bodach as he is.”

And with that they rose up into the air, and out with them with one roolya-boolya the way they came; and they left poor Guleesh standing where they found him, and the two eyes going out of his head, looking after them and wondering.

He did not stand long till he returned back, and he thinking in his own mind on all he saw and heard, and wondering whether there was really an herb at his own door that would bring back the talk to the king’s daughter. “It can’t be,” says he to himself, “that they would tell it to me, if there was any virtue in it; but perhaps the sheehogue didn’t observe himself when he let the word slip out of his mouth. I’ll search well as soon as the sun rises, whether there’s any plant growing beside the house except thistles and dockings.”

He went home, and as tired as he was he did not sleep a wink until the sun rose on the morrow. He got up then, and it was the first thing he did to go out and search well through the grass round about the house, trying could he get any herb that he did not recognise. And, indeed, he was not long searching till he observed a large strange herb that was growing up just by the gable of the house.

He went over to it, and observed it closely, and saw that there were seven little branches coming out of the stalk, and seven leaves growing on every branch of them; and that there was a white sap in the leaves. “It’s very wonderful,” said he to himself, “that I never noticed this herb before. If there’s any virtue in an herb at all, it ought to be in such a strange one as this.”

He drew out his knife, cut the plant, and carried it into his own house; stripped the leaves off it and cut up the stalk; and there came a thick, white juice out of it, as there comes out of the sow-thistle when it is bruised, except that the juice was more like oil.

He put it in a little pot and a little water in it, and laid it on the fire until the water was boiling, and then he took a cup, filled it half up with the juice, and put it to his own mouth. It came into his head then that perhaps it was poison that was in it, and that the good people were only tempting him that he might kill himself with that trick, or put the girl to death without meaning it. He put down the cup again, raised a couple of drops on the top of his finger, and put it to his mouth. It was not bitter, and, indeed, had a sweet, agreeable taste. He grew bolder then, and drank the full of a thimble of it, and then as much again, and he never stopped till he had half the cup drunk. He fell asleep after that, and did not wake till it was night, and there was great hunger and great thirst on him.

He had to wait, then, till the day rose; but he determined, as soon as he should wake in the morning, that he would go to the king’s daughter and give her a drink of the juice of the herb.

As soon as he got up in the morning, he went over to the priest’s house with the drink in his hand, and he never felt himself so bold and valiant, and spirited and light, as he was that day, and he was quite certain that it was the drink he drank which made him so hearty.

When he came to the house, he found the priest and the young lady within, and they were wondering greatly why he had not visited them for two days.

He told them all his news, and said that he was certain that there was great power in that herb, and that it would do the lady no hurt, for he tried it himself and got good from it, and then he made her taste it, for he vowed and swore that there was no harm in it.

Guleesh handed her the cup, and she drank half of it, and then fell back on her bed and a heavy sleep came on her, and she never woke out of that sleep till the day on the morrow.

Guleesh and the priest sat up the entire night with her, waiting till she should awake, and they between hope and unhope, between expectation of saving her and fear of hurting her.

She awoke at last when the sun had gone half its way through the heavens. She rubbed her eyes and looked like a person who did not know where she was. She was like one astonished when she saw Guleesh and the priest in the same room with her, and she sat up doing her best to collect her thoughts.

The two men were in great anxiety waiting to see would she speak, or would she not speak, and when they remained silent for a couple of minutes, the priest said to her: “Did you sleep well, Mary?”

And she answered him: “I slept, thank you.”

No sooner did Guleesh hear her talking than he put a shout of joy out of him, and ran over to her and fell on his two knees, and said: “A thousand thanks to God, who has given you back the talk; lady of my heart, speak again to me.”

The lady answered him that she understood it was he who boiled that drink for her, and gave it to her; that she was obliged to him from her heart for all the kindness he showed her since the day she first came to Ireland, and that he might be certain that she never would forget it.

Guleesh was ready to die with satisfaction and delight. Then they brought her food, and she ate with a good appetite, and was merry and joyous, and never left off talking with the priest while she was eating.

After that Guleesh went home to his house, and stretched himself on the bed and fell asleep again, for the force of the herb was not all spent, and he passed another day and a night sleeping. When he woke up he went back to the priest’s house, and found that the young lady was in the same state, and that she was asleep almost since the time that he left the house.

He went into her chamber with the priest, and they remained watching beside her till she awoke the second time, and she had her talk as well as ever, and Guleesh was greatly rejoiced. The priest put food on the table again, and they ate together, and Guleesh used after that to come to the house from day to day, and the friendship that was between him and the king’s daughter increased, because she had no one to speak to except Guleesh and the priest, and she liked Guleesh best.

So they married one another, and that was the fine wedding they had, and if I were to be there then, I would not be here now; but I heard it from a birdeen that there was neither cark nor care, sickness nor sorrow, mishap nor misfortune on them till the hour of their death, and may the same be with me, and with us all!

The Field of Boliauns

ONE FINE DAY IN HARVEST – it was indeed Lady-day in harvest, that everybody knows to be one of the greatest holidays in the year – Tom Fitzpatrick was taking a ramble through the ground, and went along the sunny side of a hedge; when all of a sudden he heard a clacking sort of noise a little before him in the hedge. “Dear me,” said Tom, “but isn’t it surprising to hear the stonechatters singing so late in the season?” So Tom stole on, going on the tops of his toes to try if he could get a sight of what was making the noise, to see if he was right in his guess. The noise stopped; but as Tom looked sharply through the bushes, what should he see in a nook of the hedge but a brown pitcher, that might hold about a gallon and a half of liquor; and by-and-by a little wee teeny tiny bit of an old man, with a little motty of a cocked hat stuck upon the top of his head, a deeshy daushy leather apron hanging before him, pulled out a little wooden stool, and stood up upon it, and dipped a little piggin into the pitcher, and took out the full of it, and put it beside the stool, and then sat down under the pitcher, and began to work at putting a heel-piece on a bit of a brogue just fit for himself. “Well, by the powers,” said Tom to himself, “I often heard tell of the Leprechauns, and, to tell God’s truth, I never rightly believed in them – but here’s one of them in real earnest. If I go knowingly to work, I’m a made man. They say a body must never take their eyes off them, or they’ll escape.”

Tom now stole on a little further, with his eye fixed on the little man just as a cat does with a mouse. So when he got up quite close to him, “God bless your work, neighbour,” said Tom.

The little man raised up his head, and “Thank you kindly,” said he.

“I wonder you’d be working on the holiday!” said Tom.

“That’s my own business, not yours,” was the reply.

“Well, may be you’d be civil enough to tell us what you’ve got in the pitcher there?” said Tom.

“That I will, with pleasure,” said he; “it’s good beer.”

“Beer!” said Tom. “Thunder and fire! where did you get it?”

“Where did I get it, is it? Why, I made it. And what do you think I made it of?”

“Devil a one of me knows,” said Tom; “but of malt, I suppose, what else?”

“There you’re out. I made it of heath.”

“Of heath!” said Tom, bursting out laughing; “sure you don’t think me to be such a fool as to believe that?”

“Do as you please,” said he, “but what I tell you is the truth. Did you never hear tell of the Danes?”

“Well, what about them?” said Tom.

“Why, all the about them there is, is that when they were here they taught us to make beer out of the heath, and the secret’s in my family ever since.”

“Will you give a body a taste of your beer?” said Tom.

“I’ll tell you what it is, young man, it would be fitter for you to be looking after your father’s property than to be bothering decent quiet people with your foolish questions. There now, while you’re idling away your time here, there’s the cows have broke into the oats, and are knocking the corn all about.”

Tom was taken so by surprise with this that he was just on the very point of turning round when he recollected himself; so, afraid that the like might happen again, he made a grab at the Leprechaun, and caught him up in his hand; but in his hurry he overset the pitcher, and spilt all the beer, so that he could not get a taste of it to tell what sort it was. He then swore that he would kill him if he did not show him where his money was. Tom looked so wicked and so bloody-minded that the little man was quite frightened; so says he, “Come along with me a couple of fields off, and I’ll show you a crock of gold.”

So they went, and Tom held the Leprechaun fast in his hand, and never took his eyes from off him, though they had to cross hedges and ditches, and a crooked bit of bog, till at last they came to a great field all full of boliauns, and the Leprechaun pointed to a big boliaun, and says he, “Dig under that boliaun, and you’ll get the great crock all full of guineas.”

Tom in his hurry had never thought of bringing a spade with him, so he made up his mind to run home and fetch one; and that he might know the place again he took off one of his red garters, and tied it round the boliaun.

Then he said to the Leprechaun, “Swear ye’ll not take that garter away from that boliaun.” And the Leprechaun swore right away not to touch it.

“I suppose,” said the Leprechaun, very civilly, “you have no further occasion for me?”

“No,” says Tom; “you may go away now, if you please, and God speed you, and may good luck attend you wherever you go.”

“Well, goodbye to you, Tom Fitzpatrick,” said the Leprechaun; “and much good may it do you when you get it.”

So Tom ran for dear life, till he came home and got a spade, and then away with him, as hard as he could go, back to the field of boliauns; but when he got there, lo and behold! not a boliaun in the field but had a red garter, the very model of his own, tied about it; and as to digging up the whole field, that was all nonsense, for there were more than forty good Irish acres in it. So Tom came home again with his spade on his shoulder, a little cooler than he went, and many’s the hearty curse he gave the Leprechaun every time he thought of the neat turn he had served him.

Connla And The Fairy Maiden

CONNLA OF THE FIERY HAIR was son of Conn of the Hundred Fights. One day as he stood by the side of his father on the height of Usna, he saw a maiden clad in strange attire coming towards him.

“Whence comest thou, maiden?” said Connla.

“I come from the Plains of the Ever Living,” she said, “there where there is neither death nor sin. There we keep holiday alway, nor need we help from any in our joy. And in all our pleasure we have no strife. And because we have our homes in the round green hills, men call us the Hill Folk.”

The king and all with him wondered much to hear a voice when they saw no one. For save Connla alone, none saw the Fairy Maiden.

“To whom art thou talking, my son?” said Conn the king.

Then the maiden answered, “Connla speaks to a young, fair maid, whom neither death nor old age awaits. I love Connla, and now I call him away to the Plain of Pleasure, Moy Mell, where Boadag is king for aye, nor has there been complaint or sorrow in that land since he has held the kingship. Oh, come with me, Connla of the Fiery Hair, ruddy as the dawn with thy tawny skin. A fairy crown awaits thee to grace thy comely face and royal form. Come, and never shall thy comeliness fade, nor thy youth, till the last awful day of judgment.”

The king in fear at what the maiden said, which he heard though he could not see her, called aloud to his Druid, Coran by name.

“Oh, Coran of the many spells,” he said, “and of the cunning magic, I call upon thy aid. A task is upon me too great for all my skill and wit, greater than any laid upon me since I seized the kingship. A maiden unseen has met us, and by her power would take from me my dear, my comely son. If thou help not, he will be taken from thy king by woman’s wiles and witchery.”

Then Coran the Druid stood forth and chanted his spells towards the spot where the maiden’s voice had been heard. And none heard her voice again, nor could Connla see her longer. Only as she vanished before the Druid’s mighty spell, she threw an apple to Connla.

For a whole month from that day Connla would take nothing, either to eat or to drink, save only from that apple. But as he ate it grew again and always kept whole. And all the while there grew within him a mighty yearning and longing after the maiden he had seen.

But when the last day of the month of waiting came, Connla stood by the side of the king his father on the Plain of Arcomin, and again he saw the maiden come towards him, and again she spoke to him.

“’Tis a glorious place, forsooth, that Connla holds among short-lived mortals awaiting the day of death. But now the folk of life, the ever-living ones, beg and bid thee come to Moy Mell, the Plain of Pleasure, for they have learnt to know thee, seeing thee in thy home among thy dear ones.”

When Conn the king heard the maiden’s voice he called to his men aloud and said:

“Summon swift my Druid Coran, for I see she has again this day the power of speech.”

Then the maiden said: “Oh, mighty Conn, fighter of a hundred fights, the Druid’s power is little loved; it has little honour in the mighty land, peopled with so many of the upright. When the Law will come, it will do away with the Druid’s magic spells that come from the lips of the false black demon.”

Then Conn the king observed that since the maiden came, Connla his son spoke to none that spake to him. So Conn of the hundred fights said to him, “Is it to thy mind what the woman says, my son?”

“’Tis hard upon me,” then said Connla; “I love my own folk above all things; but yet, but yet a longing seizes me for the maiden.”

When the maiden heard this, she answered and said “The ocean is not so strong as the waves of thy longing. Come with me in my curragh, the gleaming, straight-gliding crystal canoe. Soon we can reach Boadag’s realm. I see the bright sun sink, yet far as it is, we can reach it before dark. There is, too, another land worthy of thy journey, a land joyous to all that seek it. Only wives and maidens dwell there. If thou wilt, we can seek it and live there alone together in joy.”

When the maiden ceased to speak, Connla of the Fiery Hair rushed away from them and sprang into the curragh, the gleaming, straight-gliding crystal canoe. And then they all, king and court, saw it glide away over the bright sea towards the setting sun. Away and away, till eye could see it no longer, and Connla and the Fairy Maiden went their way on the sea, and were no more seen, nor did any know where they came.

The Sea-Maiden

THERE WAS ONCE a poor old fisherman, and one year he was not getting much fish. On a day of days, while he was fishing, there rose a sea-maiden at the side of his boat, and she asked him, “Are you getting much fish?” The old man answered and said, “Not I.” “What reward would you give me for sending plenty of fish to you?” “Ach!” said the old man, “I have not much to spare.” “Will you give me the first son you have?” said she. “I would give ye that, were I to have a son,” said he. “Then go home, and remember me when your son is twenty years of age, and you yourself will get plenty of fish after this.” Everything happened as the sea-maiden said, and he himself got plenty of fish; but when the end of the twenty years was nearing, the old man was growing more and more sorrowful and heavy hearted, while he counted each day as it came.

He had rest neither day nor night. The son asked his father one day, “Is any one troubling you?” The old man said, “Some one is, but that’s nought to do with you nor any one else.” The lad said, “I must know what it is.” His father told him at last how the matter was with him and the sea-maiden. “Let not that put you in any trouble,” said the son; “I will not oppose you.” “You shall not; you shall not go, my son, though I never get fish any more.” “If you will not let me go with you, go to the smithy, and let the smith make me a great strong sword, and I will go seek my fortune.”

His father went to the smithy, and the smith made a doughty sword for him. His father came home with the sword. The lad grasped it and gave it a shake or two, and it flew into a hundred splinters. He asked his father to go to the smithy and get him another sword in which there should be twice as much weight; and so his father did, and so likewise it happened to the next sword – it broke in two halves. Back went the old man to the smithy; and the smith made a great sword, its like he never made before. “There’s thy sword for thee,” said the smith, “and the fist must be good that plays this blade.” The old man gave the sword to his son; he gave it a shake or two. “This will do,” said he; “it’s high time now to travel on my way.”

On the next morning he put a saddle on a black horse that his father had, and he took the world for his pillow. When he went on a bit, he fell in with the carcass of a sheep beside the road. And there were a great black dog, a falcon, and an otter, and they were quarrelling over the spoil. So they asked him to divide it for them. He came down off the horse, and he divided the carcass amongst the three. Three shares to the dog, two shares to the otter, and a share to the falcon. “For this,” said the dog, “if swiftness of foot or sharpness of tooth will give thee aid, mind me, and I will be at thy side.” Said the otter, “If the swimming of foot on the ground of a pool will loose thee, mind me, and I will be at thy side.” Said the falcon, “If hardship comes on thee, where swiftness of wing or crook of a claw will do good, mind me, and I will be at thy side.”

On this he went onward till he reached a king’s house, and he took service to be a herd, and his wages were to be according to the milk of the cattle. He went away with the cattle, and the grazing was but bare. In the evening when he took them home they had not much milk, the place was so bare, and his meat and drink was but spare that night.

On the next day he went on further with them; and at last he came to a place exceedingly grassy, in a green glen, of which he never saw the like.

But about the time when he should drive the cattle homewards, who should he see coming but a great giant with his sword in his hand? “HI! HO!! HOGARACH!!!” says the giant. “Those cattle are mine; they are on my land, and a dead man art thou.” “I say not that,” says the herd; “there is no knowing, but that may be easier to say than to do.”

He drew the great clean-sweeping sword, and he neared the giant. The herd drew back his sword, and the head was off the giant in a twinkling. He leaped on the black horse, and he went to look for the giant’s house. In went the herd, and that’s the place where there was money in plenty, and dresses of each kind in the wardrobe with gold and silver, and each thing finer than the other. At the mouth of night he took himself to the king’s house, but he took not a thing from the giant’s house. And when the cattle were milked this night there was milk. He got good feeding this night, meat and drink without stint, and the king was hugely pleased that he had caught such a herd. He went on for a time in this way, but at last the glen grew bare of grass, and the grazing was not so good.

So he thought he would go a little further forward in on the giant’s land; and he sees a great park of grass. He returned for the cattle, and he put them into the park.

They were but a short time grazing in the park when a great wild giant came full of rage and madness. “HI! HAW!! HOGARAICH!!!” said the giant. “It is a drink of thy blood that will quench my thirst this night.” “There is no knowing,” said the herd, “but that’s easier to say than to do.” And at each other went the men. There was shaking of blades! At length and at last it seemed as if the giant would get the victory over the herd. Then he called on the dog, and with one spring the black dog caught the giant by the neck, and swiftly the herd struck off his head.

He went home very tired this night, but it’s a wonder if the king’s cattle had not milk. The whole family was delighted that they had got such a herd.

Next day he betakes himself to the castle. When he reached the door, a little flattering carlin met him standing in the door. “All hail and good luck to thee, fisher’s son; ’tis I myself am pleased to see thee; great is the honour for this kingdom, for thy like to be come into it – thy coming in is fame for this little bothy; go in first; honour to the gentles; go on, and take breath.”

“In before me, thou crone; I like not flattery out of doors; go in and let’s hear thy speech.” In went the crone, and when her back was to him he drew his sword and whips her head off; but the sword flew out of his hand. And swift the crone gripped her head with both hands, and puts it on her neck as it was before. The dog sprung on the crone, and she struck the generous dog with the club of magic; and there he lay. But the herd struggled for a hold of the club of magic, and with one blow on the top of the head she was on earth in the twinkling of an eye. He went forward, up a little, and there was spoil! Gold and silver, and each thing more precious than another, in the crone’s castle. He went back to the king’s house, and then there was rejoicing.

He followed herding in this way for a time; but one night after he came home, instead of getting ‘All hail’ and ‘Good luck’ from the dairymaid, all were at crying and woe.

He asked what cause of woe there was that night. The dairymaid said “There is a great beast with three heads in the loch, and it must get some one every year, and the lot had come this year on the king’s daughter, and at midday tomorrow she is to meet the Laidly Beast at the upper end of the loch, but there is a great suitor yonder who is going to rescue her.”

“What suitor is that?” said the herd. “Oh, he is a great General of arms,” said the dairymaid, “and when he kills the beast, he will marry the king’s daughter, for the king has said that he who could save his daughter should get her to marry.”

But on the morrow, when the time grew near, the king’s daughter and this hero of arms went to give a meeting to the beast, and they reached the black rock, at the upper end of the loch. They were but a short time there when the beast stirred in the midst of the loch; but when the General saw this terror of a beast with three heads, he took fright, and he slunk away, and he hid himself. And the king’s daughter was under fear and under trembling, with no one at all to save her. Suddenly she sees a doughty handsome youth, riding a black horse, and coming where she was. He was marvellously arrayed and full armed, and his black dog moved after him. “There is gloom on your face, girl,” said the youth; “what do you here?”

“Oh! that’s no matter,” said the king’s daughter. “It’s not long I’ll be here, at all events.”

“I say not that,” said he.

“A champion fled as likely as you, and not long since,” said she.

“He is a champion who stands the war,” said the youth. And to meet the beast he went with his sword and his dog. But there was a spluttering and a splashing between himself and the beast! The dog kept doing all he might, and the king’s daughter was palsied by fear of the noise of the beast! One of them would now be under, and now above. But at last he cut one of the heads off it. It gave one roar, and the son of earth, echo of the rocks, called to its screech, and it drove the loch in spindrift from end to end, and in a twinkling it went out of sight.

“Good luck and victory follow you, lad!” said the king’s daughter. “I am safe for one night, but the beast will come again and again, until the other two heads come off it.” He caught the beast’s head, and he drew a knot through it, and he told her to bring it with her there tomorrow. She gave him a gold ring, and went home with the head on her shoulder, and the herd betook himself to the cows. But she had not gone far when this great General saw her, and he said to her, “I will kill you if you do not say that ’twas I took the head off the beast.” “Oh!” says she, “’tis I will say it; who else took the head off the beast but you!” They reached the king’s house, and the head was on the General’s shoulder. But here was rejoicing, that she should come home alive and whole, and this great captain with the beast’s head full of blood in his hand. On the morrow they went away, and there was no question at all but that this hero would save the king’s daughter.

They reached the same place, and they were not long there when the fearful Laidly Beast stirred in the midst of the loch, and the hero slunk away as he did on yesterday, but it was not long after this when the man of the black horse came, with another dress on. No matter; she knew that it was the very same lad. “It is I am pleased to see you,” said she. “I am in hopes you will handle your great sword today as you did yesterday. Come up and take breath.” But they were not long there when they saw the beast steaming in the midst of the loch.

At once he went to meet the beast, but there was Cloopersteich and Claperstich, spluttering, splashing, raving, and roaring on the beast! They kept at it thus for a long time, and about the mouth of night he cut another head off the beast. He put it on the knot and gave it to her. She gave him one of her earrings, and he leaped on the black horse, and he betook himself to the herding. The king’s daughter went home with the heads. The General met her, and took the heads from her, and he said to her, that she must tell that it was he who took the head off the beast this time also. “Who else took the head off the beast but you?” said she. They reached the king’s house with the heads. Then there was joy and gladness.

About the same time on the morrow, the two went away. The officer hid himself as he usually did. The king’s daughter betook herself to the bank of the loch. The hero of the black horse came, and if roaring and raving were on the beast on the days that were passed, this day it was horrible. But no matter, he took the third head off the beast, and drew it through the knot, and gave it to her. She gave him her other earring, and then she went home with the heads. When they reached the king’s house, all were full of smiles, and the General was to marry the king’s daughter the next day. The wedding was going on, and every one about the castle longing till the priest should come. But when the priest came, she would marry only the one who could take the heads off the knot without cutting it. “Who should take the heads off the knot but the man that put the heads on?” said the king.

The General tried them; but he could not loose them; and at last there was no one about the house but had tried to take the heads off the knot, but they could not. The king asked if there were any one else about the house that would try to take the heads off the knot. They said that the herd had not tried them yet. Word went for the herd; and he was not long throwing them hither and thither. “But stop a bit, my lad,” said the king’s daughter; “the man that took the heads off the beast, he has my ring and my two earrings.” The herd put his hand in his pocket, and he threw them on the board. “Thou art my man,” said the king’s daughter. The king was not so pleased when he saw that it was a herd who was to marry his daughter, but he ordered that he should be put in a better dress; but his daughter spoke, and she said that he had a dress as fine as any that ever was in his castle; and thus it happened. The herd put on the giant’s golden dress, and they married that same day.

They were now married, and everything went on well. But one day, and it was the namesake of the day when his father had promised him to the sea-maiden, they were sauntering by the side of the loch, and lo and behold! she came and took him away to the loch without leave or asking. The king’s daughter was now mournful, tearful, blind-sorrowful for her married man; she was always with her eye on the loch. An old soothsayer met her, and she told how it had befallen her married mate. Then he told her the thing to do to save her mate, and that she did.

She took her harp to the sea-shore, and sat and played; and the sea-maiden came up to listen, for sea-maidens are fonder of music than all other creatures. But when the wife saw the sea-maiden she stopped. The sea-maiden said, “Play on!” but the princess said, “No, not till I see my man again.” So the sea-maiden put up his head out of the loch. Then the princess played again, and stopped till the sea-maiden put him up to the waist. Then the princess played and stopped again, and this time the sea-maiden put him all out of the loch, and he called on the falcon and became one and flew on shore. But the sea-maiden took the princess, his wife.

Sorrowful was each one that was in the town on this night. Her man was mournful, tearful, wandering down and up about the banks of the loch, by day and night. The old soothsayer met him. The soothsayer told him that there was no way of killing the sea-maiden but the one way, and this is it – “In the island that is in the midst of the loch is the white-footed hind of the slenderest legs and the swiftest step, and though she be caught, there will spring a hoodie out of her, and though the hoodie should be caught, there will spring a trout out of her, but there is an egg in the mouth of the trout, and the soul of the sea-maiden is in the egg, and if the egg breaks, she is dead.”

Now, there was no way of getting to this island, for the sea-maiden would sink each boat and raft that would go on the loch. He thought he would try to leap the strait with the black horse, and even so he did. The black horse leaped the strait. He saw the hind, and he let the black dog after her, but when he was on one side of the island, the hind would be on the other side. “Oh! would the black dog of the carcass of flesh were here!” No sooner spoke he the word than the grateful dog was at his side; and after the hind he went, and they were not long in bringing her to earth. But he no sooner caught her than a hoodie sprang out of her. “Would that the falcon grey, of sharpest eye and swiftest wing, were here!” No sooner said he this than the falcon was after the hoodie, and she was not long putting her to earth; and as the hoodie fell on the bank of the loch, out of her jumps the trout. “Oh! that thou wert by me now, oh otter!” No sooner said than the otter was at his side, and out on the loch she leaped, and brings the trout from the midst of the loch; but no sooner was the otter on shore with the trout than the egg came from his mouth. He sprang and he put his foot on it. ’Twas then the sea-maiden appeared, and she said, “Break not the egg, and you shall get all you ask.” “Deliver to me my wife!” In the wink of an eye she was by his side. When he got hold of her hand in both his hands, he let his foot down on the egg, and the sea-maiden died.

The Black Horse

ONCE THERE WAS A KING and he had three sons, and when the king died, they did not give a shade of anything to the youngest son, but an old white limping garron.

“If I get but this,” quoth he, “it seems that I had best go with this same.”

He was going with it right before him, sometimes walking, sometimes riding. When he had been riding a good while he thought that the garron would need a while of eating, so he came down to earth, and what should he see coming out of the heart of the western airt towards him but a rider riding high, well, and right well.

“All hail, my lad,” said he.

“Hail, king’s son,” said the other.

“What’s your news?” said the king’s son.

“I have got that,” said the lad who came. “I am after breaking my heart riding this ass of a horse; but will you give me the limping white garron for him?”

“No,” said the prince; “it would be a bad business for me.”

“You need not fear,” said the man that came, “there is no saying but that you might make better use of him than I. He has one value, there is no single place that you can think of in the four parts of the wheel of the world that the black horse will not take you there.”

So the king’s son got the black horse, and he gave the limping white garron.

Where should he think of being when he mounted but in the Realm Underwaves. He went, and before sunrise on the morrow he was there. What should he find when he got there but the son of the King Underwaves holding a Court, and the people of the realm gathered to see if there was any one who would undertake to go to seek the daughter of the King of the Greeks to be the prince’s wife. No one came forward, when who should come up but the rider of the black horse.

“You, rider of the black horse,” said the prince, “I lay you under crosses and under spells to have the daughter of the King of the Greeks here before the sun rises tomorrow.”

He went out and he reached the black horse and leaned his elbow on his mane, and he heaved a sigh.

“Sigh of a king’s son under spells!” said the horse; “but have no care; we shall do the thing that was set before you.” And so off they went.

“Now,” said the horse, “when we get near the great town of the Greeks, you will notice that the four feet of a horse never went to the town before. The king’s daughter will see me from the top of the castle looking out of a window, and she will not be content without a turn of a ride upon me. Say that she may have that, but the horse will suffer no man but you to ride before a woman on him.”

They came near the big town, and he fell to horsemanship; and the princess was looking out of the windows, and noticed the horse. The horsemanship pleased her, and she came out just as the horse had come.

“Give me a ride on the horse,” said she.

“You shall have that,” said he, “but the horse will let no man ride him before a woman but me.”

“I have a horseman of my own,” said she.

“If so, set him in front,” said he.

Before the horseman mounted at all, when he tried to get up, the horse lifted his legs and kicked him off.

“Come then yourself and mount before me,” said she; “I won’t leave the matter so.”

He mounted the horse and she behind him, and before she glanced from her she was nearer sky than earth. He was in Realm Underwaves with her before sunrise.

“You are come,” said Prince Underwaves.

“I am come,” said he.

“There you are, my hero,” said the prince. “You are the son of a king, but I am a son of success. Anyhow, we shall have no delay or neglect now, but a wedding.”

“Just gently,” said the princess; “your wedding is not so short a way off as you suppose. Till I get the silver cup that my grandmother had at her wedding, and that my mother had as well, I will not marry, for I need to have it at my own wedding.”

“You, rider of the black horse,” said the Prince Underwaves, “I set you under spells and under crosses unless the silver cup is here before dawn tomorrow.”

Out he went and reached the horse and leaned his elbow on his mane, and he heaved a sigh.

“Sigh of a king’s son under spells!” said the horse; “mount and you shall get the silver cup. The people of the realm are gathered about the king tonight, for he has missed his daughter, and when you get to the palace go in and leave me without; they will have the cup there going round the company. Go in and sit in their midst. Say nothing, and seem to be as one of the people of the place. But when the cup comes round to you, take it under your oxter, and come out to me with it, and we’ll go.”

Away they went and they got to Greece, and he went in to the palace and did as the black horse bade. He took the cup and came out and mounted, and before sunrise he was in the Realm Underwaves.

“You are come,” said Prince Underwaves.

“I am come,” said he.

“We had better get married now,” said the prince to the Greek princess.

“Slowly and softly,” said she. “I will not marry till I get the silver ring that my grandmother and my mother wore when they were wedded.”

“You, rider of the black horse,” said the Prince Underwaves, “do that. Let’s have that ring here tomorrow at sunrise.”

The lad went to the black horse and put his elbow on his crest and told him how it was.

“There never was a matter set before me harder than this matter which has now been set in front of me,” said the horse, “but there is no help for it at any rate. Mount me. There is a snow mountain and an ice mountain and a mountain of fire between us and the winning of that ring. It is right hard for us to pass them.”

Thus they went as they were, and about a mile from the snow mountain they were in a bad case with cold. As they came near it he struck the horse, and with the bound he gave the black horse was on the top of the snow mountain; at the next bound he was on the top of the ice mountain; at the third bound he went through the mountain of fire. When he had passed the mountains he was dragging at the horse’s neck, as though he were about to lose himself. He went on before him down to a town below.

“Go down,” said the black horse, “to a smithy; make an iron spike for every bone end in me.”

Down he went as the horse desired, and he got the spikes made, and back he came with them.

“Stick them into me,” said the horse, “every spike of them in every bone end that I have.”

That he did; he stuck the spikes into the horse.

“There is a loch here,” said the horse, “four miles long and four miles wide, and when I go out into it the loch will take fire and blaze. If you see the Loch of Fire going out before the sun rises, expect me, and if not, go your way.”

Out went the black horse into the lake, and the lake became flame. Long was he stretched about the lake, beating his palms and roaring. Day came, and the loch did not go out.

But at the hour when the sun was rising out of the water the lake went out.

And the black horse rose in the middle of the water with one single spike in him, and the ring upon its end.

He came on shore, and down he fell beside the loch.

Then down went the rider. He got the ring, and he dragged the horse down to the side of a hill. He fell to sheltering him with his arms about him, and as the sun was rising he got better and better, till about midday, when he rose on his feet.

“Mount,” said the horse, “and let us begone.”

He mounted on the black horse, and away they went.

He reached the mountains, and he leaped the horse at the fire mountain and was on the top. From the mountain of fire he leaped to the mountain of ice, and from the mountain of ice to the mountain of snow. He put the mountains past him, and by morning he was in realm under the waves.

“You are come,” said the prince.

“I am,” said he.

“That’s true,” said Prince Underwaves. “A king’s son are you, but a son of success am I. We shall have no more mistakes and delays, but a wedding this time.”

“Go easy,” said the Princess of the Greeks. “Your wedding is not so near as you think yet. Till you make a castle, I won’t marry you. Not to your father’s castle nor to your mother’s will I go to dwell; but make me a castle for which your father’s castle will not make washing water.”

“You, rider of the black horse, make that,” said Prince Underwaves, “before the morrow’s sun rises.”

The lad went out to the horse and leaned his elbow on his neck and sighed, thinking that this castle never could be made for ever.

“There never came a turn in my road yet that is easier for me to pass than this,” said the black horse.

Glance that the lad gave from him he saw all that there were, and ever so many wrights and stone masons at work, and the castle was ready before the sun rose.

He shouted at the Prince Underwaves, and he saw the castle. He tried to pluck out his eye, thinking that it was a false sight.

“Son of King Underwaves,” said the rider of the black horse, “don’t think that you have a false sight; this is a true sight.”

“That’s true,” said the prince. “You are a son of success, but I am a son of success too. There will be no more mistakes and delays, but a wedding now.”

“No,” said she. “The time is come. Should we not go to look at the castle? There’s time enough to get married before the night comes.”

They went to the castle and the castle was without a ‘but’ –

“I see one,” said the prince. “One want at least to be made good. A well to be made inside, so that water may not be far to fetch when there is a feast or a wedding in the castle.”

“That won’t be long undone,” said the rider of the black horse.

The well was made, and it was seven fathoms deep and two or three fathoms wide, and they looked at the well on the way to the wedding.

“It is very well made,” said she, “but for one little fault yonder.”

“Where is it?” said Prince Underwaves.

“There,” said she.

He bent him down to look. She came out, and she put her two hands at his back, and cast him in.

“Be thou there,” said she. “If I go to be married, thou art not the man; but the man who did each exploit that has been done, and, if he chooses, him will I have.”

Away she went with the rider of the little black horse to the wedding.

And at the end of three years after that so it was that he first remembered the black horse or where he left him.

He got up and went out, and he was very sorry for his neglect of the black horse. He found him just where he left him.

“Good luck to you, gentleman,” said the horse. “You seem as if you had got something that you like better than me.”

“I have not got that, and I won’t; but it came over me to forget you,” said he.

“I don’t mind,” said the horse, “it will make no difference. Raise your sword and smite off my head.”

“Fortune will now allow that I should do that,” said he.

“Do it instantly, or I will do it to you,” said the horse.

So the lad drew his sword and smote off the horse’s head; then he lifted his two palms and uttered a doleful cry.

What should he hear behind him but “All hail, my brother-in-law.”

He looked behind him, and there was the finest man he ever set eyes upon.

“What set you weeping for the black horse?” said he.

“This,” said the lad, “that there never was born of man or beast a creature in this world that I was fonder of.”

“Would you take me for him?” said the stranger.

“If I could think you the horse, I would; but if not, I would rather the horse,” said the rider.

“I am the black horse,” said the lad, “and if I were not, how should you have all these things that you went to seek in my father’s house. Since I went under spells, many a man have I ran at before you met me. They had but one word amongst them: they could not keep me, nor manage me, and they never kept me a couple of days. But when I fell in with you, you kept me till the time ran out that was to come from the spells. And now you shall go home with me, and we will make a wedding in my father’s house.”

The Legend of Knockgrafton

THERE WAS ONCE a poor man who lived in the fertile glen of Aherlow, at the foot of the gloomy Galtee mountains, and he had a great hump on his back: he looked just as if his body had been rolled up and placed upon his shoulders; and his head was pressed down with the weight so much that his chin, when he was sitting, used to rest upon his knees for support. The country people were rather shy of meeting him in any lonesome place, for though, poor creature, he was as harmless and as inoffensive as a new-born infant, yet his deformity was so great that he scarcely appeared to be a human creature, and some ill-minded persons had set strange stories about him afloat. He was said to have a great knowledge of herbs and charms; but certain it was that he had a mighty skilful hand in plaiting straw and rushes into hats and baskets, which was the way he made his livelihood.

Lusmore, for that was the nickname put upon him by reason of his always wearing a sprig of the fairy cap, or lusmore (the foxglove), in his little straw hat, would ever get a higher penny for his plaited work than any one else, and perhaps that was the reason why some one, out of envy, had circulated the strange stories about him. Be that as it may, it happened that he was returning one evening from the pretty town of Cahir towards Cappagh, and as little Lusmore walked very slowly, on account of the great hump upon his back, it was quite dark when he came to the old moat of Knockgrafton, which stood on the right-hand side of his road. Tired and weary was he, and noways comfortable in his own mind at thinking how much farther he had to travel, and that he should be walking all the night; so he sat down under the moat to rest himself, and began looking mournfully enough upon the moon.

Presently there rose a wild strain of unearthly melody upon the ear of little Lusmore; he listened, and he thought that he had never heard such ravishing music before. It was like the sound of many voices, each mingling and blending with the other so strangely that they seemed to be one, though all singing different strains, and the words of the song were these:

Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort;

when there would be a moment’s pause, and then the round of melody went on again.

Lusmore listened attentively, scarcely drawing his breath lest he might lose the slightest note. He now plainly perceived that the singing was within the moat; and though at first it had charmed him so much, he began to get tired of hearing the same round sung over and over so often without any change; so availing himself of the pause when the Da Luan, Da Mort, had been sung three times, he took up the tune, and raised it with the words augus Da Cadine, and then went on singing with the voices inside of the moat, Da Luan, Da Mort, finishing the melody, when the pause again came, with augus Da Cadine.

The fairies within Knockgrafton, for the song was a fairy melody, when they heard this addition to the tune, were so much delighted that, with instant resolve, it was determined to bring the mortal among them, whose musical skill so far exceeded theirs, and little Lusmore was conveyed into their company with the eddying speed of a whirlwind.

Glorious to behold was the sight that burst upon him as he came down through the moat, twirling round and round, with the lightness of a straw, to the sweetest music that kept time to his motion. The greatest honour was then paid him, for he was put above all the musicians, and he had servants tending upon him, and everything to his heart’s content, and a hearty welcome to all; and, in short, he was made as much of as if he had been the first man in the land.

Presently Lusmore saw a great consultation going forward among the fairies, and, notwithstanding all their civility, he felt very much frightened, until one stepping out from the rest came up to him and said:

“Lusmore! Lusmore!

Doubt not, nor deplore,

For the hump which you bore

On your back is no more;

Look down on the floor,

And view it, Lusmore!”

When these words were said, poor little Lusmore felt himself so light, and so happy, that he thought he could have bounded at one jump over the moon, like the cow in the history of the cat and the fiddle; and he saw, with inexpressible pleasure, his hump tumble down upon the ground from his shoulders. He then tried to lift up his head, and he did so with becoming caution, fearing that he might knock it against the ceiling of the grand hall, where he was; he looked round and round again with greatest wonder and delight upon everything, which appeared more and more beautiful; and, overpowered at beholding such a resplendent scene, his head grew dizzy, and his eyesight became dim. At last he fell into a sound sleep, and when he awoke he found that it was broad daylight, the sun shining brightly, and the birds singing sweetly; and that he was lying just at the foot of the moat of Knockgrafton, with the cows and sheep grazing peacefully round about him. The first thing Lusmore did, after saying his prayers, was to put his hand behind to feel for his hump, but no sign of one was there on his back, and he looked at himself with great pride, for he had now become a well-shaped dapper little fellow, and more than that, found himself in a full suit of new clothes, which he concluded the fairies had made for him.

Towards Cappagh he went, stepping out as lightly, and springing up at every step as if he had been all his life a dancing-master. Not a creature who met Lusmore knew him without his hump, and he had a great work to persuade every one that he was the same man – in truth he was not, so far as outward appearance went.

Of course it was not long before the story of Lusmore’s hump got about, and a great wonder was made of it. Through the country, for miles round, it was the talk of every one, high and low.

One morning, as Lusmore was sitting contented enough, at his cabin door, up came an old woman to him, and asked him if he could direct her to Cappagh.

“I need give you no directions, my good woman,” said Lusmore, “for this is Cappagh; and whom may you want here?”

“I have come,” said the woman, “out of Decie’s country, in the county of Waterford looking after one Lusmore, who, I have heard tell, had his hump taken off by the fairies; for there is a son of a gossip of mine who has got a hump on him that will be his death; and maybe if he could use the same charm as Lusmore, the hump may be taken off him. And now I have told you the reason of my coming so far: ’tis to find out about this charm, if I can.”

Lusmore, who was ever a good-natured little fellow, told the woman all the particulars, how he had raised the tune for the fairies at Knockgrafton, how his hump had been removed from his shoulders, and how he had got a new suit of clothes into the bargain.

The woman thanked him very much, and then went away quite happy and easy in her own mind. When she came back to her gossip’s house, in the county of Waterford, she told her everything that Lusmore had said, and they put the little hump-backed man, who was a peevish and cunning creature from his birth, upon a car, and took him all the way across the country. It was a long journey, but they did not care for that, so the hump was taken from off him; and they brought him, just at nightfall, and left him under the old moat of Knockgrafton.

Jack Madden, for that was the humpy man’s name, had not been sitting there long when he heard the tune going on within the moat much sweeter than before; for the fairies were singing it the way Lusmore had settled their music for them, and the song was going on; Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort, augus Da Cadine, without ever stopping. Jack Madden, who was in a great hurry to get quit of his hump, never thought of waiting until the fairies had done, or watching for a fit opportunity to raise the tune higher again than Lusmore had; so having heard them sing it over seven times without stopping, out he bawls, never minding the time or the humour of the tune, or how he could bring his words in properly, augus Da Cadine, augus Da Hena, thinking that if one day was good, two were better; and that if Lusmore had one new suit of clothes given him, he should have two.

No sooner had the words passed his lips than he was taken up and whisked into the moat with prodigious force; and the fairies came crowding round about him with great anger, screeching, and screaming, and roaring out, “Who spoiled our tune? who spoiled our tune?” and one stepped up to him, above all the rest and said:

“Jack Madden! Jack Madden!

Your words came so bad in

The tune we felt glad in; –

This castle you’re had in,

That your life we may sadden;

Here’s two humps for Jack Madden!”

And twenty of the strongest fairies brought Lusmore’s hump and put it down upon poor Jack’s back, over his own, where it became fixed as firmly as if it was nailed on with twelve-penny nails, by the best carpenter that ever drove one. Out of their castle they then kicked him; and, in the morning, when Jack Madden’s mother and her gossip came to look after their little man, they found him half dead, lying at the foot of the moat, with the other hump upon his back. Well to be sure, how they did look at each other! but they were afraid to say anything, lest a hump might be put upon their own shoulders. Home they brought the unlucky Jack Madden with them, as downcast in their hearts and their looks as ever two gossips were; and what through the weight of his other hump, and the long journey, he died soon after, leaving they say his heavy curse to any one who would go to listen to fairy tunes again.

Elidore

IN THE DAYS OF HENRY BEAUCLERC of England there was a little lad named Elidore, who was being brought up to be a cleric. Day after day he would trudge from his mother’s house, and she was a widow, up to the monks’ Scriptorium. There he would learn his A B C, to read it and to write it. But he was a lazy little rogue was this Elidore, and as fast as he learned to write one letter, he forgot another; so it was very little progress he was making. Now when the good monks saw this they remembered the saying of the Book: ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child,’ and whenever Elidore forgot a letter they tried to make him remember it with the rod. At first they used it seldom and lightly, but Elidore was not a boy to be driven, and the more they thwacked him the less he learned: so the thwackings became more frequent and more severe, till Elidore could not stand them any longer. So one day when he was twelve years old he upped with him and offed with him into the great forest near St. David’s. There for two long days and two long nights he wandered about eating nothing but hips and haws. At last he found himself at the mouth of a cave, at the side of a river, and there he sank down, all tired and exhausted. Suddenly two little pigmies appeared to him and said: “Come with us, and we will lead you into a land full of games and sports:” so Elidore raised himself and went with these two; at first through an underground passage all in the dark, but soon they came out into a most beautiful country, with rivers and meadows, woods and plains, as pleasant as can be; only this there was curious about it, that the sun never shone and clouds were always over the sky, so that neither sun was seen by day, nor moon and stars at night.

The two little men led Elidore before their king, who asked why and whence he came. Elidore told him, and the king said: “Thou shalt attend on my son,” and waved him away. So for a long time Elidore waited on the king’s son, and joined in all the games and sports of the little men.

They were little, but they were not dwarfs, for all their limbs were of suitable size one with another. Their hair was fair, and hung upon their shoulders like that of women. They had little horses, about the size of greyhounds; and did not eat flesh, fowl, or fish, but lived on milk flavoured with saffron. And as they had such curious ways, so they had strange thoughts. No oath took they, but never a lie they spoke. They would jeer and scoff at men for their struggles, lying, and treachery. Yet though they were so good they worshipped none, unless you might say they were worshippers of Truth.

After a time Elidore began to long to see boys and men of his own size, and he begged permission to go and visit his mother. So the King gave him permission: so the little men led him along the passage, and guided him through the forest, till he came near his mother’s cottage, and when he entered, was not she rejoiced to see her dear son again? “Where have you been? What have you done?” she cried; and he had to tell her all that had happened to him. She begged of him to stay with her, but he had promised the King to go back. And soon he returned, after making his mother promise not to tell where he was, or with whom. Henceforth Elidore lived, partly with the little men, and partly with his mother. Now one day, when he was with his mother, he told her of the yellow balls they used in their play, and which she felt sure must be of gold. So she begged of him that the next time he came back to her he would bring with him one of these balls. When the time came for him to go back to his mother again, he did not wait for the little men to guide him back, as he now knew the road. But seizing one of the yellow balls with which he used to play, he rushed home through the passage. Now as he got near his mother’s house he seemed to hear tiny footsteps behind him, and he rushed up to the door as quickly as he could. Just as he reached it his foot slipped, and he fell down, and the ball rolled out of his hand, just to the feet of his mother. At that moment two little men rushed forward, seized the ball and ran away, making faces, and spitting at the boy as they passed him. Elidore remained with his mother for a time; but he missed the play and games of the little men, and determined to go back to them. But when he came to where the cave had been, near the river where the underground passage commenced, he could not find it again, and though he searched again and again in the years to come, he could not get back to that fair country. So after a time he went back to the monastery, and became in due course a monk. And men used to come and seek him out, and ask him what had happened to him when he was in the Land of the Little Men. Nor could he ever speak of that happy time without shedding tears.

Now it happened once, when this Elidore was old, that David, Bishop of St. David’s, came to visit his monastery and ask him about the manners and customs of the little men, and above all, he was curious to know what language they spoke; and Elidore told him some of their words. When they asked for water, they would say: Udor udorum; and when they wanted salt, they would say: Hapru udorum. And from this, the Bishop, who was a learned man, discovered that they spoke some sort of Greek. For Udor is Greek for Water, and Hap for Salt.

Hence we know that the Britons came from Troy, being descendants from Brito, son of Priam, King of Troy.

How Cormac Mac Art Went to Faery

CORMAC, SON OF ART, son of Conn of the Hundred Battles, was high King of Ireland, and held his Court at Tara. One day he saw a youth upon the green having in his hand a glittering fairy branch with nine apples of red. And whensoever the branch was shaken, wounded men and women enfeebled by illness would be lulled to sleep by the sound of the very sweet fairy music which those apples uttered, nor could any one upon earth bear in mind any want, woe, or weariness of soul when that branch was shaken for him.

“Is that branch thy own?” said Cormac.

“It is indeed mine.”

“Wouldst thou sell it? and what wouldst thou require for it?”

“Will you give me what I ask?” said the youth.

The king promised, and the youth then claimed his wife, his daughter, and his son. Sorrowful of heart was the king, heaviness of heart filled his wife and children when they learned that they must part from him. But Cormac shook the branch amongst them, and when they heard the soft sweet music of the branch they forgot all care and sorrow and went forth to meet the youth, and he and they took their departure and were seen no more. Loud cries of weeping and mourning were made throughout Erin when this was known: but Cormac shook the branch so that there was no longer any grief or heaviness of heart upon any one.

After a year Cormac said: “It is a year today since my wife, my son, and my daughter were taken from me. I will follow them by the same path that they took.”

Cormac went off, and a dark magical mist rose about him, and he chanced to come upon a wonderful marvellous plain. Many horsemen were there, busy thatching a house with the feathers of foreign birds; when one side was thatched they would go and seek more, and when they returned not a feather was on the roof. Cormac gazed at them for a while and then went forward.

Again, he saw a youth dragging up trees to make a fire; but before he could find a second tree the first one would be burnt, and it seemed to Cormac that his labour would never end.

Cormac journeyed onwards until he saw three immense wells on the border of the plain, and on each well was a head. From out the mouth of the first head there flowed two streams, into it there flowed one; the second head had a stream flowing out of and another stream into its mouth, whilst three streams were flowing from the mouth of the third head. Great wonder seized Cormac, and he said: “I will stay and gaze upon these wells, for I should find no man to tell me your story.” With that he set onwards till he came to a house in the middle of a field. He entered and greeted the inmates. There sat within a tall couple clad in many-hued garments, and they greeted the king, and bade him welcome for the night.

Then the wife bade her husband seek food, and he arose and returned with a huge wild boar upon his back and a log in his hand. He cast down the swine and the log upon the floor, and said: “There is meat; cook it for yourselves.”

“How can I do that?” said Cormac.

“I will teach you,” said the youth. “Split this great log, make four pieces of it, and make four quarters of the hog; put a log under each quarter; tell a true story, and the meat will be cooked.”

“Tell the first story yourself,” said Cormac.

“Seven pigs I have of the same kind as the one I brought, and I could feed the world with them. For if a pig is killed I have but to put its bones into the stye again, and it will be found alive the next morning.”

The story was true, and a quarter of the pig was cooked.

Then Cormac begged the woman of the house to tell a story.

“I have seven white cows, and they fill seven cauldrons with milk every day, and I give my word that they yield as much milk as would satisfy the men of the whole world if they were out on yonder plain drinking it.”

That story was true, and a second quarter of the pig was cooked.

Cormac was bidden now to tell a story for his quarter, and he told how he was upon a search for his wife, his son and his daughter that had been borne away from him a year before by a youth with a fairy branch.

“If what thou sayest be true,” said the man of the house, “thou art indeed Cormac, son of Art, son of Conn of the Hundred Battles.”

“Truly I am,” quoth Cormac.

That story was true, and a quarter of the pig was cooked.

“Eat thy meal now,” said the man of the house.

“I never ate before,” said Cormac, “having only two people in my company.”

“Wouldst thou eat it with three others?”

“If they were dear to me, I would,” said Cormac.

Then the door opened, and there entered the wife and children of Cormac: great was his joy and his exultation.

Then Manannan mac Lir, lord of the fairy Cavalcade, appeared before him in his own true form, and said thus:

“I it was, Cormac, who bore away these three from thee. I it was who gave thee this branch, all that I might bring thee here. Eat now and drink.”

“I would do so,” said Cormac, “could I learn the meaning of the wonders I saw today.”

“Thou shalt learn them,” said Manannan. “The horsemen thatching the roof with feathers are a likeness of people who go forth into the world to seek riches and fortune; when they return their houses are bare, and so they go on for ever. The young man dragging up the trees to make a fire is a likeness of those who labour for others: much trouble they have, but they never warm themselves at the fire. The three heads in the wells are three kinds of men. Some there are who give freely when they get freely; some who give freely though they get little; some who get much and give little, and they are the worst of the three, Cormac,” said Manannan.

After that Cormac and his wife and his children sat down, and a table-cloth was spread before them.

“That is a very precious thing before thee,” said Manannan, “there is no food however delicate that shall be asked of it but it shall be had without doubt.”

“That is well,” quoth Cormac.

After that Manannan thrust his hand into his girdle and brought out a goblet and set it upon his palm. “This cup has this virtue,” said he, “that when a false story is told before it, it makes four pieces of it, and when a true story is related it is made whole again.”

“Those are very precious things you have, Manannan,” said the king.

“They shall all be thine,” said Manannan, “the goblet, the branch and the tablecloth.”

Then they ate their meal, and that meal was good, for they could not think of any meat but they got it upon the table-cloth, nor of any drink but they got it in the cup. Great thanks did they give to Manannan.

When they had eaten their meal a couch was prepared for them and they laid down to slumber and sweet sleep.

Where they rose on the morrow morn was in Tara of the kings, and by their side were tablecloth, cup, and branch.

Thus did Cormac fare at the Court of Manannan, and this is how he got the fairy branch.

TALES OF GHOSTS

Introduction

IN SCOTLAND, stories of ghosts and evil-spirits form a rich and vibrant tradition, as alive today as it was centuries ago. It is one of the oldest genres of Scottish mythology and certainly the most enduring, for as little is known today as it ever was about where we go when we leave this earth. Our spirits may visit the realms of heaven, but we have religion to explain that. What of that time before the soul leaves the body? And what of the body in the ground? The dank, dark earth houses many secrets, and it is there that ghosts and other spirits are bred. The newly dead and the long-dead are the most frightening, for they are most venomous in their attacks on unsuspecting family, or even strangers. Beware of a fleeting glimpse of something unknown; watch out for that unexplained flash of light in a haunted house; take note when a chair moves suddenly in an empty room. And if a body is laid out for burial in a house near to you, sleep elsewhere, for the spirits of the dead can come back, in many strange forms. There’s no doubt of that, as these stories will tell.

The Fiddler of Gord

THERE ONCE WAS A MAN who lived in Sandness, near Papa Stour. He was a fisherman by trade, but he was known across the lands for the tunes he played on his fine fiddle. Folk came for miles to hear his music, and he could dance and sing a bit, so making it a real evening for anyone who cared to join in.

Now one cold night he left his cottage home, which was nestled in the base of a knoll, sheltered from the winds which burst over the hills from the sea. He left that night grudgingly, for the fire was warm and the company merry, but the larders were empty and more fish must be got by morning. So out he went into the frosted air, which crisped his breath and crunched under his feet. And on to his cold, dark boat he climbed, then out to sea, where he settled himself under oilskins and drew out his fine fiddle and began to play. And the Fiddler of Gord, as the man was called, played for hours as the fish drew closer to hear the wondrous music, catching themselves in his nets, but fighting not at all, so comforted were they by the strains from his fiddle.

Then the fiddler headed homewards, his basket groaning with fresh fish, tastier for having expired happily. As he passed the grassy knoll that hid his sweet, snug cottage from the fierce winds, he heard a graceful melody, and stopping in his tracks and laying down his basket, he listened. There was a light which glinted and beckoned through the grass and he was drawn towards it, as the music grew louder.

A door had opened in the hill, and from inside came the enchanted music of the fairy folk, a melody so divine and simple that his heart grew larger in his breast and he pulsed with pure pleasure. The Fiddler of Gord entered the door that night, and it was shut firmly behind him.

The cottage, tucked into the base of the knoll, was quiet as the night grew longer and the fiddler had not returned, and finally, when it neared dawn, the youngest son was sent out with a lantern, and when he returned with the fiddler’s basket of fish there was no doubt in their minds that he’d been blown down the cliffs into the sea. The family lived there for many years, but the fiddler did not return. Finally, they moved from that place to another, and a new family took over the wee cosy cottage tucked into the base of the knoll, and they made a happy home there, warmed by the hearth and protected from the angry winds by the arm of the hillock.

It was on one windy night, when the sky howled at the thundering clouds, that a knock was heard on the door of this warm cottage, and when the door was opened there appeared an old man, bent and cold, and he thrust his hands at the fire, laying his fiddle to one side. And as he looked around he realized that it was not his family who gazed at him with astonishment, but another, and they wore garments which spoke of ages to come, not those he had come to know.

The children who played at the feet of the chairs came to gawk, and he asked, with all the rage he could muster, “Where is my family? This is my house” to which the new family all laughed and called him mad and a coot from the whiskey barrel.

But the old grandfather of the family stayed silent, and then, at length, he said quietly to their indignant guest, “Where do you hail from, man?” And when the Fiddler of Gord explained, the grandfather nodded his head slowly and said, “Yes, you did live here once, but a man of your name disappeared, gone a hundred years now.”

“Well, where are my folk then?” whispered the Fiddler of Gord, his face a mask of confusion and fear.

“Dead,” came the reply, and the room was quiet once more.

“And so I’ll join them,” said the fiddler, and drawing himself up to his full height he left the glow of the hearth, and the warmth of the family, and he headed to the top of the hillock, where the winds blew cold and frosty, crisping his breath and crunching under his feet, and he was followed by the wee lad of the house, who hid behind a bush at the base of the hillock to watch.

And there, in a glorious symphony of sound the fiddler played a rich and moving song that tugged at the chords of the wee lad’s heart and filled his eyes with burning tears. And those tears burnt the melody into his memory, and it remained there until he died. Then the fiddler looked over at the northern star and played the tune once again, and collapsed, his fiddle flying over the hilltop into the sea.

And when the bairn summoned the courage to creep over to the old man, he found there a body of one who had died near one hundred years earlier. So he crept away home again, all the while humming a song that would haunt him till his dying day, blinded by tears and seeing not the door of a magic kingdom which had opened to welcome him to its timeless light.

MacPhail of Uisinnis

MORE THAN THREE CENTURIES AGO there lived a man in Uisinnis, and his name was MacPhail. He was a big man, strong and silent, and he lived in a great stone house with his wife, his son, his son’s wife, and their daughter. Now woe had fallen upon the family some thirteen years earlier when the daughter of MacPhail’s son had been born dumb. Never a word had crossed the tongue of the young lass, but she was quiet and kind and well-liked by all.

The sad day came when old MacPhail died, and his body was dressed and laid at the end of their great stone house in preparation for burial. And his son, dressed in the black of mourning, drove off that day, to tend to the arrangements and gather together the old man’s friends. He would be gone for a day, leaving the three women alone.

That night, as the moon hung high in the sky, lighting the path to the great stone house, and setting the rooms aglow with its beams, a scuffling was heard from the room with the body, and as the noise grew much louder, there came a shriek.

And from the mouth of the dumb girl who had never before spoken a word, came the cry, “Granny, Granny. My grandfather is up, and he’s coming to get you! He’ll eat you, he will, but he won’t touch me.”

And the old woman flew from her bed, and sure enough, there, striding down the hall was the man who had laid at the end of the hall, dead and about to be buried. And she slammed her door, and thrust the wardrobe against it, and the boxes and piles of mending. She screamed with fright, but the door was shut tight.

Then, at this, the old MacPhail bent down and began to dig. And he dug there for some time, his great hands heaving earth and rocks from under the doorframe, until a tunnel was bored straight under the door. And as he wedged his way into this space, and thrust his mighty shoulders up the other side, his face a mask of horrible pain and determination, a cock flew down from the rafters, on to the floor. And there he crowed three times, and returned to his loft.

And old MacPhail ceased his digging then, and he fell deep into the trough he had dug, stone dead.

His son returned to Uissinis the following morning, and there he found a wife and a mother who could hardly utter a word, and a daughter who could not stop speaking of the ghost that had come. And thinking them all quite mad, he was stopped short in his tracks by the sight of his father, his hands torn and bloodied, half of him in a hole under his mother’s door, and half of him out.

Old MacPhail was buried the next day, but the hole he had dug beneath that doorway is still there, in the ruins of that ancient house, and there’s been no one able to fill it. ‘MacPhail’s Pit’ is its name, and the spirit of that man lies within it to this day.

Tarbh Na Leòid

ON THE ISLAND OF HEISKER, just west of Uist, lies an enchanted loch. Here lived a water-horse who was so terrible that everyone feared he would enter the village and destroy them all. And so it was that an old man in the village who knew of such things advised his neighbours to raise a bull, one to each household, and never let it out until it was needed.

For many years, the village was safe. Women washed their clothes at the loch in pairs, for everyone knew that the water-horse would only strike if you ventured to the loch alone. And every household had a bull, never let out in the event that it would be needed. But so it was one year, that the villagers had become a wee bit complacent about the water-horse, and women began to be a little less careful about doing their laundry in pairs. And one day, for whatever the reason, a woman washed alone there, and when she finished, she laid down on the banks of the river and slept there.

The sun was high in the sky, and she was warmed into a deep slumber. When she woke, she saw a magnificent man standing there, the sun glinting on his golden hair, and lighting his clear blue eyes. He spoke to her then, about the fineness of the afternoon, and she spoke back.

“You must be very tired, after all that washing,” he said kindly, and the woman blushed, for the men of Heisker never cared much about a woman’s tiredness, or about the washing.

“I am indeed,” she stammered.

“Do you mind if I join you there?” He smiled at her. “Because I am pretty tired myself.”

“Oh, no,” she said sweetly, and made room beside her.

Now that fine young man sat down beside her, and then spoke again.

“Do you mind if I lay my head in your lap?” he whispered, and the woman flushed again and shook her head.

And so it was that this young woman was sitting by the sunny banks of the loch with the head of a handsome young man in her lap. And as she gazed down, hardly believing her good fortune, she noticed sea-dirt in his hair, and weeds, and bits of water-moss. And only then did she notice his hooves, which lay crossed in slumber.

The water-horse.

And carefully, ever so gently, the woman took from her washing bag a pair of sharp scissors, and cutting a hole in her coat where the water-horse’s head lay, she slipped out from under him, leaving a bit of her coat behind.

And then she ran back to the village, and as the fear struck her, she shrieked to the villagers, “Help, it’s the water-horse.”

There was a neighing behind her, and the sound of hooves on gravel, and she ran all the faster, calling for help.

Now the old man heard her first, and he called out to his neighbour, a man named MacLeod, whose bull was the closest. The bull was called Tarbh na Leòid, and he was a fierce creature, all the more so for being kept inside all his life.

“Let loose Tarbh na Leòid,” cried the woman, rushing into the village. “Turn him loose!”

And so the bull was let loose, and he threw himself at the water-horse and there ensued a fight so horrific that the villagers could hardly watch. And it carried on for hours, and then days, and finally the bull beat that water-horse back to the loch, and they both disappeared.

The woman returned to her home, and she laid down on her bed, never to rise again. Nor did the bull or the water-horse, although it is said that the horn of Tarbh na Leòid rose to the surface of the water one fine day, many years later. It’s still there, they say, guarding the path to the loch of the water-horse.

The Sprightly Tailor

A SPRIGHTLY TAILOR was employed by the great Macdonald, in his castle at Saddell, in order to make the laird a pair of trews, used in olden time. And trews being the vest and breeches united in one piece, and ornamented with fringes, were very comfortable, and suitable to be worn in walking or dancing. And Macdonald had said to the tailor, that if he would make the trews by night in the church, he would get a handsome reward. For it was thought that the old ruined church was haunted, and that fearsome things were to be seen there at night.

The tailor was well aware of this; but he was a sprightly man, and when the laird dared him to make the trews by night in the church, the tailor was not to be daunted, but took it in hand to gain the prize. So, when night came, away he went up the glen, about half a mile distance from the castle, till he came to the old church. Then he chose him a nice gravestone for a seat and he lighted his candle, and put on his thimble, and set to work at the trews; plying his needle nimbly, and thinking about the hire that the laird would have to give him.

For some time he got on pretty well, until he felt the floor all of a tremble under his feet; and looking about him, but keeping his fingers at work, he saw the appearance of a great human head rising up through the stone pavement of the church. And when the head had risen above the surface, there came from it a great, great voice. And the voice said: “Do you see this great head of mine?”

“I see that, but I’ll sew this!” replied the sprightly tailor; and he stitched away at the trews.

Then the head rose higher up through the pavement, until its neck appeared. And when its neck was shown, the thundering voice came again and said: “Do you see this great neck of mine?”

“I see that, but I’ll sew this!” said the sprightly tailor; and he stitched away at his trews.

Then the head and neck rose higher still, until the great shoulders and chest were shown above the ground. And again the mighty voice thundered: “Do you see this great chest of mine?”

And again the sprightly tailor replied: “I see that, but I’ll sew this!” and stitched away at his trews.

And still it kept rising through the pavement, until it shook a great pair of arms in the tailor’s face, and said: “Do you see these great arms of mine?”

“I see those, but I’ll sew this!” answered the tailor; and he stitched hard at his trews, for he knew that he had no time to lose.

The sprightly tailor was taking the long stitches, when he saw it gradually rising and rising through the floor, until it lifted out a great leg, and stamping with it upon the pavement, said in a roaring voice: “Do you see this great leg of mine?”

“Aye, aye: I see that, but I’ll sew this!” cried the tailor; and his fingers flew with the needle, and he took such long stitches, that he was just come to the end of the trews, when it was taking up its other leg. But before it could pull it out of the pavement, the sprightly tailor had finished his task; and, blowing out his candle, and springing from off his gravestone, he buckled up, and ran out of the church with the trews under his arm. Then the fearsome thing gave a loud roar, and stamped with both his feet upon the pavement, and out of the church he went after the sprightly tailor.

Down the glen they ran, faster than the stream when the flood rides it; but the tailor had got the start and a nimble pair of legs, and he did not choose to lose the laird’s reward. And though the thing roared to him to stop, yet the sprightly tailor was not the man to be beholden to a monster. So he held his trews tight, and let no darkness grow under his feet, until he had reached Saddell Castle. He had no sooner got inside the gate, and shut it, than the apparition came up to it; and, enraged at losing his prize, struck the wall above the gate, and left there the mark of his five great fingers. Ye may see them plainly to this day, if ye’ll only peer close enough.

But the sprightly tailor gained his reward: for Macdonald paid him handsomely for the trews, and never discovered that a few of the stitches were somewhat long.

Andrew Coffey

MY GRANDFATHER, Andrew Coffey, was known to the whole barony as a quiet, decent man. And if the whole barony knew him, he knew the whole barony, every inch, hill and dale, bog and pasture, field and covert. Fancy his surprise one evening, when he found himself in a part of the demesne he couldn’t recognise a bit. He and his good horse were always stumbling up against some tree or stumbling down into some bog-hole that by rights didn’t ought to be there. On the top of all this the rain came pelting down wherever there was a clearing, and the cold March wind tore through the trees. Glad he was then when he saw a light in the distance, and drawing near found a cabin, though for the life of him he couldn’t think how it came there. However, in he walked, after tying up his horse, and right welcome was the brushwood fire blazing on the hearth. And there stood a chair right and tight, that seemed to say, ‘Come, sit down in me.’ There wasn’t a soul else in the room. Well, he did sit, and got a little warm and cheered after his drenching. But all the while he was wondering and wondering.

“Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!”

Good heavens! who was calling him, and not a soul in sight? Look around as he might, indoors and out, he could find no creature with two legs or four, for his horse was gone.

“ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY! tell me a story.”

It was louder this time, and it was nearer. And then what a thing to ask for! It was bad enough not to be let sit by the fire and dry oneself, without being bothered for a story.

“ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY!! Tell me a story, or it’ll be the worse for you.”

My poor grandfather was so dumbfounded that he could only stand and stare.

“ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY! I told you it’d be the worse for you.”

And with that, out there bounced, from a cupboard that Andrew Coffey had never noticed before, a man. And the man was in a towering rage. But it wasn’t that. And he carried as fine a blackthorn as you’d wish to crack a man’s head with. But it wasn’t that either. But when my grandfather clapped eyes on him, he knew him for Patrick Rooney, and all the world knew he’d gone overboard, fishing one night long years before.

Andrew Coffey would neither stop nor stay, but he took to his heels and was out of the house as hard as he could. He ran and he ran taking little thought of what was before till at last he ran up against a big tree. And then he sat down to rest.

He hadn’t sat for a moment when he heard voices.

“It’s heavy he is, the vagabond.” “Steady now, we’ll rest when we get under the big tree yonder.” Now that happened to be the tree under which Andrew Coffey was sitting. At least he thought so, for seeing a branch handy he swung himself up by it and was soon snugly hidden away. Better see than be seen, thought he.

The rain had stopped and the wind fallen. The night was blacker than ever, but Andrew Coffey could see four men, and they were carrying between them a long box. Under the tree they came, set the box down, opened it, and who should they bring out but – Patrick Rooney. Never a word did he say, and he looked as pale as old snow.

Well, one gathered brushwood, and another took out tinder and flint, and soon they had a big fire roaring, and my grandfather could see Patrick plainly enough. If he had kept still before, he kept stiller now. Soon they had four poles up and a pole across, right over the fire, for all the world like a spit, and on to the pole they slung Patrick Rooney.

“He’ll do well enough,” said one; “but who’s to mind him whilst we’re away, who’ll turn the fire, who’ll see that he doesn’t burn?”

With that Patrick opened his lips: “Andrew Coffey,” said he.

“Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!”

“I’m much obliged to you, gentlemen,” said Andrew Coffey, “but indeed I know nothing about the business.”

“You’d better come down, Andrew Coffey,” said Patrick.

It was the second time he spoke, and Andrew Coffey decided he would come down. The four men went off and he was left all alone with Patrick.

Then he sat and he kept the fire even, and he kept the spit turning, and all the while Patrick looked at him.

Poor Andrew Coffey couldn’t make it all out at all, at all, and he stared at Patrick and at the fire, and he thought of the little house in the wood, till he felt quite dazed.

“Ah, but it’s burning me ye are!” says Patrick, very short and sharp.

“I’m sure I beg your pardon,” said my grandfather “but might I ask you a question?”

“If you want a crooked answer,” said Patrick; “turn away or it’ll be the worse for you.”

But my grandfather couldn’t get it out of his head; hadn’t everybody, far and near, said Patrick had fallen overboard. There was enough to think about, and my grandfather did think.

“ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY! IT’S BURNING ME YE ARE.”

Sorry enough my grandfather was, and he vowed he wouldn’t do so again.

“You’d better not,” said Patrick, and he gave him a cock of his eye, and a grin of his teeth, that just sent a shiver down Andrew Coffey’s back. Well it was odd, that here he should be in a thick wood he had never set eyes upon, turning Patrick Rooney upon a spit. You can’t wonder at my grandfather thinking and thinking and not minding the fire.

“ANDREW COFFEY, ANDREW COFFEY, IT’s THE DEATH OF YOU I’ll BE.”

And with that what did my grandfather see, but Patrick unslinging himself from the spit and his eyes glared and his teeth glistened.

It was neither stop nor stay my grandfather made, but out he ran into the night of the wood. It seemed to him there wasn’t a stone but was for his stumbling, not a branch but beat his face, not a bramble but tore his skin. And wherever it was clear the rain pelted down and the cold March wind howled along.

Glad he was to see a light, and a minute after he was kneeling, dazed, drenched, and bedraggled by the hearth side. The brushwood flamed, and the brushwood crackled, and soon my grandfather began to feel a little warm and dry and easy in his mind.

“ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY!”

It’s hard for a man to jump when he has been through all my grandfather had, but jump he did. And when he looked around, where should he find himself but in the very cabin he had first met Patrick in.

“Andrew Coffey, Andrew Coffey, tell me a story.”

“Is it a story you want?” said my grandfather as bold as may be, for he was just tired of being frightened. “Well if you can tell me the rights of this one, I’ll be thankful.”

And he told the tale of what had befallen him from first to last that night. The tale was long, and may be Andrew Coffey was weary. It’s asleep he must have fallen, for when he awoke he lay on the hill-side under the open heavens, and his horse grazed at his side.

ORIGIN & DIDACTIC LEGENDS

Introduction

THE LEGENDS WHICH TELL of the genesis of the earth, of the countryside, and its inhabitants may seem wild and unlikely, but for many centuries they were used to account for landmarks, and the origins of creatures. For man has always longed to make sense of his beginnings, to give a formula to the chaos from which we began, and if a hill resembles the footprint of a giant, there’s every reason to believe there was once one there. Didactic legends, too, seem far-fetched at times, but the moral is always clear – if you live by the rules, you are safe from the clutches of witches and fairy-folk; if you eat well, you’ll have good luck. The simplicity of the message is engaging, but the strictures they put upon daily life were not, for men lived whole lives in fear because of a dirty deed done in childhood, or a curse flung casually by an unhappy neighbour. But so it was that all good boys ate their porridge, and hung a bit of rowan over a door, and treated their wives with kindness. For no one knew who might visit them next, and what that visit might mean.

Dubh a’ Ghiubhais

IT WAS MANY HUNDREDS OF YEARS AGO, long before the days when stories were written down, that Scotland was covered in a great dark forest. This was a forest of fir trees, tall and fine as any to be seen, and there lived there a colony of people who made the trees their friends. Trees can be good friends indeed, for they spread their arms across the land, protecting it from the wind that blows from the stormy coasts, and the rain which is carried on its back. And they make homes for the wee folk, and animals of the forest, and wood for the houses and fires of the men who live there.

Now this fine forest was much admired, and there was one in particular who was very envious of Scotland’s great dark trees. He was the king of Lochlann and he wanted more than anything to destroy them. He would pace round his castle, overcast and gloomy as the winter sky, and he would lament his unhappy lot, ridden right through with jealousy as hot as any good peat fire.

It was his daughter, the princess, who had watched this curious pacing for years on end who finally came to find out the cause of his unhappiness. He explained that he wished to find a way to destroy the trees of the Scottish forest; and that wee princess, she was a practical lass, and she said there was nothing for it but to do it herself.

And so it was that she bade her father leave to find a witch to put her in the shape of a bird, and when he’d done that, and when she’d become a beautiful, pure white bird, she set out over the grassy hills of Lochlann to the deep fir forests that carpeted the Scottish land. On the west coast of Scotland she came down, and there she struck a tree with a wand she had under her wing. With that single motion the tree would burst into flames and burn there, and it was not long before this beautiful white bird had burnt a great number of trees in that forest.

Now this beautiful white bird was no longer fair or pure; indeed, the smoke of the pinewood had cast an ugly black shadow across her feathers and she came to be known by the people of the country as the Dubh a’ Ghiubhais, or Fir Black. And so it was that this Dubh a’ Ghiubhais flew across the land, causing damage that robbed the wee folk of their homes and sent the animals scattering for shelter, and the men had no wood for their homes or their fires, and the trees could no longer spread their comforting arms across the land, protecting it from the wind that blows from the stormy coasts, bringing the rain on its back. And it was for this reason that the men of the land grouped together and decided that this bird must be stopped, for the Dubh a’ Ghiubhais had brought sadness and rain to their sheltered lives.

It was not easy to catch the Dubh a’ Ghiubhais, but it was heard, somewhere on the west coast of Scotland, that the bird had a soft, sweet heart in that blackened breast, and that a plan could be made to capture it.

And so it was that a man at Loch Broom hatched the plan, and on the very next morning spent a day at work in his barnyard, taking mother from her young all across the barn. For the piglets were taken wailing from their sows, the puppies barked as they were snatched from their mothers’ teats, the foals were taken from mares, the lambs from sheep, the calves from the cows, the chickens from the hens, the kittens from the cats, and even the kids from the goats that grazed on the tender shoots of grass on the verge. And the uproar that followed was enough to churn the stomach of any man alive, for there were cries so piteous, so plaintive, so needing that the men and women for miles around hid themselves under soft down pillows in order to block out that dreadful sound.

It was not long before it reached the ears of the Dubh a’ Ghiubhais, who was passing on her fiery course of devastation. And her soft, sweet heart nearly burst with pity for these poor creatures. She flew at once to the ground, and drawing her wand from beneath her wing she made as if to set the animals free when a small sharp arrow stung her breast, piercing her heart and bringing a clean, cold death. And the man at Loch Broom picked up his quiver and slinging it over his shoulder, bent over to collect the dead bird.

And so it was that the Dubh a’ Ghiubhais was hung from a tree, where folk gathered round to cheer her death. News of what had happened reached her father, the king of Lochlann, and he was torn with grief and guilt. He sent his hardiest crew in a great long boat to bring the body of his dear daughter home. But there were fearful gales which pitched and jolted the ships that carried the funeral pyre, and although the brave sailors tried three times, they could get no further than the mouth of the Little Loch Broom.

And so it was that the Dubh a’ Ghiubhais was buried beneath the tree where she hung, at Kildonan, at the bend of the loch at Little Loch Broom. She rests there still, a single fir tree growing atop her grave, which lies beneath a grassy green hillock.

The Pabbay Mother’s Ghost

THERE ONCE WAS A MAN WHO LIVED in a cottage in Pabbay, a kindly man who knew a woman’s needs and saw to them in the course of every day. And so it was that when this kindly man’s wife was in childbed, he made for her a great steaming bowl of porridge with butter. For the oats and butter in the porridge would make her strong, and the baby would be born without a murmur.

This man sat by the fireside that night, stirring the porridge and reaching across occasionally to mop the brow of his sweet, dear wife. And then a woman came in and sat by him on his bench, and she asked quietly for a bowl of the steaming porridge with butter. The man handed her the bowl without a word and carried on stirring, reaching across occasionally to mop the brow of his sweet, dear wife. And when the woman returned her bowl empty he filled it once more, and then again, until the woman had three great pots of porridge with butter. But still the man made no sound, passing another bowl across to his wife now and then, reaching across occasionally to mop her sweet, dear brow.

And then the woman stood up, and she said to the man, as he stirred his porridge, “There, that’s what I should have had when I was in childbed myself, for I am strong now, and my baby would have been born without a murmur. It was hunger that was the cause of my death, but now, as long as a drop of your blood remains, no woman shall ever die in childbed if anyone who tends her with porridge and butter is related to you.”

So the woman left the cottage in Pabbay, and it was not long before the man’s baby was born without a murmur, and his sweet, dear wife sat up strong and healthy in the childbed. And from that time on, not a wife or child of his, or a wife or child of his children died, for like their forefather, they knew a woman’s needs and saw to them in the course of every day.

Luran

THERE ONCE WAS A CROFTER and his wife, and they lived in a glen far from the prying eyes of neighbours. They were quiet folk, but they lived well, with a herd of cattle to be envied, and a good bit of land. Their house was snug and warm in the coldest months, they had cream and milk and butter, and they wanted for nothing, in that glen, far from the prying eyes of neighbours.

Now that crofter was a healthy man, and he liked nothing more than a good meal, particularly if it was a feast of his favourite oakcakes, smeared with butter and dipped again in cream. And he partook of this kind of meal on most days so he grew rather heavy and clumsy. But their house was safe from any kind of danger, being far from the prying eyes of neighbours, and he grew perhaps a little too satisfied, and a little too complacent in his happy home.

For it was a cold Hallowe’en evening that strange things began to happen on the land of that satisfied crofter, and although everyone living near the fairy folk knows that Hallowe’en evening is their time for mischief, the crofter had not had cause to worry before this particular Hallowe’en night.

It was just as he was settling himself and his wife into their beds that they heard the howling of their guard dog, and a rumpus going on in the henhouse. And then they heard the cattle lowing, and everyone knows that cattle never low in the dead of night, so the crofter and his wife grew alarmed. Then he put back on his outdoor clothes, and he lit a lantern and headed towards the barnyard.

There, an astonishing sight met his eyes, for the barnyard was empty, his cattle gone, his pig sty clean, his henhouse bare. And the crofter sat down and held his head in his hands, and he asked himself how such a thing could happen to a house tucked so neatly in the glen, far from the prying eyes of neighbours. And then he started, for there was the sound of a lowing cow just over the knoll, and when he looked more closely there were tracks heading there too.

And so it was that the crofter plucked up his courage that Hallowe’en night, and went over that knoll, into the realm of the fairies. He crept there silently, until he heard voices. Then he stopped and he listened.

“Luran didn’t run,” came a voice.

“Didn’t run at all,” said another.

“Couldn’t run at all,” giggled the first, and then there was a great deal of scuffling and laughter.

“If only his bread were not so hard,” said the other, “but if Luran were fed on porridge, Luran would outrun the deer.”

And the crofter heard this conversation, and filled with fear (for everyone knows that fairies who speak English are the most dangerous of all) he peeked over the hilltop. There sat two smug fairies and just beyond them were his cattle, and all the livestock of the barnyard. He sat back again, Luran the satisfied crofter, and he began to think.

And when he returned home to greet his anxious wife, he was still thinking, and again in the morning when she offered him his favourite meal of oatcakes, smeared in butter and dipped again in cream. And so it was that Luran held up his hand and said to his wife, “You’ll have to give me porridge and milk every day.”

As the days shortened and then lengthened again, Luran grew long and lean, and a fine, fit sight of a man he was. He worked on his farm and he raised more cattle, and on that house in the glen, far from the prying eyes of neighbours, Luran plotted his revenge.

It was twelve months now, and Luran was ready. Hallowe’en night found the crofter hidden in the stable of cattle, peering restlessly across their troughs. He was soon rewarded, for in popped the same two fairies who had visited there before, and as they led the first cattle away from his barn, Luran leapt up and chased those fairies over the knoll. And when he caught them, not far from the top, they gazed at him in surprise, and danced a fairy dance of approval.

So the crofter returned to his cosy house, leading his cattle back to the stable. And never again did those fairies trouble that house, tucked in the glen, far from the prying eyes of neighbours, for the master of that house ate nothing but porridge and milk, as all good men should.

The Hugboy

THERE ONCE WAS A GIANT, a hugboy he was called, and he lived with his wife somewhere near Caithness. Now they fought a great deal, that hugboy and his wife, and when they stamped their feet and howled, the little folk scurried for cover, for it was likely that a boulder or two could be thrown in their direction, or a mighty foot placed firmly upon a house or farm. Some say it was at that time that the fairy folk went to live inside the hills, for only then were they safe from the rages of the hugboy and his wife.

Well, so it happened, one dark day, that the hugboy fell out with his wife, and having had enough of his tempers, and with one of her own to match, she set out from home, never to return.

The hugboy was furious, for he chased her north, stepping through the Pentland Firth, and when he caught sight of her once more he threw a great stone at her. She was nearly flying now, so furious and fast she was making away from the hugboy, and up Ireland Brae she ran as he threw another great boulder that missed its mark. But that stone still lies in the field above Ramsquoy, and his great fierce fingermarks are in it still. She ran still further, the wife of the hugboy, for there is another stone he threw at her in the Lylie Banks at Skaill in Sandwick.

But that’s where he lost her, and the hugboy stopped his chase and set about finding some turf to build himself a new home, so far had he come from his old one. He stomped further north, scooping up handfuls of turf and placing them in his great straw basket. One handful carved out the Loch of Harry, and another made the Loch of Stenness. And then going back to lay the foundations of his great new house, he tripped, and stubbed his toe, whereupon a great bit of turf fell off that is now Graemsay. His toe fell off, too, and it forms a hillock that is mossed but cannot hide the fact that it was once a part of the hapless hugboy.

It was here that his great basket gave way, tipping its contents over the land. Now that giant had never had such a bad day, and in disgust he left the contents of his basket strewn as they lay, and that is what became the hills of Hoy. He turned towards home now, rubbing his sore head, stopping occasionally to adjust a sandal over his sore foot, and lamented his unhappy lot. For who could be so unlucky as to have lost a wife and a toe in one day.

The Three Questions of King James

THERE ONCE WAS A SCOTTISH PRIEST, a man adored by his flock, but not by the King himself; King James he was, and not an easy man to please. Well, this priest had crossed the path of the King and in the course of doing so had managed to offend him. And so it was decreed that the priest would be hung by his neck at the palace at Scone.

The poor kind priest had accepted his lot, when word came that there had been a partial reprieve. For if that priest would come along to Scone, and sit there with the King, and answer three questions that the King would put to him, he would be free to go home, to preach among his flock once more.

Now questions are difficult things, for there are some that have no answers at all, and some that can be put in a way that even the wisest man on earth could find no answer. And although the priest was a clever man, and he knew from the top to the bottom his great black Bible, he knew there would be traps, for who would let a man free on the back of three easy questions.

So he mulled over this dilemma, and he hummed and he hawed, and it was many days that he paced round his country cottage, and tapped his head, and sighed.

And then his brother, who lived with him and who was known to all as the simpleton he was, said, “What is making you so catty?”

“Och, what use is it telling you, you’re a simpleton no doubt.”

“Ahh, but can I not hear your problem? Maybe I can help?”

Now the priest thought little of this offer of help, but he was at the end of his frayed wits and he poured out his story to the simpleton man. He explained he was to be executed, and that there would be three questions put to him which could save his life.

“Hmmm,” said his brother, “there are, you know, questions that just can’t be answered.”

“I know it, I know it,” said the priest, shrugging unhappily. “What am I to do?”

Now the priest was a good man, and even his simpleton brother could see this. “I am going in your place,” he said firmly.

“Oh no. How can a fool like you answer questions that may not have answers?” asked the priest.

“Well it seems to me that if you are killed I will die too, for how can a simpleton live on his own. If I am executed in your place, what is the difference?”

So the priest agreed finally that his brother should go in his place, and so he draped his habit over the simpleton and handed him his staff. A prayer was said on his head and then the simpleton set off for Scone.

When he arrived, he was greeted by a man in a fine uniform, gold and blue and red, and he gravely ushered the priest’s brother into the grand hall, for they had been expecting him, and the King was waiting. So the priest’s brother was taken then to the King’s room, where he sat on a throne that was more opulent than anything the young man had seen before. The room was hung with gold and jewels that winked and sparkled as the candles flickered in the breeze of his entrance. And the young man was enchanted by this fine sight, and he turned eyes at the stiff-faced King which shone as rich and true as any gem.

Now the king had chosen questions which were designed to trap the priest, for he cared not if he lived or died, and he settled back to watch the holy man’s discomfort.

“You know why you are here,” he said gravely.

“Oh, yes,” said the simpleton in the priest’s disguise.

“Well, then, let us begin. First question: where is the centre of the world?”

“Why, it’s right here!” And the simpleton stamped the floor with his great staff.

“Oh!” The King looked surprised. “I must let you have that one. Yes, I believe that you are right. For the world is a ball, and anywhere can be its centre. Yes, yes ...” he stroked his great beard, “I’ll let you have that one.” And then he continued, “Next question: What am I worth sitting here, in all this,” he gestured round the room. “Just what am I worth in money?”

“Well,” said the simpleton without hesitation, “you are not worth anything more than thirty pieces of silver.”

“Why do you say that?” said the King with some consternation.

“Because the greatest man ever to enter the world was sold for only thirty shillings,” said the simpleton simply.

“Quite right,” blustered the king. “I’ll give you that one, too. Then the third question – and if you can answer this you’ll be a free man ...

Do you know what I am thinking now?”

And with that the King sat back, for there was no way that even a man of the cloth could know the kingly thoughts of a monarch.

But the simpleton blazed on. “Why yes, I do,” he said.

“What’s that, then?” said the King, sitting up with amazement.

“You think you are talking to a priest, and you are talking to a fool, his brother,” he said then.

And so it was that the stony King James rose from his throne to shake the hand of a simpleton, and then he laughed out loud.

“Be free man,” he said. Anyone who has a brother like that, and that brother a simpleton, deserves to be free. Away you go.”

King O’Toole and His Goose

OCH, I thought all the world, far and near, had heerd o’ King O’Toole – well, well, but the darkness of mankind is untellible! Well, sir, you must know, as you didn’t hear it afore, that there was a king, called King O’Toole, who was a fine old king in the old ancient times, long ago; and it was he that owned the churches in the early days. The king, you see, was the right sort; he was the real boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and hunting in particular; and from the rising o’ the sun, up he got, and away he went over the mountains after the deer; and fine times they were.

Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but, you see, in course of time the king grew old, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got stricken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost entirely for want o’ diversion, because he couldn’t go a-hunting no longer; and, by dad, the poor king was obliged at last to get a goose to divert him. Oh, you may laugh, if you like, but it’s truth I’m telling you; and the way the goose diverted him was this-a-way: You see, the goose used to swim across the lake, and go diving for trout, and catch fish on a Friday for the king, and flew every other day round about the lake, diverting the poor king. All went on mighty well until, by dad, the goose got stricken in years like her master, and couldn’t divert him no longer, and then it was that the poor king was lost entirely. The king was walkin’ one mornin’ by the edge of the lake, lamentin’ his cruel fate, and thinking of drowning himself, that could get no diversion in life, when all of a sudden, turning round the corner, who should he meet but a mighty decent young man coming up to him.

“God save you,” says the king to the young man.

“God save you kindly, King O’Toole,” says the young man.

“True for you,” says the king. “I am King O’Toole,” says he, “prince and plennypennytinchery of these parts,” says he; “but how came ye to know that?” says he.

“Oh, never mind,” says St. Kavin.

You see it was Saint Kavin, sure enough – the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else. “Oh, never mind,” says he, “I know more than that. May I make bold to ask how is your goose, King O’Toole?” says he.

“Blur-an-agers, how came ye to know about my goose?” says the king.

“Oh, no matter; I was given to understand it,” says Saint Kavin.

After some more talk the king says, “What are you?”

“I’m an honest man,” says Saint Kavin.

“Well, honest man,” says the king, “and how is it you make your money so aisy?”

“By makin’ old things as good as new,” says Saint Kavin.

“Is it a tinker you are?” says the king.

“No,” says the saint; “I’m no tinker by trade, King O’Toole; I’ve a better trade than a tinker,” says he – “what would you say,” says he, “if I made your old goose as good as new?”

My dear, at the word of making his goose as good as new, you’d think the poor old king’s eyes were ready to jump out of his head. With that the king whistled, and down came the poor goose, just like a hound, waddling up to the poor cripple, her master, and as like him as two peas. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, “I’ll do the job for you,” says he, “King O’Toole.”

“By Jaminee!” says King O’Toole, “if you do, I’ll say you’re the cleverest fellow in the seven parishes.”

“Oh, by dad,” says St. Kavin, “you must say more nor that – my horn’s not so soft all out,” says he, “as to repair your old goose for nothing; what’ll you gi” me if I do the job for you? – that’s the chat,” says St. Kavin.

“I’ll give you whatever you ask,” says the king; “isn’t that fair?”

“Divil a fairer,” says the saint; “that’s the way to do business. Now,” says he, “this is the bargain I’ll make with you, King O’Toole: will you gi” me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer, after I make her as good as new?”

“I will,” says the king.

“You won’t go back o’ your word?” says St. Kavin.

“Honour bright!” says King O’Toole, holding out his fist.

“Honour bright!” says St. Kavin, back agin, “it’s a bargain. Come here!” says he to the poor old goose – “come here, you unfortunate ould cripple, and it’s I that’ll make you the sporting bird.” With that, my dear, he took up the goose by the two wings – “Criss o’ my cross an you,” says he, markin’ her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute – and throwing her up in the air, ‘whew,’ says he, jist givin’ her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she took to her heels, flyin’ like one o’ the eagles themselves, and cutting as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain.

Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standing with his mouth open, looking at his poor old goose flying as light as a lark, and better than ever she was: and when she lit at his feet, patted her on the head, and “Ma vourneen,” says he, “but you are the darlint o’ the world.”

“And what do you say to me,” says “Saint Kavin, “for making her the like?”

“By Jabers,” says the king, “I say nothing beats the art o’ man, barring the bees.”

“And do you say no more nor that?” says Saint Kavin.

“And that I’m beholden to you,” says the king.

“But will you gi”e me all the ground the goose flew over?” says Saint

Kavin.

“I will,” says King O’Toole, “and you’re welcome to it,” says he, “though it’s the last acre I have to give.”

“But you’ll keep your word true?” says the saint.

“As true as the sun,” says the king.

“It’s well for you, King O’Toole, that you said that word,” says he; “for if you didn’t say that word, the devil the bit o’ your goose would ever fly agin.”

When the king was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was pleased with him, and then it was that he made himself known to the king. “And,” says he, “King O’Toole, you’re a decent man, for I only came here to try you. You don’t know me,” says he, “because I’m disguised.”

“Musha! then,” says the king, “who are you?”

“I’m Saint Kavin,” said the saint, blessing himself.

“Oh, queen of heaven!” says the king, making the sign of the cross between his eyes, and falling down on his knees before the saint; “is it the great Saint Kavin,” says he, “that I’ve been discoursing all this time without knowing it,” says he, “all as one as if he was a lump of a gossoon? – and so you’re a saint?” says the king.

“I am,” says Saint Kavin.

“By Jabers, I thought I was only talking to a dacent boy,” says the king.

“Well, you know the difference now,” says the saint. “I’m Saint Kavin,” says he, “the greatest of all the saints.”

And so the king had his goose as good as new, to divert him as long as he lived: and the saint supported him after he came into his property, as I told you, until the day of his death – and that was soon after; for the poor goose thought he was catching a trout one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made – and instead of a trout, it was a thieving horse-eel; and instead of the goose killing a trout for the king’s supper – by dad, the eel killed the king’s goose – and small blame to him; but he didn’t ate her, because he darn’t ate what Saint Kavin had laid his blessed hands on.

The Tale of Ivan

THERE WERE FORMERLY A MAN AND A WOMAN living in the parish of Llanlavan, in the place which is called Hwrdh. And work became scarce, so the man said to his wife, “I will go search for work, and you may live here.” So he took fair leave, and travelled far toward the East, and at last came to the house of a farmer and asked for work.

“What work can ye do?” said the farmer. “I can do all kinds of work,” said Ivan. Then they agreed upon three pounds for the year’s wages.

When the end of the year came his master showed him the three pounds. “See, Ivan,” said he, “here’s your wage; but if you will give it me back I’ll give you a piece of advice instead.”

“Give me my wage,” said Ivan.

“No, I’ll not,” said the master; “I’ll explain my advice.”

“Tell it me, then,” said Ivan.

Then said the master, “Never leave the old road for the sake of a new one.”

After that they agreed for another year at the old wages, and at the end of it Ivan took instead a piece of advice, and this was it: “Never lodge where an old man is married to a young woman.”

The same thing happened at the end of the third year, when the piece of advice was: “Honesty is the best policy.”

But Ivan would not stay longer, but wanted to go back to his wife.

“Don’t go today,” said his master; “my wife bakes tomorrow, and she shall make thee a cake to take home to thy good woman.”

And when Ivan was going to leave, “Here,” said his master, “here is a cake for thee to take home to thy wife, and, when ye are most joyous together, then break the cake, and not sooner.”

So he took fair leave of them and travelled towards home, and at last he came to Wayn Her, and there he met three merchants from Tre Rhyn, of his own parish, coming home from Exeter Fair. “Oho! Ivan,” said they, “come with us; glad are we to see you. Where have you been so long?”

“I have been in service,” said Ivan, “and now I’m going home to my wife.”

“Oh, come with us! you’ll be right welcome.” But when they took the new road Ivan kept to the old one. And robbers fell upon them before they had gone far from Ivan as they were going by the fields of the houses in the meadow. They began to cry out, “Thieves!” and Ivan shouted out “Thieves!” too. And when the robbers heard Ivan’s shout they ran away, and the merchants went by the new road and Ivan by the old one till they met again at Market-Jew.

“Oh, Ivan,” said the merchants, “we are beholding to you; but for you we would have been lost men. Come lodge with us at our cost, and welcome.”

When they came to the place where they used to lodge, Ivan said, “I must see the host.”

“The host,” they cried; “what do you want with the host? Here is the hostess, and she’s young and pretty. If you want to see the host you’ll find him in the kitchen.”

So he went into the kitchen to see the host; he found him a weak old man turning the spit.

“Oh! oh!” quoth Ivan, “I’ll not lodge here, but will go next door.”

“Not yet,” said the merchants, “sup with us, and welcome.”

Now it happened that the hostess had plotted with a certain monk in Market-Jew to murder the old man in his bed that night while the rest were asleep, and they agreed to lay it on the lodgers.

So while Ivan was in bed next door, there was a hole in the pine-end of the house, and he saw a light through it. So he got up and looked, and heard the monk speaking. “I had better cover this hole,” said he, “or people in the next house may see our deeds.” So he stood with his back against it while the hostess killed the old man.

But meanwhile Ivan out with his knife, and putting it through the hole, cut a round piece off the monk’s robe. The very next morning the hostess raised the cry that her husband was murdered, and as there was neither man nor child in the house but the merchants, she declared they ought to be hanged for it.

So they were taken and carried to prison, till a last Ivan came to them. “Alas! alas! Ivan,” cried they, “bad luck sticks to us; our host was killed last night, and we shall be hanged for it.”

“Ah, tell the justices,” said Ivan, “to summon the real murderers.”

“Who knows,” they replied, “who committed the crime?”

“Who committed the crime!” said Ivan. “If I cannot prove who committed the crime, hang me in your stead.”

So he told all he knew, and brought out the piece of cloth from the monk’s robe, and with that the merchants were set at liberty, and the hostess and the monk were seized and hanged.

Then they came all together out of Market-Jew, and they said to him: “Come as far as Coed Carrn y Wylfa, the Wood of the Heap of Stones of Watching, in the parish of Burman.” Then their two roads separated, and though the merchants wished Ivan to go with them, he would not go with them, but went straight home to his wife.

And when his wife saw him she said: “Home in the nick of time. Here’s a purse of gold that I’ve found; it has no name, but sure it belongs to the great lord yonder. I was just thinking what to do when you came.”

Then Ivan thought of the third counsel, and he said “Let us go and give it to the great lord.”

So they went up to the castle, but the great lord was not in it, so they left the purse with the servant that minded the gate, and then they went home again and lived in quiet for a time.

But one day the great lord stopped at their house for a drink of water, and Ivan’s wife said to him: “I hope your lordship found your lordship’s purse quite safe with all its money in it.”

“What purse is that you are talking about?” said the lord.

“Sure, it’s your lordship’s purse that I left at the castle,” said Ivan.

“Come with me and we will see into the matter,” said the lord.

So Ivan and his wife went up to the castle, and there they pointed out the man to whom they had given the purse, and he had to give it up and was sent away from the castle. And the lord was so pleased with Ivan that he made him his servant in the stead of the thief.

“Honesty’s the best policy!” quoth Ivan, as he skipped about in his new quarters. “How joyful I am!”

Then he thought of his old master’s cake that he was to eat when he was most joyful, and when he broke it, to and behold, inside it was his wages for the three years he had been with him.

Hudden And Dudden And Donald O’Neary

THERE WAS ONCE UPON A TIME two farmers, and their names were Hudden and Dudden. They had poultry in their yards, sheep on the uplands, and scores of cattle in the meadow-land alongside the river. But for all that they weren’t happy. For just between their two farms there lived a poor man by the name of Donald O’Neary. He had a hovel over his head and a strip of grass that was barely enough to keep his one cow, Daisy, from starving, and, though she did her best, it was but seldom that Donald got a drink of milk or a roll of butter from Daisy. You would think there was little here to make Hudden and Dudden jealous, but so it is, the more one has the more one wants, and Donald’s neighbours lay awake of nights scheming how they might get hold of his little strip of grass-land. Daisy, poor thing, they never thought of; she was just a bag of bones.

One day Hudden met Dudden, and they were soon grumbling as usual, and all to the tune of “If only we could get that vagabond Donald O’Neary out of the country.”

“Let’s kill Daisy,” said Hudden at last; “if that doesn’t make him clear out, nothing will.”

No sooner said than agreed, and it wasn’t dark before Hudden and Dudden crept up to the little shed where lay poor Daisy trying her best to chew the cud, though she hadn’t had as much grass in the day as would cover your hand. And when Donald came to see if Daisy was all snug for the night, the poor beast had only time to lick his hand once before she died.

Well, Donald was a shrewd fellow, and downhearted though he was, began to think if he could get any good out of Daisy’s death. He thought and he thought, and the next day you could have seen him trudging off early to the fair, Daisy’s hide over his shoulder, every penny he had jingling in his pockets. Just before he got to the fair, he made several slits in the hide, put a penny in each slit, walked into the best inn of the town as bold as if it belonged to him, and, hanging the hide up to a nail in the wall, sat down.

“Some of your best whisky,” says he to the landlord.

But the landlord didn’t like his looks. “Is it fearing I won’t pay you, you are?” says Donald; “why I have a hide here that gives me all the money I want.” And with that he hit it a whack with his stick and out hopped a penny. The landlord opened his eyes, as you may fancy.

“What’ll you take for that hide?”

“It’s not for sale, my good man.”

“Will you take a gold piece?”

“It’s not for sale, I tell you. Hasn’t it kept me and mine for years?” and with that Donald hit the hide another whack and out jumped a second penny.

Well, the long and the short of it was that Donald let the hide go, and, that very evening, who but he should walk up to Hudden’s door?

“Good-evening, Hudden. Will you lend me your best pair of scales?”

Hudden stared and Hudden scratched his head, but he lent the scales.

When Donald was safe at home, he pulled out his pocketful of bright gold and began to weigh each piece in the scales. But Hudden had put a lump of butter at the bottom, and so the last piece of gold stuck fast to the scales when he took them back to Hudden.

If Hudden had stared before, he stared ten times more now, and no sooner was Donald’s back turned, than he was of as hard as he could pelt to Dudden’s.

“Good-evening, Dudden. That vagabond, bad luck to him –”

“You mean Donald O’Neary?”

“And who else should I mean? He’s back here weighing out sackfuls of gold.”

“How do you know that?”

“Here are my scales that he borrowed, and here’s a gold piece still sticking to them.”

Off they went together, and they came to Donald’s door. Donald had finished making the last pile of ten gold pieces. And he couldn’t finish because a piece had stuck to the scales.

In they walked without an “If you please” or “By your leave.”

“Well, I never!” that was all they could say.

“Good-evening, Hudden; good-evening, Dudden. Ah! you thought you had played me a fine trick, but you never did me a better turn in all your lives. When I found poor Daisy dead, I thought to myself, “Well, her hide may fetch something;” and it did. Hides are worth their weight in gold in the market just now.”

Hudden nudged Dudden, and Dudden winked at Hudden.

“Good-evening, Donald O’Neary.”

“Good-evening, kind friends.”

The next day there wasn’t a cow or a calf that belonged to Hudden or Dudden but her hide was going to the fair in Hudden’s biggest cart drawn by Dudden’s strongest pair of horses.

When they came to the fair, each one took a hide over his arm, and there they were walking through the fair, bawling out at the top of their voices: “Hides to sell! hides to sell!”

Out came the tanner:

“How much for your hides, my good men?”

“Their weight in gold.”

“It’s early in the day to come out of the tavern.”

That was all the tanner said, and back he went to his yard.

“Hides to sell! Fine fresh hides to sell!”

Out came the cobbler.

“How much for your hides, my men?”

“Their weight in gold.”

“Is it making game of me you are! Take that for your pains,” and the cobbler dealt Hudden a blow that made him stagger.

Up the people came running from one end of the fair to the other.

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” cried they.

“Here are a couple of vagabonds selling hides at their weight in gold,” said the cobbler.

“Hold ’em fast; hold ’em fast!” bawled the innkeeper, who was the last to come up, he was so fat. “I’ll wager it’s one of the rogues who tricked me out of thirty gold pieces yesterday for a wretched hide.”

It was more kicks than halfpence that Hudden and Dudden got before they were well on their way home again, and they didn’t run the slower because all the dogs of the town were at their heels.

Well, as you may fancy, if they loved Donald little before, they loved him less now.

“What’s the matter, friends?” said he, as he saw them tearing along, their hats knocked in, and their coats torn off, and their faces black and blue. “Is it fighting you’ve been? or mayhap you met the police, ill luck to them?”

“We’ll police you, you vagabond. It’s mighty smart you thought yourself, deluding us with your lying tales.”

“Who deluded you? Didn’t you see the gold with your own two eyes?”

But it was no use talking. Pay for it he must, and should. There was a meal-sack handy, and into it Hudden and Dudden popped Donald O’Neary, tied him up tight, ran a pole through the knot, and off they started for the Brown Lake of the Bog, each with a pole-end on his shoulder, and Donald O’Neary between.

But the Brown Lake was far, the road was dusty, Hudden and Dudden were sore and weary, and parched with thirst. There was an inn by the roadside.

“Let’s go in,” said Hudden; “I’m dead beat. It’s heavy he is for the little he had to eat.”

If Hudden was willing, so was Dudden. As for Donald, you may be sure his leave wasn’t asked, but he was lumped down at the inn door for all the world as if he had been a sack of potatoes.

“Sit still, you vagabond,” said Dudden; “if we don’t mind waiting, you needn’t.”

Donald held his peace, but after a while he heard the glasses clink, and Hudden singing away at the top of his voice.

“I won’t have her, I tell you; I won’t have her!” said Donald. But nobody heeded what he said.

“I won’t have her, I tell you; I won’t have her!” said Donald, and this time he said it louder; but nobody heeded what he said.

“I won’t have her, I tell you; I won’t have her!” said Donald; and this time he said it as loud as he could.

“And who won’t you have, may I be so bold as to ask?” said a farmer, who had just come up with a drove of cattle, and was turning in for a glass.

“It’s the king’s daughter. They are bothering the life out of me to marry her.”

“You’re the lucky fellow. I’d give something to be in your shoes.”

“Do you see that now! Wouldn’t it be a fine thing for a farmer to be marrying a princess, all dressed in gold and jewels?”

“Jewels, do you say? Ah, now, couldn’t you take me with you?”

“Well, you’re an honest fellow, and as I don’t care for the king’s daughter, though she’s as beautiful as the day, and is covered with jewels from top to toe, you shall have her. Just undo the cord, and let me out; they tied me up tight, as they knew I’d run away from her.”

Out crawled Donald; in crept the farmer.

“Now lie still, and don’t mind the shaking; it’s only rumbling over the palace steps you’ll be. And maybe they’ll abuse you for a vagabond, who won’t have the king’s daughter; but you needn’t mind that. Ah! it’s a deal I’m giving up for you, sure as it is that I don’t care for the princess.”

“Take my cattle in exchange,” said the farmer; and you may guess it wasn’t long before Donald was at their tails driving them homewards.

Out came Hudden and Dudden, and the one took one end of the pole, and the other the other.

“I’m thinking he’s heavier,” said Hudden.

“Ah, never mind,” said Dudden; “it’s only a step now to the Brown Lake.”

“I’ll have her now! I’ll have her now!” bawled the farmer, from inside the sack.

“By my faith, and you shall though,” said Hudden, and he laid his stick across the sack.

“I’ll have her! I’ll have her!” bawled the farmer, louder than ever.

“Well, here you are,” said Dudden, for they were now come to the Brown

Lake, and, unslinging the sack, they pitched it plump into the lake.

“You’ll not be playing your tricks on us any longer,” said Hudden.

“True for you,” said Dudden. “Ah, Donald, my boy, it was an ill day when you borrowed my scales.”

Off they went, with a light step and an easy heart, but when they were near home, who should they see but Donald O’Neary, and all around him the cows were grazing, and the calves were kicking up their heels and butting their heads together.

“Is it you, Donald?” said Dudden. “Faith, you’ve been quicker than we have.”

“True for you, Dudden, and let me thank you kindly; the turn was good, if the will was ill. You’ll have heard, like me, that the Brown Lake leads to the Land of Promise. I always put it down as lies, but it is just as true as my word. Look at the cattle.”

Hudden stared, and Dudden gaped; but they couldn’t get over the cattle; fine fat cattle they were too.

“It’s only the worst I could bring up with me,” said Donald O’Neary; “the others were so fat, there was no driving them. Faith, too, it’s little wonder they didn’t care to leave, with grass as far as you could see, and as sweet and juicy as fresh butter.”

“Ah, now, Donald, we haven’t always been friends,” said Dudden, “but, as I was just saying, you were ever a decent lad, and you’ll show us the way, won’t you?”

“I don’t see that I’m called upon to do that; there is a power more cattle down there. Why shouldn’t I have them all to myself?”

“Faith, they may well say, the richer you get, the harder the heart. You always were a neighbourly lad, Donald. You wouldn’t wish to keep the luck all to yourself?”

“True for you, Hudden, though ’tis a bad example you set me. But I’ll not be thinking of old times. There is plenty for all there, so come along with me.”

Off they trudged, with a light heart and an eager step. When they came to the Brown Lake, the sky was full of little white clouds, and, if the sky was full, the lake was as full.

“Ah! now, look, there they are,” cried Donald, as he pointed to the clouds in the lake.

“Where? where?” cried Hudden, and “Don’t be greedy!” cried Dudden, as he jumped his hardest to be up first with the fat cattle. But if he jumped first, Hudden wasn’t long behind.

They never came back. Maybe they got too fat, like the cattle. As for Donald O’Neary, he had cattle and sheep all his days to his heart’s content.

Beth Gellert

PRINT LLEWELYN had a favourite greyhound named Gellert that had been given to him by his father-in-law, King John. He was as gentle as a lamb at home but a lion in the chase. One day Llewelyn went to the chase and blew his horn in front of his castle. All his other dogs came to the call but Gellert never answered it. So he blew a louder blast on his horn and called Gellert by name, but still the greyhound did not come. At last Prince Llewelyn could wait no longer and went off to the hunt without Gellert. He had little sport that day because Gellert was not there, the swiftest and boldest of his hounds.

He turned back in a rage to his castle, and as he came to the gate, who should he see but Gellert come bounding out to meet him. But when the hound came near him, the Prince was startled to see that his lips and fangs were dripping with blood. Llewelyn started back and the greyhound crouched down at his feet as if surprised or afraid at the way his master greeted him.

Now Prince Llewelyn had a little son a year old with whom Gellert used to play, and a terrible thought crossed the Prince’s mind that made him rush towards the child’s nursery. And the nearer he came the more blood and disorder he found about the rooms. He rushed into it and found the child’s cradle overturned and daubed with blood.

Prince Llewelyn grew more and more terrified, and sought for his little son everywhere. He could find him nowhere but only signs of some terrible conflict in which much blood had been shed. At last he felt sure the dog had destroyed his child, and shouting to Gellert, “Monster, thou hast devoured my child,” he drew out his sword and plunged it in the greyhound’s side, who fell with a deep yell and still gazing in his master’s eyes.

As Gellert raised his dying yell, a little child’s cry answered it from beneath the cradle, and there Llewelyn found his child unharmed and just awakened from sleep. But just beside him lay the body of a great gaunt wolf all torn to pieces and covered with blood. Too late, Llewelyn learned what had happened while he was away. Gellert had stayed behind to guard the child and had fought and slain the wolf that had tried to destroy Llewelyn’s heir.

In vain was all Llewelyn’s grief; he could not bring his faithful dog to life again. So he buried him outside the castle walls within sight of the great mountain of Snowdon, where every passer-by might see his grave, and raised over it a great cairn of stones. And to this day the place is called Beth Gellert, or the Grave of Gellert.

The Vision of MacConglinney

CATHAL, KING OF MUNSTER, was a good king and a great warrior. But there came to dwell within him a lawless evil beast, that afflicted him with hunger that ceased not, and might not be satisfied, so that he would devour a pig, a cow, and a bull calf and three-score cakes of pure wheat, and a vat of new ale, for his breakfast, whilst as for his great feast, what he ate there passes account or reckoning. He was like this for three half-years, and during that time it was the ruin of Munster he was, and it is likely he would have ruined all Ireland in another half-year.

Now there lived in Armagh a famous young scholar and his name was Anier MacConglinney. He heard of the strange disease of King Cathal, and of the abundance of food and drink, of whitemeats, ale and mead, there were always to be found at the king’s court. Thither then was he minded to go to try his own fortune, and to see of what help he could be to the king.

He arose early in the morning and tucked up his shirt and wrapped him in the folds of his white cloak. In his right hand he grasped his even-poised knotty staff, and going right-hand-wise round his home, he bade farewell to his tutors and started off.

He journeyed across all Ireland till he came to the house of Pichan. And there he stayed and told tales, and made all merry. But Pichan said:

“Though great thy mirth, son of learning, it does not make me glad.”

“And why?” asked MacConglinney.

“Knowest thou not, scholar, that Cathal is coming here tonight with all his host. And if the great host is troublesome, the king’s first meal is more troublesome still; and troublesome though the first be, most troublesome of all is the great feast. Three things are wanted for this last: a bushel of oats, and a bushel of wild apples, and a bushel of flour cakes.”

“What reward would you give me if I shield you from the king from this hour to the same hour tomorrow?”

“A white sheep from every fold between Carn and Cork.”

“I will take that,” said MacConglinney.

Cathal, the king, came with the companies, and a host of horse of the Munster men. But Cathal did not let the thong of his shoe be half loosed before he began supplying his mouth with both hands from the apples round about him. Pichan and all the men of Munster looked on sadly and sorrowfully. Then rose MacConglinney, hastily and impatiently, and seized a stone, against which swords were used to be sharpened; this he thrust into his mouth and began grinding his teeth against the stone.

“What makes thee mad, son of learning?” asked Cathal.

“I grieve to see you eating alone,” said the scholar.

Then the king was ashamed and flung him the apples, and it is said that for three half-years he had not performed such an act of humanity.

“Grant me a further boon,” said MacConglinney.

“It is granted, on my troth,” said the king.

“Fast with me the whole night,” said the scholar.

And grievous though it was to the king, he did so, for he had passed his princely troth, and no King of Munster might transgress that.

In the morning MacConglinney called for juicy old bacon, and tender corned beef, honey in the comb, and English salt on a beautiful polished dish of white silver. A fire he lighted of oak wood without smoke, without fumes, without sparks.

And sticking spits into the portion of meat, he set to work to roast them. Then he shouted, “Ropes and cords here.”

Ropes and cords were given to him, and the strongest of the warriors.

And they seized the king and bound him securely, and made him fast with knots and hooks and staples. When the king was thus fastened, MacConglinney sat himself down before him, and taking his knife out of his girdle, he carved the portion of meat that was on the spits, and every morsel he dipped in the honey, and, passing it in front of the king’s mouth, put it in his own.

When the king saw that he was getting nothing, and he had been fasting for twenty-four hours, he roared and bellowed, and commanded the killing of the scholar. But that was not done for him.

“Listen, King of Munster,” said MacConglinney, “a vision appeared to me last night, and I will relate it to you.”

He then began his vision, and as he related it he put morsel after morsel past Cathal’s mouth into his own.

“A lake of new milk I beheld

In the midst of a fair plain,

Therein a well-appointed house,

Thatched with butter.

Puddings fresh boiled,

Such were its thatch-rods,

Its two soft door posts of custard,

Its beds of glorious bacon.

Cheeses were the palisades,

Sausages the rafters.

Truly ’twas a rich filled house,

In which was great store of good feed.

“Such was the vision I beheld, and a voice sounded into my ears. “Go now, thither, MacConglinney, for you have no power of eating in you.” “What must I do,” said I, for the sight of that had made me greedy. Then the voice bade me go to the hermitage of the Wizard Doctor, and there I should find appetite for all kinds of savoury tender sweet food, acceptable to the body.

“There in the harbour of the lake before me I saw a juicy little coracle of beef; its thwarts were of curds, its prow of lard; its stern of butter; its oars were flitches of venison. Then I rowed across the wide expanse of the New Milk Lake, through seas of broth, past river mouths of meat, over swelling boisterous waves of butter milk, by perpetual pools of savoury lard, by islands of cheese, by headlands of old curds, until I reached the firm level land between Butter Mount and Milk Lake, in the land of O’Early-eating, in front of the hermitage of the Wizard Doctor.

“Marvellous, indeed, was the hermitage. Around it were seven-score hundred smooth stakes of old bacon, and instead of thorns above the top of every stake was fixed juicy lard. There was a gate of cream, whereon was a bolt of sausage. And there I saw the doorkeeper, Bacon Lad, son of Butterkins, son of Lardipole, with his smooth sandals of old bacon, his legging of pot-meat round his shins, his tunic of corned beef, his girdle of salmon skin round him, his hood of flummery about him, his steed of bacon under him, with its four legs of custard, its four hoofs of oaten bread, its ears of curds, its two eyes of honey in its head; in his hand a whip, the cords whereof were four-and-twenty fair white puddings, and every juicy drop that fell from each of these puddings would have made a meal for an ordinary man.

“On going in I beheld the Wizard Doctor with his two gloves of rump steak on his hands, setting in order the house, which was hung all round with tripe, from roof to floor.

“I went into the kitchen, and there I saw the Wizard Doctor’s son, with his fishing hook of lard in his hand, and the line was made of marrow, and he was angling in a lake of whey. Now he would bring up a flitch of ham, and now a fillet of corned beef. And as he was angling, he fell in, and was drowned.

“As I set my foot across the threshold into the house, I saw a pure white bed of butter, on which I sat down, but I sank down into it up to the tips of my hair. Hard work had the eight strongest men in the house to pull me out by the top of the crown of my head.

“Then I was taken in to the Wizard Doctor. ‘What aileth thee?’ said he.

“My wish would be, that all the many wonderful viands of the world were before me, that I might eat my fill and satisfy my greed. But alas! great is the misfortune to me, who cannot obtain any of these.

“‘On my word,’ said the Doctor, ‘the disease is grievous. But thou shall take home with thee a medicine to cure thy disease, and shalt be for ever healed therefrom.’

“‘What is that?’ asked I.

“‘When thou goest home tonight, warm thyself before a glowing red fire of oak, made up on a dry hearth, so that its embers may warm thee, its blaze may not burn thee, its smoke may not touch thee. And make for thyself thrice nine morsels, and every morsel as big as an heath fowl’s egg, and in each morsel eight kinds of grain, wheat and barley, oats and rye, and therewith eight condiments, and to every condiment eight sauces. And when thou hast prepared thy food, take a drop of drink, a tiny drop, only as much as twenty men will drink, and let it be of thick milk, of yellow bubbling milk, of milk that will gurgle as it rushes down thy throat.’

“‘And when thou hast done this, whatever disease thou hast, shall be removed. Go now,’ said he, ‘in the name of cheese, and may the smooth juicy bacon protect thee, may yellow curdy cream protect, may the cauldron full of pottage protect thee.’”

Now, as MacConglinney recited his vision, what with the pleasure of the recital and the recounting of these many pleasant viands, and the sweet savour of the honeyed morsels roasting on the spits, the lawless beast that dwelt within the king, came forth until it was licking its lips outside its head.

Then MacConglinney bent his hand with the two spits of food, and put them to the lips of the king, who longed to swallow them, wood, food, and all. So he took them an arm’s length away from the king, and the lawless beast jumped from the throat of Cathal onto the spit. MacConglinney put the spit into the embers, and upset the cauldron of the royal house over the spit. The house was emptied, so that not the value of a cockchafer’s leg was left in it, and four huge fires were kindled here and there in it. When the house was a tower of red flame and a huge blaze, the lawless beast sprang to the rooftree of the palace, and from thence he vanished, and was seen no more.

As for the king, a bed was prepared for him on a downy quilt, and musicians and singers entertained him going from noon till twilight. And when he awoke, this is what he bestowed upon the scholar – a cow from every farm, and a sheep from every house in Munster. Moreover, that so long as he lived, he should carve the king’s food, and sit at his right hand.

Thus was Cathal, King of Munster, cured of his craving, and MacConglinney honoured.

The Story of the McAndrew Family

A LONG TIME AGO, in the County Mayo, there lived a rich man of the name of McAndrew. He owned cows and horses without number, not to mention ducks and geese and pigs; and his land extended as far as the eye could reach on the four sides of you.

McAndrew was a lucky man, the neighbours all said; but as for himself, when he looked on his seven big sons growing up like weeds and with scarcely any more sense, he felt sore enough, for of all the stupid omadhauns the seven McAndrew brothers were the stupidest.

When the youngest grew to be a man, the father built a house for each of them, and gave every one a piece of land and a few cows, hoping to make men of them before he died, for, as the old man said:

“While God spares my life, I’ll be able to have an eye to them, and maybe they will learn from experience.”

The seven young McAndrews were happy enough. Their fields were green, their cows were fat and sleek, and they thought they would never see a poor day.

All went well for a time, and the day of the Fair of Killalla was as fine a day as ever shone in Ireland, when the whole seven got ready to be off, bright and early, in the morning.

Each one of them drove before him three fine cows, and a finer herd, when they were all together, was never seen in the country far or near.

Now, there was a smart farmer, named O’Toole, whose fields were nearing on the McAndrews’, and he had many a time set his heart on the fine cattle belonging to his easy-going neighbours; so when he saw them passing with their twenty-one cows he went out and hailed them.

“Where are ye going to, this fine morning?”

“It’s to the Fair of Killalla we’re going, to sell these fine cows our father gave us,” they all answered together.

“And are ye going to sell cows that the Evil Eye has long been set on? Oh, Con and Shamus, I would never belave it of ye, even if that spalpeen of a Pat would do such a thing; any one would think that the spirit of the good mother that bore ye would stretch out a hand and kape ye from committing such a mortal sin.”

This O’Toole said to the three eldest, who stood trembling, while the four younger ones stuck their knuckles into their eyes and began to cry.

“Oh, indade, Mr. O’Toole, we never knew that the cows were under the Evil Eye. How did ye find it out? Oh, sorra the day when such a fine lot of cattle should go to the bad,” answered Con.

“Indade ye may well ask it, whin it’s meself that was always a good neighbour and kept watch on auld Judy, the witch, when she used to stand over there laughing at the ravens flying over the cows. Do ye mind the time yer father spoke ugly to her down by the cross-roads? She never forgot it, and now yer twenty-one fine cows will never be worth the hides on their backs.”

“Worra, worra, worra,” roared the seven McAndrews, so loud that pretty Katie O’Toole bobbed her head out of the window, and the hindermost cows began to caper like mad.

“The spell has come upon them!” cried Shamus. “Oh! what’ll we do? What’ll we do?”

“Hould yer whist, man alive,” said O’Toole. “I’m a good neighbour, as I said before, so to give ye a lift in the world I’ll take the risk on meself and buy the cows from ye for the price of their hides. Sure no harm can be done to the hides for making leather, so I’ll give ye a shilling apiece, and that’s better than nothing. Twenty-one bright shillings going to the fair may make yer fortune.”

It seemed neck or nothing with the McAndrews, and they accepted the offer, thanking O’Toole for his generosity, and helped him drive the cows into his field. Then they set off for the fair.

They had never been in a fair before, and when they saw the fine sights they forgot all about the cows, and only remembered that they had each a shilling to spend.

Every one knew the McAndrews, and soon a crowd gathered round them, praising their fine looks and telling them what a fine father they had to give them so much money, so that the seven omadhauns lost their heads entirely, and treated right and left until there wasn’t a farthing left of the twenty-one shillings. Then they staggered home a little the worse for the fine whisky they drank with the boys.

It was a sorry day for old McAndrew when his seven sons came home without a penny of the price of their twenty-one fine cows, and he vowed he’d never give them any more.

So one day passed with another, and the seven young McAndrews were as happy as could be until the fine old father fell sick and died.

The eldest son came in for all the father had, so he felt like a lord. To see him strut and swagger was a sight to make a grum growdy laugh.

One day, to show how fine he could be, he dressed in his best, and with a purse filled with gold pieces started off for the market town.

When he got there, in he walked to a public-house, and called for the best of everything, and to make a fine fellow of himself he tripled the price of everything to the landlord. As soon as he got through his eye suddenly caught sight of a little keg, all gilded over to look like gold, that hung outside the door for a sign. Con had never heeded it before, and he asked the landlord what it was.

Now the landlord, like many another, had it in mind that he might as well get all he could out of a McAndrew, and he answered quickly:

“You stupid omadhaun, don’t you know what that is? It’s a mare’s egg.”

“And will a foal come out of it?”

“Of course; what a question to ask a dacent man!”

“I niver saw one before,” said the amazed McAndrew.

“Well, ye see one now, Con, and take a good look at it.”

“Will ye sell it?”

“Och, Con McAndrew, do ye think I want to sell that fine egg afther kaping it so long hung up there before the sun – when it is ready to hatch out a foal that will be worth twenty good guineas to me?”

“I’ll give ye twenty guineas for it,” answered Con.

“Thin it’s a bargain,” said the landlord; and he took down the keg and handed it to Con, who handed out the twenty guineas, all the money he had.

“Be careful of it, and carry it as aisy as ye can, and when ye get home hang it up in the sun.”

Con promised, and set off home with his prize.

Near the rise of a hill he met his brothers.

“What have ye, Con?”

“The most wonderful thing in the world – a mare’s egg.”

“Faith, what is it like?” asked Pat, taking it from Con.

“Go aisy, can’t ye? It’s very careful ye have to be.”

But the brothers took no heed to Con, and before one could say, ‘whist,’ away rolled the keg down the hill, while all seven ran after it; but before any one could catch it, it rolled into a clump of bushes, and in an instant out hopped a hare.

“Bedad, there’s the foal,” cried Con, and all seven gave chase; but there was no use trying to catch a hare.

“That’s the foinest foal that ever was, if he was five year old the devil himself could not catch him,” Con said; and with that the seven omadhauns gave up the chase and went quietly home.

As I said before, every one had it in mind to get all he could get out of the McAndrews.

Every one said, “One man might as well have it as another, for they’re bound to spend every penny they have.”

So their money dwindled away; then a fine horse would go for a few bits of glass they took for precious stones, and by-and-by a couple of pigs or a pair of fine geese for a bit of ribbon to tie on a hat; and at last their land began to go.

One day Shamus was sitting by his fireplace warming himself, and to make a good fire he threw on a big heap of turf so that by-and-by it got roaring hot, and instead of feeling chilly as he had before, Shamus got as hot as a spare-rib on a spit. Just then in came his youngest brother.

“That’s a great fire ye have here, Shamus.”

“It is, indade, and too near it is to me; run like a good boy to Giblin, the mason, and see if he can’t move the chimney to the other side of the room.”

The youngest McAndrew did as he was bid, and soon in came Giblin, the mason.

“Ye’re in a sad plight, Shamus, roasting alive; what can I do for ye?”

“Can ye move the chimney over beyant?”

“Faith, I can, but ye will have to move a bit; just go out for a walk with yer brother, and the job will be done when ye come back.”

Shamus did as he was bid, and Giblin took the chair the omadhaun was sitting on and moved it away from the fire, and then sat down for a quiet laugh for himself and to consider on the price he’d charge for the job.

When Shamus came back, Giblin led him to the chair, saying:

“Now, isn’t that a great deal better?”

“Ye’re a fine man, Giblin, and ye did it without making a bit of dirt; what’ll I give ye for so fine a job?”

“If ye wouldn’t mind, I’d like the meadow field nearing on mine. It’s little enough for a job like that.”

“It’s yours and welcome, Giblin”; and without another word the deed was drawn.

That was the finest of the McAndrew fields, and the only pasture land left to Shamus.

It was not long before it came about that first one and then another lost the house he lived in, until all had to live together in the father’s old place.

O’Toole and Giblin had encroached field by field, and there was nothing left but the old house and a strip of garden that none of them knew how to till.

It was hard times for the seven McAndrews, but they were happy and contented as long as they had enough to eat, and that they had surely, for the wives of the men who got away all their fine lands and cattle, had sore hearts when they saw their men enriched at the expense of the omadhauns, and every day, unbeknown to their husbands, they carried them meat and drink.

O’Toole and Giblin now had their avaricious eyes set on the house and garden, and they were on the watch for a chance to clutch them, when luck, or something worse, threw the chance in the way of O’Toole.

He was returning from town one day just in the cool of the afternoon, when he spied the seven brothers by the roadside, sitting in a circle facing each other.

“What may ye be doing here instead of earning yer salt, ye seven big sturks?”

“We’re in a bad fix, Mr. O’Toole,” answered Pat. “We can’t get up.”

“What’s to hinder ye from getting up? I’d like to know.”

“Don’t ye see our feet are all here together in the middle, and not for the life of us can we each tell our own. You see if one of us gets up he don’t know what pair of feet to take with him.”

O’Toole was never so ready to laugh before in his life, but he thought:

“Now’s me chance to get the house and garden before Giblin, the mason, comes round”; so he looked very grave and said: “I suppose it is hard to tell one man’s feet from another’s when they’re all there in a heap, but I think I can help you as I have many a time before. It would be a sorry day for ye if ye did not have me for a neighbour. What will ye give me if I help you find yer feet?”

“Anything, anything we have, so that we can get up from here,” answered the whole seven together.

“Will ye give me the house and garden?”

“Indade we will; what good is a house and garden, if we have to sit here all the rest of our lives?”

“Then it’s a bargain,” said O’Toole; and with that he went over to the side of the road and pulled a good stout rod. Then he commenced to belabour the poor McAndrews over the heads, feet, shoulders, and any place he could get in a stroke, until with screeches of pain they all jumped up, every one finding his own feet, and away they ran.

So O’Toole got the last of the property of the McAndrews, and there was nothing left for them but to go and beg.

The Farmer of Liddesdale

THERE WAS IN LIDDESDALE (in Morven) a Farmer who suffered great loss within the space of one year. In the first place, his wife and children died, and shortly after their death the Ploughman left him. The hiring-markets were then over, and there was no way of getting another ploughman in place of the one that left. When spring came his neighbours began ploughing; but he had not a man to hold the plough, and he knew not what he should do. The time was passing, and he was therefore losing patience. At last he said to himself, in a fit of passion, that he would engage the first man that came his way, whoever he should be.

Shortly after that a man came to the house. The Farmer met him at the door, and asked him whither was he going, or what was he seeking? He answered that he was a ploughman, and that he wanted an engagement. “I want a ploughman, and if we agree about the wages, I will engage thee. What dost thou ask from this day to the day when the crop will be gathered in?” “Only as much of the corn when it shall be dry as I can carry with me in one burden-withe.” “Thou shalt get that,” said the Farmer, and they agreed.

Next morning the Farmer went out with the Ploughman, and showed him the fields which he had to plough. Before they returned, the Ploughman went to the wood, and having cut three stakes, came back with them, and placed one of them at the head of each one of the fields. After he had done that he said to the Farmer, “I will do the work now alone, and the ploughing need no longer give thee anxiety.”

Having said this, he went home and remained idle all that day. The next day came, but he remained idle as on the day before. After he had spent a good while in that manner, the Farmer said to him that it was time for him to begin work now, because the spring was passing away, and the neighbours had half their work finished. He replied, “Oh, our land is not ready yet.” “How dost thou think that?” “Oh, I know it by the stakes.”

If the delay of the Ploughman made the Farmer wonder, this answer made him wonder more. He resolved that he would keep his eye on him, and see what he was doing.

The Farmer rose early next morning, and saw the Ploughman going to the first field. When he reached the field, he pulled the stake at its end out of the ground, and put it to his nose. He shook his head and put the stake back in the ground. He then left the first field and went to the rest. He tried the stakes, shook his head, and returned home. In the dusk he went out the second time to the fields, tried the stakes, shook his head, and after putting them again in the ground, went home. Next morning he went out to the fields the third time. When he reached the first stake he pulled it out of the ground and put it to his nose as he did on the foregoing days. But no sooner had he done that than he threw the stake from him, and stretched away for the houses with all his might.

He got the horses, the withes, and the plough, and when he reached the end of the first field with them, he thrust the plough into the ground, and cried:

“My horses and my leather-traces, and mettlesome lads,

The earth is coming up!”

He then began ploughing, kept at it all day at a terrible rate, and before the sun went down that night there was not a palm-breadth of the three fields which he had not ploughed, sowed, and harrowed. When the Farmer saw this he was exceedingly well pleased, for he had his work finished as soon as his neighbours.

The Ploughman was quick and ready to do everything that he was told, and so he and the Farmer agreed well until the harvest came. But on a certain day when the reaping was over, the Farmer said to him that he thought the corn was dry enough for putting in. The Ploughman tried a sheaf or two, and answered that it was not dry yet. But shortly after that day he said that it was now ready. “If it is,” said the Farmer, “we better begin putting it in.” “We will not until I get my share out of it first,” said the Ploughman. He then went off to the wood, and in a short time returned, having in his hand a withe scraped and twisted. He stretched the withe on the field, and began to put the corn in it. He continued putting sheaf after sheaf in the withe until he had taken almost all the sheaves that were on the field. The Farmer asked of him what he meant? “Thou didst promise me as wages as much corn as I could carry with me in one burden-withe, and here I have it now,” said the Ploughman, as he was shutting the withe.

The Farmer saw that he would be ruined by the Ploughman, and therefore said:

“’Twas in the Màrt I sowed,

’Twas in the Màrt I baked,

’Twas in the Màrt I harrowed.

Thou Who hast ordained the three Màrts,

Let not my share go in one burden-withe.”

Instantly the withe broke, and it made a loud report, which echo answered from every rock far and near. Then the corn spread over the field, and the Ploughman went away in a white mist in the skies, and was seen no more.

LEGENDS & FABLES FOR CHILDREN

Introduction

THE MYTHS AND LEGENDS told to children over the centuries were largely fictional, and they were developed to instil in children the kind of morality and superstition they would need to live a life of good fortune and good will. The legends were often violent, and many of the events that occurred were so frightening that a child would be shocked into a rigid belief, and good behaviour. For what child would not go straight to bed each night when he heard of the old fairy wife who comes with her brownie child? But there is a certain perverse morality there, too, designed to appeal to children. Bad mothers are punished, sometimes with death, and children can reign supreme in the fantasy world of the imagination. For when animals can talk, and a tall tale has a moral, anything is possible, and that magic is as strong today.

The Little Bird

A FAMILY ONCE LIVED IN THE WOODS, a man and a woman with their three small children. Now two of these children were boys, but the third was a wee slight girl with a smile that lit the hearts of all who met her. Her face was fair and her eyes held the promise of many dreams, but her mother, who had no time for those dreams, threw up her hands in despair at her fairylike daughter.

Their cottage was set deep in the woods, and it was a walk indeed to fetch milk from the farm down the hillock. But that wee slight girl was sent on that walk, with her mother’s good jug, every day from the time she could toddle, and so it was that she would make that walk again on this particular day.

Now the girl had just counted five years, and on the table, laid there surely by the wee folk, was a bright shiny skipping rope, with handles as red as the flowers that gazed into the stream. And the girl wanted nothing more than to skip with that new rope, and to hold those red handles, but it was time, as it always was in the middle of the morning, to fetch the milk from the farm down the hillock.

“Can I take my skipping-rope with me?” she asked, her eyes shining with excitement.

But her mother, who had no time for that excitement, threw up her hands in despair at her fairylike daughter. “No, ye can’t,” she said sourly, and turned back to her cooking.

“But I won’t spill the milk, Mummy, I promise,” said the wee girl.

And because her mother was not the sort who liked a good chat, or indeed a wee girl with eyes that shone with the promise of dreams, she said tersely, “Well, then. Ye can take the skipping-rope, but if ye spills so much as a drop of the milk, I’ll kill ye.”

And so it was that the little girl took her new skipping-rope, and skipped pertly down the lane, over the hillock to the farm, the milk jug clasped tightly in a hand that also clutched the shiny red handles of the skipping-rope. She stopped at the farm, and her jug was filled, and her skipping-rope admired, and away she went home again, skipping with the jug in one hand.

But things being as they are with matters that involve milk jugs and skipping-ropes, it was not long before that jug was dropped and broken, and the wee girl sat sadly in its midst and sobbed.

Now the girl was a familiar figure down this forest road, and soon enough a woman came along who recognized her, and who knew of the girl’s mother, who was a very stern woman indeed, having no time for the dreams that shone in the eyes of her wee lass. So this kindly woman took it upon herself to right the young thing, and she said to her then, “Now come along with me. I’ve got a jug just the twin of yours there.”

Then the new jug was filled, and with her skipping rope folded carefully and tucked under an arm, the little girl went home without spilling even a drop of milk.

But her mother, whose eyes shone not with dreams but with spite, said, “Where did ye get the jug?”

And the little girl said, “It’s our jug, Mummy, just the same as ye gave me.”

But she said, “No, this one is different. My jug had a blue stripe and this one has a red one.”

And with that she killed the wee girl, wrapping that skipping-rope around her thin neck until she was blue and still, and then she baked her in a pie. And being near to dinnertime, it was not long before her father came in, and he asked for the wee girl, for he had a soft spot for her fairylike ways, and those eyes that shone with the promise of dreams reminded him of another wee child with those same bright eyes, and that child had been himself.

His wife shook her head. “Och, she’s out playing, let her be.”

“Should we not call her for her dinner?” asked her husband, surprised at this sudden leniency.

“Na, let her go then.”

So the man tucked into the pie, with morsels of meat so tender that he ate greedily. And then, as he cut into an even larger piece, he found a finger, with a small silver ring.

He looked at his wife in horror, and he said, “This is my daughter’s ring. Why is she in this pie?”

And his wife said then that she had killed her, for she’d broken their milk jug and spilled the milk.

“Now what have you done?” he cried, and made as if to kill his wife himself. But now that the lass was gone there wouldn’t be a woman around the house to keep it spic and span, and to make great succulent pies, so he thought again, and said, “Och, I’ll let ye live.”

When the two sons came in they too were distressed by the death of their wee sister, and none could eat his dinner that day.

Time went by, and nothing changed in the cottage set deep in the woods, except they had a visitor, in the shape of a small brown bird, who peeped into the windows of the house for hours of each day, and who had eyes that shone with the promise of dreams. But with the windows misted with the heat of the fire, the boys and their father couldn’t see those eyes, and so they would shoo away the wee bird.

But everyday, there it would be again, peeping in the windows of the house.

By the time Christmas came round, the boys had grown to love the wee bird who sat on the sill, and they fed it with crumbs and bits of seed. They were doing just that, on Christmas Eve, when a voice startled them from their play. It boomed down the chimney and when the two boys reached the hearth it grew quieter, almost plaintive.

“Brother, look up and see what I’ve got,” and so the first brother looked up and was met by a shower of toys and sweets.

And then came the voice once again, “Brother, look up and see what I’ve got,” and when the next brother looked up, he too was met by a shower of toys and sweets.

Then, “Father, Father, look up and see what I’ve got,” and down the chimney came a fine new suit, and a bag of tobacco, and as he was admiring that suit, a letter dropped down the chimney, and on it was written the words, “Open this letter two hours after Christmas night.”

And into the silence came the voice once more, “Mother, look up and see what I’ve got,” and when the mother looked up she dropped upon her head a great stone and killed her dead.

When the two hours had passed, the father opened the letter, which said, “Dear Father, this is your daughter. The spell is broken. Once I have killed my mother, I shall return on New Year’s Eve.”

The days to New Year’s Eve passed slowly, and the father and his boys were filled with fear of what might greet them, for the wee girl had been long dead, and cut into a pie at that. But on that New Year’s Eve there was no sign of her, and they grew more and more worried and frightened. And then, there was a tap tap tap at the window, a pecking sound that was familiar to them all.

“Och, it’s only the wee bird,” said a brother to the other, but they opened the window anyhow, and prepared to feed it some crumbs. It was then that the bird hopped into the kitchen, and turning to them with eyes that shone with the promise of dreams, said, “It’s me, I’m home.”

They all stood aghast, the father and his two boys, and then the father spoke tentatively, reaching out to stroke the smooth feathers of the little bird, “But you’re a bird now.”

“Yes,” said the little bird, “but if you take my mother’s pinkie ring and give it to me now, I’ll come back as a girl.”

This they did, though it meant digging up the body of the wicked mother from her newly turned grave. But they returned with the ring, and presented it to the bird, who turned at once into a little girl.

And the girl drew herself up tall, and took the ring that had belonged to her mother, and the ring that had once been hers, and laid them safely away in a box, a reminder of what can happen to girls with skipping ropes, and mothers with no time for fairylike ways or dreams.

The Fox, The Wolf and The Butter

LONG, LONG AGO, when a fox could befriend a wolf without fear of becoming his midday meal, and when all animals and folk in the woods spoke Gaelic, there was a wee den set deep in the forest, and it was the home of a fox and a wolf who lived there together. Now this fox and this wolf were friends, and firm friends they were, but there would always be that shadow of mistrust that hung between them, for a fox is a wily creature, and it was then, too, even in the days when a fox could befriend a wolf without fear of becoming his midday meal.

The fox and the wolf walked together each day, along the path overhung by fronded green firs, and over the hills, to the beach. And there they would comb the shores for debris that had blown in from the sea. Often it was, too, that they’d find a choice bit of fish for their dinner, or a bit of salt pork that had fallen over the side of a poor seaman’s ship.

And so it was one day that they walked together, along the path overhung by fronded green firs, and over the hills to the beach. And there they came across a great cask of pure white butter, cold and creamy and freshly churned. And what delight lit their beady eyes, and their tongues fairly dripped with anticipation of this creamy treat, all cold and freshly churned. They danced about it then, and said to the other, “We’ll hide it now, till we get a chance to take it home.”

And so the fox and the wolf struggled with this great cask, up the hill and partway along that path overhung by fronded green firs, where they dug a great hole and buried it. And then they went home.

When they woke the next morning, the wolf yawned, and licked his lips, and thought of all that lovely pure white butter, and he said to the fox, “Shall we bring it a little further today?”

But the fox shook his head. “Oh no,” he said, “not today. I am going away today.”

The wolf looked surprised. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“I am going,” said the fox, “to a Christening. And then I’ll be back.”

So the fox went off and he was gone for near a whole day. And when he came back he was smiling and content, and he laid himself down on a cosy bit of the den as if to sleep.

“So you’re back,” said the wolf to the fox.

“Yes,” he said.

“What name was the babe given?” asked the wolf.

“We called him Mu Bheul (About the Mouth),” said the fox, to which the wolf nodded sagely.

The fox and wolf settled down for the night, and the next morning the fox rose and made as if to leave. Now it was one thing for the fox to set out alone of a morning, but quite another for him to do it twice, and the wolf felt a funny kind of suspicion, as the shadow of mistrust that hung between them grew ever so slightly larger.

And he said to the fox, “Shall we bring it a little further today, the cask of butter?”

But the fox shook his head. “Oh no,” he said, “not today. I am going away today.”

The wolf looked wary. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“I am going,” said the fox, “to a Christening. And then I’ll be back.”

So the fox went off and he was gone for near a whole day. And when he came back he was smiling and content, and he laid himself down on a cosy bit of the den as if to sleep.

“So you’re back,” said the wolf to the fox.

“Yes,” he said.

“What name was the babe given today?” asked the wolf.

“We called him Mu Leth (About Half),” said he.

“I see,” said the wolf, although he didn’t, and as he settled down for the night he felt that shadow of mistrust growing larger still.

But the wolf wakened fresh and ready for the day, the thought of all that pure, creamy butter making him salivate. And he stood and stretched, and looked for his friend, the fox. But he was not there. So he looked around, outside the den, and the fox was just setting off down the path overhung by fronded green firs, and he called out then, “Fox, where are you going? Shall we bring it a little further today, the cask of butter?”

But the fox shook his head. “Oh no,” he said, “not today. I am going away again today.”

The wolf just looked. “Where are you going today?” he asked.

“I am going,” said the fox, “to a Christening. And then I’ll be back.”

So the fox went off and he was gone for near a whole day. And when he came back he was smiling and content, licking his chops and smacking his lips. And he laid himself down on a cosy bit of the den as if to sleep.

“So you’re back,” said the wolf to the fox.

“Yes,” he said.

“What name was the babe given today?” asked the wolf.

“We called him Sgrìobadgh a’ Mhàis (Scraping the Bottom),” said he.

“I see,” said the wolf, although he didn’t again, and as he settled down for the night that shadow of mistrust was firmly between them.

But he woke again the next morning fresh and hungry, and the thought of that creamy butter made him nearly swoon with expectation. And he said to the fox, his tongue dripping so that he could hardly speak, “Shall we get it today, the cask of butter we hid?”

And the fox said, “Yes indeed.”

And so it was that the fox and the wolf set off down the path, overhung by fronded green firs, almost to the hills whereupon lay the shore. And they reached the spot where the great cask of butter was hidden, cold, creamy and freshly churned. They uncovered it then, and lifting off the lid, eager for a succulent pawful, they discovered it ... empty.

It was awful. They jigged and railed and danced a furious reel round that empty cask. And the fox was so puzzled, and so too was the wolf, for neither knew who had taken their butter.

“Well,” said the fox at last, when they lay down spent from their angry dance, “this is very queer. For not another creature knew of this cask but you and I, dear wolf. And this terribly queer affair means only one thing to me, and that is this: that it was you or me who took that butter. And that is what I think:

If I ate the butter, and it was I

Chiorram chiotam, chiorram, chatam, chiorram chiù

But if you ate the butter and it was you,

A galling plague on your grey belly in the dust.”

There was no great harm in the curse of the fox, for his words were empty, but the curse he had laid on the wolf was poison indeed, for his belly was empty and the butter was gone.

The Ainsel

DEEP IN THE HEART of the Border country, where the wind howls with cold, lived a wee boy called Parcie. He lived with his mother in a small, snug cottage where the fire burned bright and bathed the stone clad walls in a soft, cosy glow. They lived alone there for his father was long since gone, but they managed with little, living simply and happily among the trees and the wood folk who inhabited them.

Now like most small boys, Parcie plotted all day in order to avoid being sent to bed each night. He longed to sit by the hearth with his mother, watching the burning embers cast intriguing shadows which danced and performed a story that seemed to Parcie like it could go on forever. But each night it was cut short, as was the sound of his mother’s mellifluous voice as she sang to him of fairies and sea-folk, and told of stories and legends of long ago. For it was it at this point that Parcie’s mother would close up her bag of mending.

“It’s time for your bed, Parcie,” she would say, always the same thing, and Parcie would be packed neatly into his tiny box-bed where the fairies had laid a nest of golden slumberdust so potent that his eyes were shut and he was fast asleep as soon as his head touched his soft pillow. And there he’d sleep all the night, until the next morning he struggled to hatch a plan to stay awake all night, to carry on and on the drowsy contentment of the evening.

But one night Parcie’s tired mother could argue no further and when the fire began to sink down into black-red embers, and she said,

“It’s time for your bed, Parcie” he would not go. And so she picked up her mending, and tidied it away, setting a bowl of cool, fresh cream by the doorstep as she went along the corridor to her own bed.

“I hope to God the old fairy wife does not get to you, lad, but it will be your own fault if she does,” whispered his mother as she disappeared into her room.

And suddenly the warm red room took on a more sinister cast, and the shadows no longer told a story but taunted him, warning him, tempting him until he was a jumble of fear and confusion. And just as he steeled himself to dash to his warm box-bed, filled with golden slumberdust, a tiny brownie leapt from the chimney and landed on his foot.

Now brownies were common in the days when Parcie lived in the stone cottage with his mother, and they came each day to every house that had the courtesy and the foresight to leave a bowl of cool, fresh cream by the doorstep. And if some foolish occupant forgot that cream one night, she would be sure to find a tumultuous mess the next day. For brownies came to tidy everything away, neat and clean, collecting specks of dust and laying things just so, so that in the morning the lucky household gleamed with shining surfaces and possessions all in order.

But Parcie knew nothing of the magic that dropped through the chimney each night and he was surprised and rather pleased to see this tiny fairy. The brownie was not, however, so pleased to see Parcie, for he was an efficient wee brownie and he liked to have his work done quickly, in order to get to the lovely bowl of cool, fresh cream which awaited him by the doorstep.

“What’s your name?” asked Parcie, grinning.

“Ainsel (own self),” replied the brownie, smiling back despite himself. “And you?”

“My Ainsel,” said Parcie, joining in the joke.

And so Parcie and the brownie played a little together, and Parcie watched with interest while the brownie tidied and cleaned their cottage in a whirlwind of activity. And then, as he neared the grate to sweep away some dust that had come loose from the hearth, Parcie took an inopportune moment to poke the fire, and what should fly out upon the poor brownie but a red-hot ember which burnt him so badly that he howled with pain.

And then, into the snuffling silence that followed, a deep frightening voice boomed down the chimney. It was the old fairy wife who Parcie’s mother had warned of, and she flew into a rage when she heard her dear brownie’s tears.

“Tell me who hurt ye,” she shouted down the chimney, “I’ll get him, so I will.”

And the brownie called out tearfully, “It was My Ainsel”. Parcie lost no time in hurling himself from the room and into his box-bed where the golden slumberdust did not cast its magic over the terrified boy, for he laid awake and shaking for a long time after his head touched his soft pillow.

But the old fairy wife was not concerned about Parcie, for she called out, “What’s the fuss, if you did it yer ainsel” and muttering she thrust a long brown arm down the chimney and plucked the sniffling brownie from the fireside.

Now what do you think Parcie’s mother thought the next morning when she found her cottage spic and span, but the bowl of cream still standing untouched, cool and fresh by the doorstep. How perplexed she was when the brownie stopped visiting her cottage, although she always left a bowl of cream to tempt him. But in the heart of the Border country, where the wind howls with cold, bad is almost always balanced by good, and so it was then when from that night onwards, Parcie’s mother never again had to say to him, “Parcie, it’s time for your bed,” for at the first sudden movement of the shadows, when the fire began to sink down into black-red embers, he was sound asleep in his tiny box-bed, deep in the sleep of the golden slumberdust.

Gold-Tree and Silver-Tree

ONCE UPON A TIME there was a king who had a wife, whose name was Silver-tree, and a daughter, whose name was Gold-tree. One day, Gold-tree and Silver-tree went to a glen, where there was a well, and in it there was a trout.

Said Silver-tree, “Troutie, bonny little fellow, am not I the most beautiful queen in the world?”

“Oh! indeed you are not.”

“Who then?”

“Why, Gold-tree, your daughter.”

Silver-tree went home, blind with rage. She lay down on the bed, and vowed she would never be well until she could get the heart and the liver of Gold-tree, her daughter, to eat.

At nightfall the king came home, and it was told him that Silver-tree, his wife, was very ill. He went where she was, and asked her what was wrong with her.

“Oh! only a thing – which you may heal if you like.”

“Oh! indeed there is nothing at all which I could do for you that I would not do.”

“If I get the heart and liver of Gold-tree, my daughter, to eat, I shall be well.”

Now it happened about this time that the son of a great king had come from abroad to ask Gold-tree for marrying. The king now agreed to this, and they went abroad.

The king then went and sent his lads to the hunting-hill for a he-goat, and he gave its heart and its liver to his wife to eat; and she rose well and healthy.

A year after this Silver-tree went to the glen, where there was the well in which there was the trout.

“Troutie, bonny little fellow,” said she, “am not I the most beautiful queen in the world?”

“Oh! indeed you are not.”

“Who then?”

“Why, Gold-tree, your daughter.”

“Oh! well, it is long since she was living. It is a year since I ate her heart and liver.”

“Oh! indeed she is not dead. She is married to a great prince abroad.”

Silver-tree went home, and begged the king to put the long-ship in order, and said, “I am going to see my dear Gold-tree, for it is so long since I saw her.” The long-ship was put in order, and they went away.

It was Silver-tree herself that was at the helm, and she steered the ship so well that they were not long at all before they arrived.

The prince was out hunting on the hills. Gold-tree knew the long-ship of her father coming.

“Oh!” said she to the servants, “my mother is coming, and she will kill me.”

“She shall not kill you at all; we will lock you in a room where she cannot get near you.”

This is how it was done; and when Silver-tree came ashore, she began to cry out:

“Come to meet your own mother, when she comes to see you,” Gold-tree said that she could not, that she was locked in the room, and that she could not get out of it.

“Will you not put out,” said Silver-tree, “your little finger through the key-hole, so that your own mother may give a kiss to it?”

She put out her little finger, and Silver-tree went and put a poisoned stab in it, and Gold-tree fell dead.

When the prince came home, and found Gold-tree dead, he was in great sorrow, and when he saw how beautiful she was, he did not bury her at all, but he locked her in a room where nobody would get near her.

In the course of time he married again, and the whole house was under the hand of this wife but one room, and he himself always kept the key of that room. On a certain day of the days he forgot to take the key with him, and the second wife got into the room. What did she see there but the most beautiful woman that she ever saw.

She began to turn and try to wake her, and she noticed the poisoned stab in her finger. She took the stab out, and Gold-tree rose alive, as beautiful as she was ever.

At the fall of night the prince came home from the hunting-hill, looking very downcast.

“What gift,” said his wife, “would you give me that I could make you laugh?”

“Oh! indeed, nothing could make me laugh, except Gold-tree were to come alive again.”

“Well, you’ll find her alive down there in the room.”

When the prince saw Gold-tree alive he made great rejoicings, and he began to kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. Said the second wife, “Since she is the first one you had it is better for you to stick to her, and I will go away.”

“Oh! indeed you shall not go away, but I shall have both of you.”

At the end of the year, Silver-tree went to the glen, where there was the well, in which there was the trout.

“Troutie, bonny little fellow,” said she, “am not I the most beautiful queen in the world?”

“Oh! indeed you are not.”

“Who then?”

“Why, Gold-tree, your daughter.”

“Oh! well, she is not alive. It is a year since I put the poisoned stab in her finger.”

“Oh! indeed she is not dead at all, at all.”

Silver-tree, went home, and begged the king to put the long-ship in order, for that she was going to see her dear Gold-tree, as it was so long since she saw her. The long-ship was put in order, and they went away. It was Silver-tree herself that was at the helm, and she steered the ship so well that they were not long at all before they arrived.

The prince was out hunting on the hills. Gold-tree knew her father’s ship coming.

“Oh!” said she, “my mother is coming, and she will kill me.”

“Not at all,” said the second wife; “we will go down to meet her.”

Silver-tree came ashore. “Come down, Gold-tree, love,” said she, “for your own mother has come to you with a precious drink.”

“It is a custom in this country,” said the second wife, “that the person who offers a drink takes a draught out of it first.”

Silver-tree put her mouth to it, and the second wife went and struck it so that some of it went down her throat, and she fell dead. They had only to carry her home a dead corpse and bury her.

The prince and his two wives lived long after this, pleased and peaceful.

Munachar and Manachar

THERE ONCE LIVED a Munachar and a Manachar, a long time ago, and it is a long time since it was, and if they were alive now they would not be alive then. They went out together to pick raspberries, and as many as Munachar used to pick Manachar used to eat. Munachar said he must go look for a rod to make a gad to hang Manachar, who ate his raspberries every one; and he came to the rod. “What news the day?” said the rod. “It is my own news that I’m seeking. Going looking for a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get me,” said the rod, “until you get an axe to cut me.”

He came to the axe. “What news today?” said the axe. “It’s my own news

I’m seeking. Going looking for an axe, an axe to cut a rod, a rod to

make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get me,” said the axe, “until you get a flag to edge me.” He came to the flag. “What news today?” says the flag. “It’s my own news I’m seeking. Going looking for a flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get me,” says the flag, “till you get water to wet me.” He came to the water. “What news today?” says the water. “It’s my own news that I’m seeking. Going looking for water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get me,” said the water, “until you get a deer who will swim me.” He came to the deer. “What news today?” says the deer. “It’s my own news I’m seeking. Going looking for a deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get me,” said the deer, “until you get a hound who will hunt me.” He came to the hound. “What news today?” says the hound. “It’s my own news I’m seeking. Going looking for a hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get me,” said the hound, “until you get a bit of butter to put in my claw.” He came to the butter. “What news today?” says the butter. “It’s my own news I’m seeking. Going looking for butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get me,” said the butter, “until you get a cat who shall scrape me.” He came to the cat. “What news today?” said the cat. “It’s my own news I’m seeking. Going looking for a cat, cat to scrape butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get me,” said the cat, “until you will get milk which you will give me.” He came to the cow. “What news today?” said the cow. “It’s my own news I’m seeking. Going looking for a cow, cow to give me milk, milk I will give to the cat, cat to scrape butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get any milk from me,” said the cow, “until you bring me a whisp of straw from those threshers yonder.” He came to the threshers. “What news today?” said the threshers. “It’s my own news I’m seeking. Going looking for a whisp of straw from ye to give to the cow, the cow to give me milk, milk I will give to the cat, cat to scrape butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get any whisp of straw from us,” said the threshers, “until you bring us the makings of a cake from the miller over yonder.” He came to the miller. “What news today?” said the miller. “It’s my own news I’m seeking. Going looking for the makings of a cake which I will give to the threshers, the threshers to give me a whisp of straw, the whisp of straw I will give to the cow, the cow to give me milk, milk I will give to the cat, cat to scrape butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.”

“You will not get any makings of a cake from me,” said the miller, “till you bring me the full of that sieve of water from the river over there.”

He took the sieve in his hand and went over to the river, but as often as ever he would stoop and fill it with water, the moment he raised it the water would run out of it again, and sure, if he had been there from that day till this, he never could have filled it. A crow went flying by him, over his head. “Daub! daub!” said the crow.

“My blessings on ye, then,” said Munachar, “but it’s the good advice you have,” and he took the red clay and the daub that was by the brink, and he rubbed it to the bottom of the sieve, until all the holes were filled, and then the sieve held the water, and he brought the water to the miller, and the miller gave him the makings of a cake, and he gave the makings of the cake to the threshers, and the threshers gave him a whisp of straw, and he gave the whisp of straw to the cow, and the cow gave him milk, the milk he gave to the cat, the cat scraped the butter, the butter went into the claw of the hound, the hound hunted the deer, the deer swam the water, the water wet the flag, the flag sharpened the axe, the axe cut the rod, and the rod made a gad, and when he had it ready to hang Manachar he found that Manachar had BURST.

Jack and His Comrades

ONCE THERE WAS a poor widow, as often there has been, and she had one son. A very scarce summer came, and they didn’t know how they’d live till the new potatoes would be fit for eating. So Jack said to his mother one evening, “Mother, bake my cake, and kill my hen, till I go seek my fortune; and if I meet it, never fear but I’ll soon be back to share it with you.”

So she did as he asked her, and he set out at break of day on his journey. His mother came along with him to the yard gate, and says she, “Jack, which would you rather have, half the cake and half the hen with my blessing, or the whole of ’em with my curse?”

“O musha, mother,” says Jack, “why do you ax me that question? sure you know I wouldn’t have your curse and Damer’s estate along with it.”

“Well, then, Jack,” says she, “here’s the whole lot of ’em with my thousand blessings along with them.” So she stood on the yard fence and blessed him as far as her eyes could see him.

Well, he went along and along till he was tired, and ne’er a farmer’s house he went into wanted a boy. At last his road led by the side of a bog, and there was a poor ass up to his shoulders near a big bunch of grass he was striving to come at.

“Ah, then, Jack asthore,” says he, “help me out or I’ll be drowned.”

“Never say’t twice,” says Jack, and he pitched in big stones and sods into the slob, till the ass got good ground under him.

“Thank you, Jack,” says he, when he was out on the hard road; “I’ll do as much for you another time. Where are you going?”

“Faith, I’m going to seek my fortune till harvest comes in, God bless it!”

“And if you like,” says the ass, “I’ll go along with you; who knows what luck we may have!”

“With all my heart, it’s getting late, let us be jogging.”

Well, they were going through a village, and a whole army of gossoons were hunting a poor dog with a kettle tied to his tail. He ran up to Jack for protection, and the ass let such a roar out of him, that the little thieves took to their heels as if the ould boy was after them.

“More power to you, Jack,” says the dog.

“I’m much obleeged to you: where is the baste and yourself going?”

“We’re going to seek our fortune till harvest comes in.”

“And wouldn’t I be proud to go with you!” says the dog, “and get rid of them ill conducted boys; purshuin’ to ’em.”

“Well, well, throw your tail over your arm, and come along.”

They got outside the town, and sat down under an old wall, and Jack pulled out his bread and meat, and shared with the dog; and the ass made his dinner on a bunch of thistles. While they were eating and chatting, what should come by but a poor half-starved cat, and the moll-row he gave out of him would make your heart ache.

“You look as if you saw the tops of nine houses since breakfast,” says Jack; “here’s a bone and something on it.”

“May your child never know a hungry belly!” says Tom; “it’s myself that’s in need of your kindness. May I be so bold as to ask where yez are all going?”

“We’re going to seek our fortune till the harvest comes in, and you may join us if you like.”

“And that I’ll do with a heart and a half,” says the cat, “and thank’ee for asking me.”

Off they set again, and just as the shadows of the trees were three times as long as themselves, they heard a great cackling in a field inside the road, and out over the ditch jumped a fox with a fine black cock in his mouth.

“Oh, you anointed villain!” says the ass, roaring like thunder.

“At him, good dog!” says Jack, and the word wasn’t out of his mouth when Coley was in full sweep after the Red Dog. Reynard dropped his prize like a hot potato, and was off like shot, and the poor cock came back fluttering and trembling to Jack and his comrades.

“O musha, naybours!” says he, “wasn’t it the height o’ luck that threw you in my way! Maybe I won’t remember your kindness if ever I find you in hardship; and where in the world are you all going?”

“We’re going to seek our fortune till the harvest comes in; you may join our party if you like, and sit on Neddy’s crupper when your legs and wings are tired.”

Well, the march began again, and just as the sun was gone down they looked around, and there was neither cabin nor farm house in sight.

“Well, well,” says Jack, “the worse luck now the better another time, and it’s only a summer night after all. We’ll go into the wood, and make our bed on the long grass.”

No sooner said than done. Jack stretched himself on a bunch of dry grass, the ass lay near him, the dog and cat lay in the ass’s warm lap, and the cock went to roost in the next tree.

Well, the soundness of deep sleep was over them all, when the cock took a notion of crowing.

“Bother you, Black Cock!” says the ass: “you disturbed me from as nice a wisp of hay as ever I tasted. What’s the matter?”

“It’s daybreak that’s the matter: don’t you see light yonder?”

“I see a light indeed,” says Jack, “but it’s from a candle it’s coming, and not from the sun. As you’ve roused us we may as well go over, and ask for lodging.”

So they all shook themselves, and went on through grass, and rocks, and briars, till they got down into a hollow, and there was the light coming through the shadow, and along with it came singing, and laughing, and cursing.

“Easy, boys!” says Jack: “walk on your tippy toes till we see what sort of people we have to deal with.”

So they crept near the window, and there they saw six robbers inside, with pistols, and blunderbushes, and cutlashes, sitting at a table, eating roast beef and pork, and drinking mulled beer, and wine, and whisky punch.

“Wasn’t that a fine haul we made at the Lord of Dunlavin’s!” says one ugly-looking thief with his mouth full, “and it’s little we’d get only for the honest porter! here’s his purty health!”

“The porter’s purty health!” cried out every one of them, and Jack bent his finger at his comrades.

“Close your ranks, my men,” says he in a whisper, “and let every one mind the word of command.”

So the ass put his fore-hoofs on the sill of the window, the dog got on the ass’s head, the cat on the dog’s head, and the cock on the cat’s head. Then Jack made a sign, and they all sung out like mad.

“Hee-haw, hee-haw!” roared the ass; “bow-wow!” barked the dog; “meaw-meaw!” cried the cat; “cock-a-doodle-doo!” crowed the cock.

“Level your pistols!” cried Jack, “and make smithereens of ’em. Don’t leave a mother’s son of ’em alive; present, fire!” With that they gave another halloo, and smashed every pane in the window. The robbers were frightened out of their lives. They blew out the candles, threw down the table, and skelped out at the back door as if they were in earnest, and never drew rein till they were in the very heart of the wood.

Jack and his party got into the room, closed the shutters, lighted the candles, and ate and drank till hunger and thirst were gone. Then they lay down to rest; – Jack in the bed, the ass in the stable, the dog on the door-mat, the cat by the fire, and the cock on the perch.

At first the robbers were very glad to find themselves safe in the thick wood, but they soon began to get vexed.

“This damp grass is very different from our warm room,” says one.

“I was obliged to drop a fine pig’s foot,” says another.

“I didn’t get a tayspoonful of my last tumbler,” says another.

“And all the Lord of Dunlavin’s gold and silver that we left behind!” says the last.

“I think I’ll venture back,” says the captain, “and see if we can recover anything.”

“That’s a good boy!” said they all, and away he went.

The lights were all out, and so he groped his way to the fire, and there the cat flew in his face, and tore him with teeth and claws. He let a roar out of him, and made for the room door, to look for a candle inside. He trod on the dog’s tail, and if he did, he got the marks of his teeth in his arms, and legs, and thighs.

“Thousand murders!” cried he; “I wish I was out of this unlucky house.”

When he got to the street door, the cock dropped down upon him with his claws and bill, and what the cat and dog done to him was only a flay-bite to what he got from the cock.

“Oh, tattheration to you all, you unfeeling vagabones!” says he, when he recovered his breath; and he staggered and spun round and round till he reeled into the stable, back foremost, but the ass received him with a kick on the broadest part of his small clothes, and laid him comfortably on the dunghill.

When he came to himself, he scratched his head, and began to think what happened him; and as soon as he found that his legs were able to carry him, he crawled away, dragging one foot after another, till he reached the wood.

“Well, well,” cried them all, when he came within hearing, “any chance of our property?”

“You may say chance,” says he, “and it’s itself is the poor chance all out. Ah, will any of you pull a bed of dry grass for me? All the sticking-plaster in Enniscorthy will be too little for the cuts and bruises I have on me. Ah, if you only knew what I have gone through for you! When I got to the kitchen fire, looking for a sod of lighted turf, what should be there but an old woman carding flax, and you may see the marks she left on my face with the cards. I made to the room door as fast as I could, and who should I stumble over but a cobbler and his seat, and if he did not work at me with his awls and his pinchers you may call me a rogue. Well, I got away from him somehow, but when I was passing through the door, it must be the divel himself that pounced down on me with his claws, and his teeth, that were equal to sixpenny nails, and his wings – ill luck be in his road! Well, at last I reached the stable, and there, by way of salute, I got a pelt from a sledge-hammer that sent me half a mile off. If you don’t believe me, I’ll give you leave to go and judge for yourselves.”

“Oh, my poor captain,” says they, “we believe you to the nines. Catch us, indeed, going within a hen’s race of that unlucky cabin!”

Well, before the sun shook his doublet next morning, Jack and his comrades were up and about. They made a hearty breakfast on what was left the night before, and then they all agreed to set off to the castle of the Lord of Dunlavin, and give him back all his gold and silver. Jack put it all in the two ends of a sack and laid it across Neddy’s back, and all took the road in their hands. Away they went, through bogs, up hills, down dales, and sometimes along the yellow high road, till they came to the hall-door of the Lord of Dunlavin, and who should be there, airing his powdered head, his white stockings, and his red breeches, but the thief of a porter.

He gave a cross look to the visitors, and says he to Jack, “What do you want here, my fine fellow? there isn’t room for you all.”

“We want,” says Jack, “what I’m sure you haven’t to give us – and that is, common civility.”

“Come, be off, you lazy strollers!” says he, “while a cat ’ud be licking her ear, or I’ll let the dogs at you.”

“Would you tell a body,” says the cock that was perched on the ass’s head, “who was it that opened the door for the robbers the other night?”

Ah! maybe the porter’s red face didn’t turn the colour of his frill, and the Lord of Dunlavin and his pretty daughter, that were standing at the parlour window unknownst to the porter, put out their heads.

“I’d be glad, Barney,” says the master, “to hear your answer to the gentleman with the red comb on him.”

“Ah, my lord, don’t believe the rascal; sure I didn’t open the door to the six robbers.”

“And how did you know there were six, you poor innocent?” said the lord.

“Never mind, sir,” says Jack, “all your gold and silver is there in that sack, and I don’t think you will begrudge us our supper and bed after our long march from the wood of Athsalach.”

“Begrudge, indeed! Not one of you will ever see a poor day if I can help it.”

So all were welcomed to their heart’s content, and the ass and the dog and the cock got the best posts in the farmyard, and the cat took possession of the kitchen. The lord took Jack in hands, dressed him from top to toe in broadcloth, and frills as white as snow, and turnpumps, and put a watch in his fob. When they sat down to dinner, the lady of the house said Jack had the air of a born gentleman about him, and the lord said he’d make him his steward. Jack brought his mother, and settled her comfortably near the castle, and all were as happy as you please.

Fair, Brown, and Trembling

KING HUGH CURUCHA lived in Tir Conal, and he had three daughters, whose names were Fair, Brown, and Trembling. Fair and Brown had new dresses, and went to church every Sunday. Trembling was kept at home to do the cooking and work. They would not let her go out of the house at all; for she was more beautiful than the other two, and they were in dread she might marry before themselves.

They carried on in this way for seven years. At the end of seven years the son of the king of Emania fell in love with the eldest sister.

One Sunday morning, after the other two had gone to church, the old henwife came into the kitchen to Trembling, and said: “It’s at church you ought to be this day, instead of working here at home.”

“How could I go?” said Trembling. “I have no clothes good enough to wear at church; and if my sisters were to see me there, they’d kill me for going out of the house.”

“I’ll give you,” said the henwife, “a finer dress than either of them has ever seen. And now tell me what dress will you have?”

“I’ll have,” said Trembling, “a dress as white as snow, and green shoes for my feet.”

Then the henwife put on the cloak of darkness, clipped a piece from the old clothes the young woman had on, and asked for the whitest robes in the world and the most beautiful that could be found, and a pair of green shoes.

That moment she had the robe and the shoes, and she brought them to Trembling, who put them on. When Trembling was dressed and ready, the henwife said: “I have a honey-bird here to sit on your right shoulder, and a honey-finger to put on your left. At the door stands a milk-white mare, with a golden saddle for you to sit on, and a golden bridle to hold in your hand.”

Trembling sat on the golden saddle; and when she was ready to start, the henwife said: “You must not go inside the door of the church, and the minute the people rise up at the end of Mass, do you make off, and ride home as fast as the mare will carry you.”

When Trembling came to the door of the church there was no one inside who could get a glimpse of her but was striving to know who she was; and when they saw her hurrying away at the end of Mass, they ran out to overtake her. But no use in their running; she was away before any man could come near her. From the minute she left the church till she got home, she overtook the wind before her, and outstripped the wind behind.

She came down at the door, went in, and found the henwife had dinner ready. She put off the white robes, and had on her old dress in a twinkling.

When the two sisters came home the henwife asked: “Have you any news today from the church?”

“We have great news,” said they. “We saw a wonderful grand lady at the church-door. The like of the robes she had we have never seen on woman before. It’s little that was thought of our dresses beside what she had on; and there wasn’t a man at the church, from the king to the beggar, but was trying to look at her and know who she was.”

The sisters would give no peace till they had two dresses like the robes of the strange lady; but honey-birds and honey-fingers were not to be found.

Next Sunday the two sisters went to church again, and left the youngest at home to cook the dinner.

After they had gone, the henwife came in and asked: “Will you go to church today?”

“I would go,” said Trembling, “if I could get the going.”

“What robe will you wear?” asked the henwife.

“The finest black satin that can be found, and red shoes for my feet.”

“What colour do you want the mare to be?”

“I want her to be so black and so glossy that I can see myself in her body.”

The henwife put on the cloak of darkness, and asked for the robes and the mare. That moment she had them. When Trembling was dressed, the henwife put the honey-bird on her right shoulder and the honey-finger on her left. The saddle on the mare was silver, and so was the bridle.

When Trembling sat in the saddle and was going away, the henwife ordered her strictly not to go inside the door of the church, but to rush away as soon as the people rose at the end of Mass, and hurry home on the mare before any man could stop her.

That Sunday, the people were more astonished than ever, and gazed at her more than the first time; and all they were thinking of was to know who she was. But they had no chance; for the moment the people rose at the end of Mass she slipped from the church, was in the silver saddle, and home before a man could stop her or talk to her.

The henwife had the dinner ready. Trembling took off her satin robe, and had on her old clothes before her sisters got home.

“What news have you today?” asked the henwife of the sisters when they came from the church.

“Oh, we saw the grand strange lady again! And it’s little that any man could think of our dresses after looking at the robes of satin that she had on! And all at church, from high to low, had their mouths open, gazing at her, and no man was looking at us.”

The two sisters gave neither rest nor peace till they got dresses as nearly like the strange lady’s robes as they could find. Of course they were not so good; for the like of those robes could not be found in Erin.

When the third Sunday came, Fair and Brown went to church dressed in black satin. They left Trembling at home to work in the kitchen, and told her to be sure and have dinner ready when they came back.

After they had gone and were out of sight, the henwife came to the kitchen and said: “Well, my dear, are you for church today?”

“I would go if I had a new dress to wear.”

“I’ll get you any dress you ask for. What dress would you like?” asked the henwife.

“A dress red as a rose from the waist down, and white as snow from the waist up; a cape of green on my shoulders; and a hat on my head with a red, a white, and a green feather in it; and shoes for my feet with the toes red, the middle white, and the backs and heels green.”

The henwife put on the cloak of darkness, wished for all these things, and had them. When Trembling was dressed, the henwife put the honey-bird on her right shoulder and the honey-finger on her left, and, placing the hat on her head, clipped a few hairs from one lock and a few from another with her scissors, and that moment the most beautiful golden hair was flowing down over the girl’s shoulders. Then the henwife asked what kind of a mare she would ride. She said white, with blue and gold-coloured diamond-shaped spots all over her body, on her back a saddle of gold, and on her head a golden bridle.

The mare stood there before the door, and a bird sitting between her ears, which began to sing as soon as Trembling was in the saddle, and never stopped till she came home from the church.

The fame of the beautiful strange lady had gone out through the world, and all the princes and great men that were in it came to church that Sunday, each one hoping that it was himself would have her home with him after Mass.

The son of the king of Emania forgot all about the eldest sister, and remained outside the church, so as to catch the strange lady before she could hurry away.

The church was more crowded than ever before, and there were three times as many outside. There was such a throng before the church that Trembling could only come inside the gate.

As soon as the people were rising at the end of Mass, the lady slipped out through the gate, was in the golden saddle in an instant, and sweeping away ahead of the wind. But if she was, the prince of Emania was at her side, and, seizing her by the foot, he ran with the mare for thirty perches, and never let go of the beautiful lady till the shoe was pulled from her foot, and he was left behind with it in his hand. She came home as fast as the mare could carry her, and was thinking all the time that the henwife would kill her for losing the shoe.

Seeing her so vexed and so changed in the face, the old woman asked: “What’s the trouble that’s on you now?” “Oh! I’ve lost one of the shoes off my feet,” said Trembling.

“Don’t mind that; don’t be vexed,” said the henwife; “maybe it’s the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Then Trembling gave up all the things she had to the henwife, put on her old clothes, and went to work in the kitchen. When the sisters came home, the henwife asked: “Have you any news from the church?”

“We have indeed,” said they, “for we saw the grandest sight today. The strange lady came again, in grander array than before. On herself and the horse she rode were the finest colours of the world, and between the ears of the horse was a bird which never stopped singing from the time she came till she went away. The lady herself is the most beautiful woman ever seen by man in Erin.”

After Trembling had disappeared from the church, the son of the king of Emania said to the other kings’ sons: “I will have that lady for my own.”

They all said: “You didn’t win her just by taking the shoe off her foot; you’ll have to win her by the point of the sword; you’ll have to fight for her with us before you can call her your own.”

“Well,” said the son of the king of Emania, “when I find the lady that shoe will fit, I’ll fight for her, never fear, before I leave her to any of you.”

Then all the kings’ sons were uneasy, and anxious to know who was she that lost the shoe; and they began to travel all over Erin to know could they find her. The prince of Emania and all the others went in a great company together, and made the round of Erin; they went everywhere, – north, south, east, and west. They visited every place where a woman was to be found, and left not a house in the kingdom they did not search, to know could they find the woman the shoe would fit, not caring whether she was rich or poor, of high or low degree.

The prince of Emania always kept the shoe; and when the young women saw it, they had great hopes, for it was of proper size, neither large nor small, and it would beat any man to know of what material it was made. One thought it would fit her if she cut a little from her great toe; and another, with too short a foot, put something in the tip of her stocking. But no use; they only spoiled their feet, and were curing them for months afterwards.

The two sisters, Fair and Brown, heard that the princes of the world were looking all over Erin for the woman that could wear the shoe, and every day they were talking of trying it on; and one day Trembling spoke up and said: “Maybe it’s my foot that the shoe will fit.”

“Oh, the breaking of the dog’s foot on you! Why say so when you were at home every Sunday?”

They were that way waiting, and scolding the younger sister, till the princes were near the place. The day they were to come, the sisters put Trembling in a closet, and locked the door on her. When the company came to the house, the prince of Emania gave the shoe to the sisters. But though they tried and tried, it would fit neither of them.

“Is there any other young woman in the house?” asked the prince.

“There is,” said Trembling, speaking up in the closet; “I’m here.”

“Oh! we have her for nothing but to put out the ashes,” said the sisters.

But the prince and the others wouldn’t leave the house till they had seen her; so the two sisters had to open the door. When Trembling came out, the shoe was given to her, and it fitted exactly.

The prince of Emania looked at her and said: “You are the woman the shoe fits, and you are the woman I took the shoe from.”

Then Trembling spoke up, and said: “Do you stay here till I return.”

Then she went to the henwife’s house. The old woman put on the cloak of darkness, got everything for her she had the first Sunday at church, and put her on the white mare in the same fashion. Then Trembling rode along the highway to the front of the house. All who saw her the first time said: “This is the lady we saw at church.”

Then she went away a second time, and a second time came back on the black mare in the second dress which the henwife gave her. All who saw her the second Sunday said: “That is the lady we saw at church.”

A third time she asked for a short absence, and soon came back on the third mare and in the third dress. All who saw her the third time said: “That is the lady we saw at church.” Every man was satisfied, and knew that she was the woman.

Then all the princes and great men spoke up, and said to the son of the king of Emania: “You’ll have to fight now for her before we let her go with you.”

“I’m here before you, ready for combat,” answered the prince.

Then the son of the king of Lochlin stepped forth. The struggle began, and a terrible struggle it was. They fought for nine hours; and then the son of the king of Lochlin stopped, gave up his claim, and left the field. Next day the son of the king of Spain fought six hours, and yielded his claim. On the third day the son of the king of Nyerfói fought eight hours, and stopped. The fourth day the son of the king of Greece fought six hours, and stopped. On the fifth day no more strange princes wanted to fight; and all the sons of kings in Erin said they would not fight with a man of their own land, that the strangers had had their chance, and, as no others came to claim the woman, she belonged of right to the son of the king of Emania.

The marriage-day was fixed, and the invitations were sent out. The wedding lasted for a year and a day. When the wedding was over, the king’s son brought home the bride, and when the time came a son was born. The young woman sent for her eldest sister, Fair, to be with her and care for her. One day, when Trembling was well, and when her husband was away hunting, the two sisters went out to walk; and when they came to the seaside, the eldest pushed the youngest sister in. A great whale came and swallowed her.

The eldest sister came home alone, and the husband asked, “Where is your sister?”

“She has gone home to her father in Ballyshannon; now that I am well, I don’t need her.”

“Well,” said the husband, looking at her, “I’m in dread it’s my wife that has gone.”

“Oh! no,” said she; “it’s my sister Fair that’s gone.”

Since the sisters were very much alike, the prince was in doubt. That night he put his sword between them, and said: “If you are my wife, this sword will get warm; if not, it will stay cold.”

In the morning when he rose up, the sword was as cold as when he put it there.

It happened, when the two sisters were walking by the seashore, that a little cowboy was down by the water minding cattle, and saw Fair push Trembling into the sea; and next day, when the tide came in, he saw the whale swim up and throw her out on the sand. When she was on the sand she said to the cowboy: “When you go home in the evening with the cows, tell the master that my sister Fair pushed me into the sea yesterday; that a whale swallowed me, and then threw me out, but will come again and swallow me with the coming of the next tide; then he’ll go out with the tide, and come again with tomorrow’s tide, and throw me again on the strand. The whale will cast me out three times. I’m under the enchantment of this whale, and cannot leave the beach or escape myself. Unless my husband saves me before I’m swallowed the fourth time, I shall be lost. He must come and shoot the whale with a silver bullet when he turns on the broad of his back. Under the breast-fin of the whale is a reddish-brown spot. My husband must hit him in that spot, for it is the only place in which he can be killed.”

When the cowboy got home, the eldest sister gave him a draught of oblivion, and he did not tell.

Next day he went again to the sea. The whale came and cast Trembling on shore again. She asked the boy “Did you tell the master what I told you to tell him?”

“I did not,” said he; “I forgot.”

“How did you forget?” asked she.

“The woman of the house gave me a drink that made me forget.”

“Well, don’t forget telling him this night; and if she gives you a drink, don’t take it from her.”

As soon as the cowboy came home, the eldest sister offered him a drink. He refused to take it till he had delivered his message and told all to the master. The third day the prince went down with his gun and a silver bullet in it. He was not long down when the whale came and threw Trembling upon the beach as the two days before. She had no power to speak to her husband till he had killed the whale. Then the whale went out, turned over once on the broad of his back, and showed the spot for a moment only. That moment the prince fired. He had but the one chance, and a short one at that; but he took it, and hit the spot, and the whale, mad with pain, made the sea all around red with blood, and died.

That minute Trembling was able to speak, and went home with her husband, who sent word to her father what the eldest sister had done. The father came, and told him any death he chose to give her to give it. The prince told the father he would leave her life and death with himself. The father had her put out then on the sea in a barrel, with provisions in it for seven years.

In time Trembling had a second child, a daughter. The prince and she sent the cowboy to school, and trained him up as one of their own children, and said: “If the little girl that is born to us now lives, no other man in the world will get her but him.”

The cowboy and the prince’s daughter lived on till they were married. The mother said to her husband “You could not have saved me from the whale but for the little cowboy; on that account I don’t grudge him my daughter.”

The son of the king of Emania and Trembling had fourteen children, and they lived happily till the two died of old age.

Jack And His Master

A POOR WOMAN had three sons. The eldest and second eldest were cunning clever fellows, but they called the youngest Jack the Fool, because they thought he was no better than a simpleton. The eldest got tired of staying at home, and said he’d go look for service. He stayed away a whole year, and then came back one day, dragging one foot after the other, and a poor wizened face on him, and he as cross as two sticks. When he was rested and got something to eat, he told them how he got service with the Gray Churl of the Townland of Mischance, and that the agreement was, whoever would first say he was sorry for his bargain, should get an inch wide of the skin of his back, from shoulder to hips, taken off. If it was the master, he should also pay double wages; if it was the servant, he should get no wages at all. “But the thief,” says he, “gave me so little to eat, and kept me so hard at work, that flesh and blood couldn’t stand it; and when he asked me once, when I was in a passion, if I was sorry for my bargain, I was mad enough to say I was, and here I am disabled for life.”

Vexed enough were the poor mother and brothers; and the second eldest said on the spot he’d go and take service with the Gray Churl, and punish him by all the annoyance he’d give him till he’d make him say he was sorry for his agreement. “Oh, won’t I be glad to see the skin coming off the old villain’s back!” said he. All they could say had no effect: he started off for the Townland of Mischance, and in a twelvemonth he was back just as miserable and helpless as his brother.

All the poor mother could say didn’t prevent Jack the Fool from starting to see if he was able to regulate the Gray Churl. He agreed with him for a year for twenty pounds, and the terms were the same.

“Now, Jack,” said the Gray Churl, “if you refuse to do anything you are able to do, you must lose a month’s wages.”

“I’m satisfied,” said Jack; “and if you stop me from doing a thing after telling me to do it, you are to give me an additional month’s wages.”

“I am satisfied,” says the master.

“Or if you blame me for obeying your orders, you must give the same.”

“I am satisfied,” said the master again.

The first day that Jack served he was fed very poorly, and was worked to the saddleskirts. Next day he came in just before the dinner was sent up to the parlour. They were taking the goose off the spit, but well becomes Jack he whips a knife off the dresser, and cuts off one side of the breast, one leg and thigh, and one wing, and fell to. In came the master, and began to abuse him for his assurance. “Oh, you know, master, you’re to feed me, and wherever the goose goes won’t have to be filled again till supper. Are you sorry for our agreement?”

The master was going to cry out he was, but he bethought himself in time. “Oh no, not at all,” said he.

“That’s well,” said Jack.

Next day Jack was to go clamp turf on the bog. They weren’t sorry to have him away from the kitchen at dinner time. He didn’t find his breakfast very heavy on his stomach; so he said to the mistress, “I think, ma’am, it will be better for me to get my dinner now, and not lose time coming home from the bog.”

“That’s true, Jack,” said she. So she brought out a good cake, and a print of butter, and a bottle of milk, thinking he’d take them away to the bog. But Jack kept his seat, and never drew rein till bread, butter, and milk went down the red lane.

“Now, mistress,” said he, “I’ll be earlier at my work tomorrow if I sleep comfortably on the sheltery side of a pile of dry peat on dry grass, and not be coming here and going back. So you may as well give me my supper, and be done with the day’s trouble.” She gave him that, thinking he’d take it to the bog; but he fell to on the spot, and did not leave a scrap to tell tales on him; and the mistress was a little astonished.

He called to speak to the master in the haggard, and said he, “What are servants asked to do in this country after aten their supper?”

“Nothing at all, but to go to bed.”

“Oh, very well, sir.” He went up on the stable-loft, stripped, and lay down, and some one that saw him told the master. He came up.

“Jack, you anointed scoundrel, what do you mean?” “To go to sleep, master. The mistress, God bless her, is after giving me my breakfast, dinner, and supper, and yourself told me that bed was the next thing. Do you blame me, sir?”

“Yes, you rascal, I do.”

“Hand me out one pound thirteen and fourpence, if you please, sir.”

“One divel and thirteen imps, you tinker! what for?”

“Oh, I see, you’ve forgot your bargain. Are you sorry for it?”

“Oh, ya – no, I mean. I’ll give you the money after your nap.”

Next morning early, Jack asked how he’d be employed that day. “You are to be holding the plough in that fallow, outside the paddock.” The master went over about nine o’clock to see what kind of a ploughman was Jack, and what did he see but the little boy driving the bastes, and the sock and coulter of the plough skimming along the sod, and Jack pulling ding-dong again’ the horses.

“What are you doing, you contrary thief?” said the master.

“An’ ain’t I strivin’ to hold this divel of a plough, as you told me; but that ounkrawn of a boy keeps whipping on the bastes in spite of all I say; will you speak to him?”

“No, but I’ll speak to you. Didn’t you know, you bosthoon, that when I said ‘holding the plough,’ I meant reddening the ground.”

“Faith, an’ if you did, I wish you had said so. Do you blame me for what I have done?”

The master caught himself in time, but he was so stomached, he said nothing.

“Go on and redden the ground now, you knave, as other ploughmen do.”

“An’ are you sorry for our agreement?”

“Oh, not at all, not at all!”

Jack, ploughed away like a good workman all the rest of the day.

In a day or two the master bade him go and mind the cows in a field that had half of it under young corn. “Be sure, particularly,” said he, “to keep Browney from the wheat; while she’s out of mischief there’s no fear of the rest.”

About noon, he went to see how Jack was doing his duty, and what did he find but Jack asleep with his face to the sod, Browney grazing near a thorn-tree, one end of a long rope round her horns, and the other end round the tree, and the rest of the beasts all trampling and eating the green wheat. Down came the switch on Jack.

“Jack, you vagabone, do you see what the cows are at?”

“And do you blame, master?”

“To be sure, you lazy sluggard, I do?”

“Hand me out one pound thirteen and fourpence, master. You said if I only kept Browney out of mischief, the rest would do no harm. There she is as harmless as a lamb. Are you sorry for hiring me, master?”

“To be – that is, not at all. I’ll give you your money when you go to dinner. Now, understand me; don’t let a cow go out of the field nor into the wheat the rest of the day.”

“Never fear, master!” and neither did he. But the churl would rather than a great deal he had not hired him.

The next day three heifers were missing, and the master bade Jack go in search of them.

“Where will I look for them?” said Jack.

“Oh, every place likely and unlikely for them all to be in.”

The churl was getting very exact in his words. When he was coming into the bawn at dinner-time, what work did he find Jack at but pulling armfuls of the thatch off the roof, and peeping into the holes he was making?

“What are you doing there, you rascal?”

“Sure, I’m looking for the heifers, poor things!”

“What would bring them there?”

“I don’t think anything could bring them in it; but I looked first into the likely places, that is, the cow-houses, and the pastures, and the fields next ’em, and now I’m looking in the unlikeliest place I can think of. Maybe it’s not pleasing to you it is.”

“And to be sure it isn’t pleasing to me, you aggravating goose-cap!”

“Please, sir, hand me one pound thirteen and four pence before you sit down to your dinner. I’m afraid it’s sorrow that’s on you for hiring me at all.”

“May the div – oh no; I’m not sorry. Will you begin, if you please, and put in the thatch again, just as if you were doing it for your mother’s cabin?”

“Oh, faith I will, sir, with a heart and a half;” and by the time the farmer came out from his dinner, Jack had the roof better than it was before, for he made the boy give him new straw.

Says the master when he came out, “Go, Jack, and look for the heifers, and bring them home.”

“And where will I look for ’em?”

“Go and search for them as if they were your own.” The heifers were all in the paddock before sunset.

Next morning, says the master, “Jack, the path across the bog to the pasture is very bad; the sheep does be sinking in it every step; go and make the sheep’s feet a good path.” About an hour after he came to the edge of the bog, and what did he find Jack at but sharpening a carving knife, and the sheep standing or grazing round.

“Is this the way you are mending the path, Jack?” said he.

“Everything must have a beginning, master,” said Jack, “and a thing well begun is half done. I am sharpening the knife, and I’ll have the feet off every sheep in the flock while you’d be blessing yourself.”

“Feet off my sheep, you anointed rogue! and what would you be taking their feet off for?”

“An’ sure to mend the path as you told me. Says you, ‘Jack, make a path with the foot of the sheep.’”

“Oh, you fool, I meant make good the path for the sheep’s feet.”

“It’s a pity you didn’t say so, master. Hand me out one pound thirteen and fourpence if you don’t like me to finish my job.”

“Divel do you good with your one pound thirteen and fourpence!”

“It’s better pray than curse, master. Maybe you’re sorry for your bargain?”

“And to be sure I am – not yet, any way.”

The next night the master was going to a wedding; and says he to Jack, before he set out: “I’ll leave at midnight, and I wish you, to come and be with me home, for fear I might be overtaken with the drink. If you’re there before, you may throw a sheep’s eye at me, and I’ll be sure to see that they’ll give you something for yourself.”

About eleven o’clock, while the master was in great spirits, he felt something clammy hit him on the cheek. It fell beside his tumbler, and when he looked at it what was it but the eye of a sheep. Well, he couldn’t imagine who threw it at him, or why it was thrown at him. After a little he got a blow on the other cheek, and still it was by another sheep’s eye. Well, he was very vexed, but he thought better to say nothing. In two minutes more, when he was opening his mouth to take a sup, another sheep’s eye was slapped into it. He sputtered it out, and cried, “Man o’ the house, isn’t it a great shame for you to have any one in the room that would do such a nasty thing?”

“Master,” says Jack, “don’t blame the honest man. Sure it’s only myself that was thrown’ them sheep’s eyes at you, to remind you I was here, and that I wanted to drink the bride and bridegroom’s health. You know yourself bade me.”

“I know that you are a great rascal; and where did you get the eyes?”

“An’ where would I get ’em but in the heads of your own sheep? Would you have me meddle with the bastes of any neighbour, who might put me in the Stone Jug for it?”

“Sorrow on me that ever I had the bad luck to meet with you.”

“You’re all witness,” said Jack, “that my master says he is sorry for having met with me. My time is up. Master, hand me over double wages, and come into the next room, and lay yourself out like a man that has some decency in him, till I take a strip of skin an inch broad from your shoulder to your hip.”

Every one shouted out against that; but, says Jack, “You didn’t hinder him when he took the same strips from the backs of my two brothers, and sent them home in that state, and penniless, to their poor mother.”

When the company heard the rights of the business, they were only too eager to see the job done. The master bawled and roared, but there was no help at hand. He was stripped to his hips, and laid on the floor in the next room, and Jack had the carving knife in his hand ready to begin.

“Now you cruel old villain,” said he, giving the knife a couple of scrapes along the floor, “I’ll make you an offer. Give me, along with my double wages, two hundred guineas to support my poor brothers, and I’ll do without the strap.”

“No!” said he, “I’d let you skin me from head to foot first.”

“Here goes then,” said Jack with a grin, but the first little scar he gave, Churl roared out, “Stop your hand; I’ll give the money.”

“Now, neighbours,” said Jack, “you mustn’t think worse of me than I deserve. I wouldn’t have the heart to take an eye out of a rat itself; I got half a dozen of them from the butcher, and only used three of them.”

So all came again into the other room, and Jack was made sit down, and everybody drank his health, and he drank everybody’s health at one offer. And six stout fellows saw himself and the master home, and waited in the parlour while he went up and brought down the two hundred guineas, and double wages for Jack himself. When he got home, he brought the summer along with him to the poor mother and the disabled brothers; and he was no more Jack the Fool in the people’s mouths, but ‘Skin Churl Jack.’

The Russet Dog

OH, HE’S A RARE CLEVER FELLOW, is the Russet Dog, the Fox, I suppose you call him. Have you ever heard the way he gets rid of his fleas? He hunts about and he hunts about till he finds a lock of wool: then he takes it in his mouth, and down he goes to the river and turns his tail to the stream, and goes in backwards. And as the water comes up to his haunches the little fleas come forward, and the more he dips into the river the more they come forward, till at last he has got nothing but his snout and the lock of wool above water; then the little fleas rush into his snout and into the lock of wool. Down he dips his nose, and as soon as he feels his nose free of them, he lets go the lock of wool, and so he is free of his fleas. Ah, but that is nothing to the way in which he catches ducks for his dinner. He will gather some heather, and put his head in the midst of it, and then will slip down stream to the place where the ducks are swimming, for all the world like a piece of floating heather. Then he lets go, and – gobble, gobble, gobble, till not a duck is left alive. And he is as brave as he is clever. It is said that once he found the bagpipes lying all alone, and being very hungry began to gnaw at them: but as soon as he made a hole in the bag, out came a squeal. Was the Russet Dog afraid? Never a bit: all he said was: “Here’s music with my dinner.”

Now a Russet Dog had noticed for some days a family of wrens, off which he wished to dine. He might have been satisfied with one, but he was determined to have the whole lot – father and eighteen sons – but all so like that he could not tell one from the other, or the father from the children.

“It is no use to kill one son,” he said to himself, “because the old cock will take warning and fly away with the seventeen. I wish I knew which is the old gentleman.”

He set his wits to work to find out, and one day seeing them all threshing in a barn, he sat down to watch them; still he could not be sure.

“Now I have it,” he said; “well done the old man’s stroke! He hits true,” he cried.

“Oh!” replied the one he suspected of being the head of the family, “if you had seen my grandfather’s strokes, you might have said that.”

The sly fox pounced on the cock, ate him up in a trice, and then soon caught and disposed of the eighteen sons, all flying in terror about the barn.

For a long time a Tod-hunter had been very anxious to catch our friend the fox, and had stopped all the earths in cold weather. One evening he fell asleep in his hut; and when he opened his eyes he saw the fox sitting very demurely at the side of the fire. It had entered by the hole under the door provided for the convenience of the dog, the cat, the pig, and the hen.

“Oh! ho!” said the Tod-hunter, “now I have you.” And he went and sat down at the hole to prevent Reynard’s escape.

“Oh! ho!” said the fox, “I will soon make that stupid fellow get up.” So he found the man’s shoes, and putting them into the fire, wondered if that would make the enemy move.

“I shan’t get up for that, my fine gentleman,” cried the Tod-hunter.

Stockings followed the shoes, coat and trousers shared the same fate, but still the man sat over the hole. At last the fox having set the bed and bedding on fire, put a light to the straw on which his jailer lay, and it blazed up to the ceiling.

“No! that I cannot stand,” shouted the man, jumping up; and the fox, taking advantage of the smoke and confusion, made good his exit.

But Master Rory did not always have it his own way. One day he met a cock, and they began talking.

“How many tricks canst thou do?” said the fox.

“Well,” said the cock, “I could do three; how many canst thou do thyself?”

“I could do three score and thirteen,” said the fox.

“What tricks canst thou do?” said the cock.

“Well,” said the fox, “my grandfather used to shut one eye and give a great shout.”

“I could do that myself,” said the cock.

“Do it,” said the fox. And the cock shut one eye and crowed as loud as ever he could, but he shut the eye that was next the fox, and the fox gripped him by the neck and ran away with him. But the wife to whom the cock belonged saw him and cried out, “Let go the cock; he’s mine.”

“Say, ‘Oh sweet-tongued singer, it is my own cock,’ wilt thou not?” said the cock to the fox.

Then the fox opened his mouth to say as the cock did, and he dropped the cock, and he sprung up on the top of a house, and shut one eye and gave a loud crow.

But it was through that very fox that Master Wolf lost his tail. Have you never heard about that?

One day the wolf and the fox were out together, and they stole a dish of crowdie. Now in those days the wolf was the biggest beast of the two, and he had a long tail like a greyhound and great teeth.

The fox was afraid of him, and did not dare to say a word when the wolf ate the most of the crowdie, and left only a little at the bottom of the dish for him, but he determined to punish him for it; so the next night when they were out together the fox pointed to the image of the moon in a pool left in the ice, and said:

“I smell a very nice cheese, and there it is, too.”

“And how will you get it?” said the wolf.

“Well, stop you here till I see if the farmer is asleep, and if you keep your tail on it, nobody will see you or know that it is there. Keep it steady. I may be some time coming back.”

So the wolf lay down and laid his tail on the moonshine in the ice, and kept it for an hour till it was fast. Then the fox, who had been watching, ran in to the farmer and said: “The wolf is there; he will eat up the children – the wolf! the wolf!”

Then the farmer and his wife came out with sticks to kill the wolf, but the wolf ran off leaving his tail behind him, and that’s why the wolf is stumpy-tailed to this day, though the fox has a long brush.

One day shortly after this Master Rory chanced to see a fine cock and fat hen, off which he wished to dine, but at his approach they both jumped up into a tree. He did not lose heart, but soon began to make talk with them, inviting them at last to go a little way with him.

“There was no danger,” he said, “nor fear of his hurting them, for there was peace between men and beasts, and among all animals.”

At last after much parleying the cock said to the hen, “My dear, do you not see a couple of hounds coming across the field?”

“Yes,” said the hen, “and they will soon be here.”

“If that is the case, it is time I should be off,” said the sly fox, “for I am afraid these stupid hounds may not have heard of the peace.”

And with that he took to his heels and never drew breath till he reached his den.

Now Master Rory had not finished with his friend the wolf. So he went round to see him when his stump got better.

“It is lucky you are,” he said to the wolf. “How much better you will be able to run now you haven’t got all that to carry behind you.”

“Away from me, traitor!” said the wolf.

But Master Rory said: “Is it a traitor I am, when all I have come to see you for is to tell you about a keg of butter I have found?”

After much grumbling the wolf agreed to go with Master Rory.

So the Russet Dog and the wild dog, the fox and the wolf, were going together; and they went round about the sea-shore, and they found the keg of butter, and they buried it.

On the morrow the fox went out, and when he returned in he said that a man had come to ask him to a baptism. He arrayed himself in excellent attire, and he went away, and where should he go but to the butter keg; and when he came home the wolf asked him what the child’s name was; and he said it was Head Off.

On the morrow he said that a man had sent to ask him to a baptism, and he reached the keg and he took out about half. The wolf asked when he came home what the child’s name was.

“Well,” said he, “it is a queer name that I myself would not give to my child, if I had him; it is Half and Half.”

On the morrow he said that there was a man there came to ask him to a baptism again; off he went and he reached the keg, and he ate it all up. When he came home the wolf asked him what the child’s name was, and he said it was All Gone.

On the morrow he said to the wolf that they ought to bring the keg home. They went, and when they reached the keg there was not a shadow of the butter in it.

“Well, thou wert surely coming here to watch this, though I was not,” quoth the fox.

The other one swore that he had not come near it.

“Thou needst not be swearing that thou didst not come here; I know that thou didst come, and that it was thou that took it out; but I will know it from thee when thou goest home, if it was thou that ate the butter,” said the fox.

Off they went, and when they got home he hung the wolf by his hind legs, with his head dangling below him, and he had a dab of the butter and he put it under the wolf’s mouth, as if it was out of the wolf’s belly that it came.

“Thou red thief!” said he, “I said before that it was thou that ate the butter.”

They slept that night, and on the morrow when they rose the fox said:

“Well, then, it is silly for ourselves to be starving to death in this way merely for laziness; we will go to a town-land, and we will take a piece of land in it.”

They reached the town-land, and the man to whom it belonged gave them a piece of land the worth of seven Saxon pounds.

It was oats that they set that year, and they reaped it and they began to divide it.

“Well, then,” said the fox, “wouldst thou rather have the root or the tip? thou shalt have thy choice.”

“I’d rather the root,” said the wolf.

Then the fox had fine oaten bread all the year, and the other one had fodder.

On the next year they set a crop; and it was potatoes that they set, and they grew well.

“Which wouldst thou like best, the root or the crop this year?” said the fox.

“Indeed, thou shalt not take the twist out of me any more; I will have the top this year,” quoth the wolf.

“Good enough, my hero,” said the fox.

Thus the wolf had the potato tops, and the fox the potatoes. But the wolf used to keep stealing the potatoes from the fox.

“Thou hadst best go yonder, and read the name that I have in the hoofs of the grey mare,” quoth the fox.

Away went the wolf, and he begun to read the name; and on a time of these times the white mare drew up her leg, and she broke the wolf’s head.

“Oh!” said the fox, “it is long since I heard my name. Better to catch geese than to read books.”

He went home, and the wolf was not troubling him any more.

But the Russet Dog found his match at last, as I shall tell you.

One day the fox was once going over a loch, and there met him a little bonnach, and the fox asked him where he was going. The little bonnach told him he was going to such a place.

“And whence camest thou?” said the fox.

“I came from Geeogan, and I came from Cooaigean, and I came from the slab of the bonnach stone, and I came from the eye of the quern, and I will come from thee if I may,” quoth the little bonnach.

“Well, I myself will take thee over on my back,” said the fox.

“Thou’lt eat me, thou’lt eat me,” quoth the little bonnach.

“Come then on the tip of my tail,” said the fox.

“Oh no! I will not; thou wilt eat me,” said the little bonnach.

“Come into my ear,” said the fox.

“I will not go; thou wilt eat me,” said the little bonnach.

“Come into my mouth,” said the fox.

“Thou wilt eat me that way at all events,” said the little bonnach.

“Oh no, I will not eat thee,” said the fox. “When I am swimming I cannot eat anything at all.”

He went into the fox’s mouth.

“Oh! ho!” said the fox, “I may do my own pleasure on thee now. It was long ago said that a hard morsel is no good in the mouth.”

The fox ate the little bonnach. Then he went to a loch, and he caught hold of a duck that was in it, and he ate that.

He went up to a hillside, and he began to stroke his sides on the hill.

“Oh, king! how finely a bullet would spank upon my rib just now.”

Who was listening but a hunter.

“I’ll try that upon thee directly,” said the hunter.

“Bad luck to this place,” quoth the fox, “in which a creature dares not say a word in fun that is not taken in earnest.”

The hunter put a bullet in his gun, and he fired at him and killed him, and that was the end of the Russet Dog.

Jack the Cunning Thief

THERE WAS A POOR FARMER who had three sons, and on the same day the three boys went to seek their fortune. The eldest two were sensible, industrious young men; the youngest never did much at home that was any use. He loved to be setting snares for rabbits, and tracing hares in the snow, and inventing all sorts of funny tricks to annoy people at first and then set them laughing.

The three parted at cross-roads, and Jack took the lonesomest. The day turned out rainy, and he was wet and weary, you may depend, at nightfall, when he came to a lonesome house a little off the road.

“What do you want?” said a blear-eyed old woman, that was sitting at the fire.

“My supper and a bed to be sure,” said he.

“You can’t get it,” said she.

“What’s to hinder me?” said he.

“The owners of the house is,” said she, “six honest men that does be out mostly till three or four o’clock in the morning, and if they find you here they’ll skin you alive at the very least.”

“Well, I think,” said Jack, “that their very most couldn’t be much worse. Come, give me something out of the cupboard, for here I’ll stay. Skinning is not much worse than catching your death of cold in a ditch or under a tree such a night as this.”

Begonins she got afraid, and gave him a good supper; and when he was going to bed he said if she let any of the six honest men disturb him when they came home she’d sup sorrow for it. When he awoke in the morning, there were six ugly-looking spalpeens standing round his bed. He leaned on his elbow, and looked at them with great contempt.

“Who are you,” said the chief, “and what’s your business?”

“My name,” says he, “is Master Thief, and my business just now is to find apprentices and workmen. If I find you any good, maybe I’ll give you a few lessons.”

Bedad they were a little cowed, and says the head man, “Well, get up, and after breakfast, we’ll see who is to be the master, and who the journeyman.”

They were just done breakfast, when what should they see but a farmer driving a fine large goat to market. “Will any of you,” says Jack, “undertake to steal that goat from the owner before he gets out of the wood, and that without the smallest violence?”

“I couldn’t do it,” says one; and “I couldn’t do it,” says another.

“I’m your master,” says Jack, “and I’ll do it.”

He slipped out, went through the trees to where there was a bend in the road, and laid down his right brogue in the very middle of it. Then he ran on to another bend, and laid down his left brogue and went and hid himself.

When the farmer sees the first brogue, he says to himself, “That would be worth something if it had the fellow, but it is worth nothing by itself.”

He goes on till he comes to the second brogue.

“What a fool I was,” says he, “not to pick up the other! I’ll go back for it.”

So he tied the goat to a sapling in the hedge, and returned for the brogue. But Jack, who was behind a tree had it already on his foot, and when the man was beyond the bend he picked up the other and loosened the goat, and led him off through the wood.

Ochone! the poor man couldn’t find the first brogue, and when he came back he couldn’t find the second, nor neither his goat.

“Mile mollacht!” says he, “what will I do after promising Johanna to buy her a shawl. I must only go and drive another beast to the market unknownst. I’d never hear the last of it if Joan found out what a fool I made of myself.”

The thieves were in great admiration at Jack, and wanted him to tell them how he had done the farmer, but he wouldn’t tell them.

By-and-by, they see the poor man driving a fine fat wether the same way.

“Who’ll steal that wether,” says Jack, “before it’s out of the wood, and no roughness used?”

“I couldn’t,” says one; and “I couldn’t,” says another.

“I’ll try,” says Jack. “Give me a good rope.”

The poor farmer was jogging along and thinking of his misfortune, when he sees a man hanging from the bough of a tree. “Lord save us!” says he, “the corpse wasn’t there an hour ago.” He went on about half a quarter of a mile, and, there was another corpse again hanging over the road. “God between us and harm,” said he, “am I in my right senses?” There was another turn about the same distance, and just beyond it the third corpse was hanging. “Oh, murdher!” said he; “I’m beside myself. What would bring three hung men so near one another? I must be mad. I’ll go back and see if the others are there still.”

He tied the wether to a sapling, and back he went. But when he was round the bend, down came the corpse, and loosened the wether, and drove it home through the wood to the robbers’ house. You all may think how the poor farmer felt when he could find no one dead or alive going or coming, nor his wether, nor the rope that fastened him. “Oh, misfortunate day!” cried he, “What’ll Joan say to me now? My morning gone, and the goat and wether lost! I must sell something to make the price of the shawl. Well, the fat bullock is in the nearest field. She won’t see me taking it.”

Well, if the robbers were not surprised when Jack came into the bawn with the wether! “If you do another trick like this,” said the captain, “I’ll resign the command to you.”

They soon saw the farmer going by again, driving a fat bullock this time.

“Who’ll bring that fat bullock here,” says Jack, “and use no violence?”

“I couldn’t,” says one; and “I couldn’t,” says another.

“I’ll try,” says Jack, and away he went into the wood.

The farmer was about the spot where he saw the first brogue, when he heard the bleating of a goat off at his right in the wood.

He cocked his ears, and the next thing he heard was the maaing of a sheep.

“Blood alive!” says he, “maybe these are my own that I lost.” There was more bleating and more maaing. “There they are as sure as a gun,” says he, and he tied his bullock to a sapling that grew in the hedge, and away he went into the wood. When he got near the place where the cries came from, he heard them a little before him, and on he followed them. At last, when he was about half a mile from the spot where he tied the beast, the cries stopped altogether. After searching and searching till he was tired, he returned for his bullock; but there wasn’t the ghost of a bullock there, nor any where else that he searched.

This time, when the thieves saw Jack and his prize coming into the bawn, they couldn’t help shouting out, “Jack must be our chief.” So there was nothing but feasting and drinking hand to fist the rest of the day. Before they went to bed, they showed Jack the cave where their money was hid, and all their disguises in another cave, and swore obedience to him.

One morning, when they were at breakfast, about a week after, said they to Jack, “Will you mind the house for us today while we are at the fair of Mochurry? We hadn’t a spree for ever so long: you must get your turn whenever you like.”

“Never say’t twice,” says Jack, and off they went. After they were gone says Jack to the wicked housekeeper, “Do these fellows ever make you a present?”

“Ah, catch them at it! indeed, and they don’t, purshuin to ’em.”

“Well, come along with me, and I’ll make you a rich woman.”

He took her to the treasure cave; and while she was in raptures, gazing at the heaps of gold and silver, Jack filled his pockets as full as they could hold, put more into a little bag, and walked out, locking the door on the old hag, and leaving the key in the lock. He then put on a rich suit of clothes, took the goat, and the wether, and the bullock, and drove them before him to the farmer’s house.

Joan and her husband were at the door; and when they saw the animals, they clapped their hands and laughed for joy.

“Do you know who owns them bastes, neighbours?”

“Maybe we don’t! sure they’re ours.”

“I found them straying in the wood. Is that bag with ten guineas in it that’s hung round the goat’s neck yours?”

“Faith, it isn’t.”

“Well, you may as well keep it for a Godsend; I don’t want it.”

“Heaven be in your road, good gentleman!”

Jack travelled on till he came to his father’s house in the dusk of the evening. He went in. “God save all here!”

“God save you kindly, sir!”

“Could I have a night’s lodging here?”

“Oh, sir, our place isn’t fit for the likes of a gentleman such as you.”

“Oh, musha, don’t you know your own son?”

Well, they opened their eyes, and it was only a strife to see who’d have him in their arms first.

“But, Jack asthore, where did you get the fine clothes?”

“Oh, you may as well ask me where I got all that money?” said he, emptying his pockets on the table.

Well, they got in a great fright, but when he told them his adventures, they were easier in mind, and all went to bed in great content.

“Father,” says Jack, next morning, “go over to the landlord, and tell him I wish to be married to his daughter.”

“Faith, I’m afraid he’d only set the dogs at me. If he asks me how you made your money, what’ll I say?”

“Tell him I am a master thief, and that there is no one equal to me in the three kingdoms; that I am worth a thousand pounds, and all taken from the biggest rogues unhanged. Speak to him when the young lady is by.”

“It’s a droll message you’re sending me on: I’m afraid it won’t end well.”

The old man came back in two hours.

“Well, what news?”

“Droll news, enough. The lady didn’t seem a bit unwilling: I suppose it’s not the first time you spoke to her; and the squire laughed, and said you would have to steal the goose off o’ the spit in his kitchen next Sunday, and he’d see about it.”

“O! that won’t be hard, any way.”

Next Sunday, after the people came from early Mass, the squire and all his people were in the kitchen, and the goose turning before the fire. The kitchen door opened, and a miserable old beggar man with a big wallet on his back put in his head.

“Would the mistress have anything for me when dinner is over, your honour?”

“To be sure. We have no room here for you just now; sit in the porch for a while.”

“God bless your honour’s family, and yourself!”

Soon some one that was sitting near the window cried out, “Oh, sir, there’s a big hare scampering like the divil round the bawn. Will we run out and pin him?”

“Pin a hare indeed! much chance you’d have; sit where you are.”

That hare made his escape into the garden, but Jack that was in the beggar’s clothes soon let another out of the bag.

“Oh, master, there he is still pegging round. He can’t make his escape: let us have a chase. The hall door is locked on the inside, and Mr. Jack can’t get in.”

“Stay quiet, I tell you.”

In a few minutes he shouted out again that the hare was there still, but it was the third that Jack was just after giving its liberty. Well, by the laws, they couldn’t be kept in any longer. Out pegged every mother’s son of them, and the squire after them.

“Will I turn the spit, your honour, while they’re catching the hareyeen?” says the beggar.

“Do, and don’t let any one in for your life.”

“Faith, an’ I won’t, you may depend on it.”

The third hare got away after the others, and when they all came back from the hunt, there was neither beggar nor goose in the kitchen.

“Purshuin’ to you, Jack,” says the landlord, “you’ve come over me this time.”

Well, while they were thinking of making out another dinner, a messenger came from Jack’s father to beg that the squire, and the mistress, and the young lady would step across the fields, and take share of what God sent. There was no dirty mean pride about the family, and they walked over, and got a dinner with roast turkey, and roast beef, and their own roast goose; and the squire had like to burst his waistcoat with laughing at the trick, and Jack’s good clothes and good manners did not take away any liking the young lady had for him already.

While they were taking their punch at the old oak table in the nice clean little parlour with the sanded floor, says the squire, “You can’t be sure of my daughter, Jack, unless you steal away my six horses from under the six men that will be watching them tomorrow night in the stable.”

“I’ll do more than that,” says Jack, “for a pleasant look from the young lady”; and the young lady’s cheeks turned as red as fire.

Monday night the six horses were in their stalls, and a man on every horse, and a good glass of whisky under every man’s waistcoat, and the door was left wide open for Jack. They were merry enough for a long time, and joked and sung, and were pitying the poor fellow. But the small hours crept on, and the whisky lost its power, and they began to shiver and wish it was morning. A miserable old colliach, with half a dozen bags round her, and a beard half an inch long on her chin came to the door.

“Ah, then, tendher-hearted Christians,” says she, “would you let me in, and allow me a wisp of straw in the corner; the life will be froze out of me, if you don’t give me shelter.”

Well, they didn’t see any harm in that, and she made herself as snug as she could, and they soon saw her pull out a big black bottle, and take a sup. She coughed and smacked her lips, and seemed a little more comfortable, and the men couldn’t take their eyes off her.

“Gorsoon,” says she, “I’d offer you a drop of this, only you might think it too free-making.”

“Oh, hang all impedent pride,” says one, “we’ll take it, and thankee.”

So she gave them the bottle, and they passed it round, and the last man had the manners to leave half a glass in the bottom for the old woman. They all thanked her, and said it was the best drop ever passed their tongue.

“In throth, agras,” said she, “it’s myself that’s glad to show how I value your kindness in giving me shelter; I’m not without another buideal, and you may pass it round while myself finishes what the dasent man left me.”

Well, what they drank out of the other bottle only gave them a relish for more, and by the time the last man got to the bottom, the first man was dead asleep in the saddle, for the second bottle had a sleepy posset mixed with the whisky. The beggar woman lifted each man down, and laid him in the manger, or under the manger, snug and sausty, drew a stocking over every horse’s hoof, and led them away without any noise to one of Jack’s father’s outhouses. The first thing the squire saw next morning was Jack riding up the avenue, and five horses stepping after the one he rode.

“Confound you, Jack!” says he, “and confound the numskulls that let you outwit them!”

He went out to the stable, and didn’t the poor fellows look very lewd o’ themselves, when they could be woke up in earnest!

“After all,” says the squire, when they were sitting at breakfast, “it was no great thing to outwit such ninny-hammers. I’ll be riding out on the common from one to three today, and if you can outwit me of the beast I’ll be riding, I’ll say you deserve to be my son-in-law.”

“I’d do more than that,” says Jack, “for the honour, if there was no love at all in the matter,” and the young lady held up her saucer before her face.

Well, the squire kept riding about and riding about till he was tired, and no sign of Jack. He was thinking of going home at last, when what should he see but one of his servants running from the house as if he was mad.

“Oh masther, masther,” says he, as far as he could be heard, “fly home if you wish to see the poor mistress alive! I’m running for the surgeon. She fell down two flights of stairs, and her neck, or her hips, or both her arms are broke, and she’s speechless, and it’s a mercy if you find the breath in her. Fly as fast as the baste will carry you.”

“But hadn’t you better take the horse? It’s a mile and a half to the surgeon’s.”

“Oh, anything you like, master. Oh, Vuya, Vuya! misthress alanna, that I should ever see the day! and your purty body disfigured as it is!”

“Here, stop your noise, and be off like wildfire! Oh, my darling, my darling, isn’t this a trial?”

He tore home like a fury, and wondered to see no stir outside, and when he flew into the hall, and from that to the parlour, his wife and daughter that were sewing at the table screeched out at the rush he made, and the wild look that was on his face.

“Oh, my darling!” said he, when he could speak, “how’s this? Are you hurt? Didn’t you fall down the stairs? What happened at all? Tell me!”

“Why, nothing at all happened, thank God, since you rode out; where did you leave the horse?”

Well, no one could describe the state he was in for about a quarter of an hour, between joy for his wife and anger with Jack, and sharoose for being tricked. He saw the beast coming up the avenue, and a little gorsoon in the saddle with his feet in the stirrup leathers. The servant didn’t make his appearance for a week; but what did he care with Jack’s ten golden guineas in his pocket.

Jack didn’t show his nose till next morning, and it was a queer reception he met.

“That was all foul play you gave,” says the squire. “I’ll never forgive you for the shock you gave me. But then I am so happy ever since, that I think I’ll give you only one trial more. If you will take away the sheet from under my wife and myself tonight, the marriage may take place tomorrow.”

“We’ll try,” says Jack, “but if you keep my bride from me any longer, I’ll steal her away if she was minded by fiery dragons.”

When the squire and his wife were in bed, and the moon shining in through the window, he saw a head rising over the sill to have a peep, and then bobbing down again.

“That’s Jack,” says the squire; “I’ll astonish him a bit,” says the squire, pointing a gun at the lower pane.

“Oh Lord, my dear!” says the wife, “sure, you wouldn’t shoot the brave fellow?”

“Indeed, an’ I wouldn’t for a kingdom; there’s nothing but powder in it.”

Up went the head, bang went the gun, down dropped the body, and a great souse was heard on the gravel walk.

“Oh, Lord,” says the lady, “poor Jack is killed or disabled for life.”

“I hope not,” says the squire, and down the stairs he ran. He never minded to shut the door, but opened the gate and ran into the garden. His wife heard his voice at the room door, before he could be under the window and back, as she thought.

“Wife, wife,” says he from the door, “the sheet, the sheet! He is not killed, I hope, but he is bleeding like a pig. I must wipe it away as well as I can, and get some one to carry him in with me.” She pulled it off the bed, and threw it to him. Down he ran like lightning, and he had hardly time to be in the garden, when he was back, and this time he came back in his shirt, as he went out.

“High hanging to you, Jack,” says he, “for an arrant rogue!”

“Arrant rogue?” says she, “isn’t the poor fellow all cut and bruised?”

“I didn’t much care if he was. What do you think was bobbing up and down at the window, and sossed down so heavy on the walk? A man’s clothes stuffed with straw, and a couple of stones.”

“And what did you want with the sheet just now, to wipe his blood if he was only a man of straw?”

“Sheet, woman! I wanted no sheet.”

“Well, whether you wanted it or not, I threw it to you, and you standing outside o’ the door.”

“Oh, Jack, Jack, you terrible tinker!” says the squire, “there’s no use in striving with you. We must do without the sheet for one night. We’ll have the marriage tomorrow to get ourselves out of trouble.”

So married they were, and Jack turned out a real good husband. And the squire and his lady were never tired of praising their son-in-law, ‘Jack the Cunning Thief.’

Dream of Owen O’Mulready

THERE WAS A MAN LONG AGO living near Ballaghadereen named Owen O’Mulready, who was a workman for the gentleman of the place, and was a prosperous, quiet, contented man. There was no one but himself and his wife Margaret, and they had a nice little house and enough potatoes in the year, in addition to their share of wages, from their master. There wasn’t a want or anxiety on Owen, except one desire, and that was to have a dream – for he had never had one.

One day when he was digging potatoes, his master – James Taafe – came out to his ridge, and they began talking, as was the custom with them. The talk fell on dreams, and said Owen that he would like better than anything if he could only have one.

“You’ll have one tonight,” says his master, “if you do as I tell you.”

“Musha, I’ll do it, and welcome,” says Owen.

“Now,” says his master, “when you go home tonight, draw the fire from the hearth, put it out, make your bed in its place and sleep there tonight, and you’ll get your enough of dreaming before the morning.”

Owen promised to do this. When, however, he began to draw the fire out, Margaret thought that he had lost his senses, so he explained everything James Taafe had said to him, had his own way, and they went to lie down together on the hearth.

Not long was Owen asleep when there came a knock at the door.

“Get up, Owen O’Mulready, and go with a letter from the master to America.”

Owen got up, and put his feet into his boots, saying to himself, “It’s late you come, messenger.”

He took the letter, and he went forward and never tarried till he came to the foot of Sliabh Charn, where he met a cow-boy, and he herding cows.

“The blessing of God be with you, Owen O’Mulready,” says the boy.

“The blessing of God and Mary be with you, my boy,” says Owen. “Every one knows me, and I don’t know any one at all.”

“Where are you going this time of night?” says the boy.

“I’m going to America, with a letter from the master; is this the right road?” says Owen.

“It is; keep straight to the west; but how are you going to get over the water?” says the boy.

“Time enough to think of that when I get to it,” replied Owen.

He went on the road again, till he came to the brink of the sea; there he saw a crane standing on one foot on the shore.

“The blessing of God be with you, Owen O’Mulready,” says the crane.

“The blessing of God and Mary be with you, Mrs. Crane,” says Owen. “Everybody knows me, and I don’t know any one.”

“What are you doing here?”

Owen told her his business, and that he didn’t know how he’d get over the water.

“Leave your two feet on my two wings, and sit on my back, and I’ll take you to the other side,” says the crane.

“What would I do if tiredness should come on you before we got over?” says Owen.

“Don’t be afraid, I won’t be tired or wearied till I fly over.”

Then Owen went on the back of the crane, and she arose over the sea and went forward, but she hadn’t flown more than half-way, when she cried out:

“Owen O’Mulready get off me; I’m tired.”

“That you may be seven times worse this day twelvemonths, you rogue of a crane,” says Owen; “I can’t get off you now, so don’t ask me.”

“I don’t care,” replied the crane, “if you’ll rise off me a while till I’ll take a rest.”

With that they saw threshers over their heads, and Owen shouted:

“Och! thresher, thresher, leave down your flail at me, that I may give the crane a rest!”

The thresher left down the flail, but when Owen took a hold with his two hands, the crane went from him laughing and mocking.

“My share of misfortunes go with you!” said Owen, “It’s you’ve left me in a fix hanging between the heavens and the water in the middle of the great sea.”

It wasn’t long till the thresher shouted to him to leave go the flail.

“I won’t let it go,” said Owen; “shan’t I be drowned?”

“If you don’t let it go, I’ll cut the whang.”

“I don’t care,” says Owen; “I have the flail”; and with that he looked away from him, and what should he see but a boat a long way off.

“O sailor dear, sailor, come, come; perhaps you’ll take my lot of bones,” said Owen.

“Are we under you now?” says the sailor.

“Not yet, not yet,” says Owen.

“Fling down one of your shoes, till we see the way it falls,” says the captain.

Owen shook one foot, and down fell the shoe.

“Uill, uill, puil, uil liu – who is killing me?” came a scream from Margaret in the bed. “Where are you, Owen?”

“I didn’t know whether ’twas you were in it, Margaret.”

“Indeed, then it is,” says she, “who else would it be?”

She got up and lit the candle. She found Owen half-way up the chimney, climbing by the hands on the crook, and he black with soot! He had one shoe on, but the point of the other struck Margaret, and ’twas that which awoke her.

Owen came down off the crook and washed himself, and from that out there was no envy on him ever to have a dream again.

Biographies

Joseph Jacobs

Joseph Jacobs (1854–1916) was born in Australia and settled in New York. He is most famous for his collections of English folklore and fairytales including ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ and ‘The Three Little Pigs’. He also published Celtic, Jewish and Indian fairytales during his career. Jacobs was an editor for books and journals centered on folklore and a member of The Folklore Society in England.

W.B. Yeats

William Butler Yeats (1865–1939) was an Irish poet and is considered one of the greatest writers from the twentieth century. He played an important role in the Celtic Twilight, a revival of Irish literature focused on Gaelic heritage and Irish nationalism. Yeats was fascinated by Irish legends, including many Irish heroes in his works and focusing his poetry on Irish folklore. Alongside his poetry he is famous for writing short stories and plays. Yeats set up the Abbey Theatre in 1899 which held Irish and Celtic performances. In recognition of Yeats’ important work he received a Nobel Prize in 1923.

Jake Jackson

Foreword

Jake Jackson has written, edited and contributed to over 20 books including Myths and Legend (Metro Books and Flame Tree Publishing), North American Myths and Celtic Myths. Related works include studies of Babylonian creation myths, the philosophy of time and William Blake’s use of mythology in his visionary literature.

Text Sources

Many of the tales in this book are reproduced from Joseph Jacobs’ collections entitled Celtic Fairy Tales (David Nutt, London, 1891) and More Celtic Fairy Tales (David Nutt, London, 1894), in which he gathered, edited and adapted to varying degrees Celtic folk tales from many sources. The Mabinogion is an adaptation of the tales from Lady Charlotte Guest’s translation published by Longman, Brown, Green, and Longmans, in London, 1849). The two Yeats tales (‘The Wisdom of the King’ and ‘The Curse of the Fires and Shadows’) are from his 1897 collection of short stories, The Secret Rose, published by Lawrence & Bullen, London.

Remaining contributors, authors, editors and sources for this series include: Loren Auerbach, Norman Bancroft-Hunt, E.M. Berens, Samuel Butler, Laura Bulbeck, Jeremiah Curtin, O.B. Duane, Dr Ray Dunning, W.W. Gibbings, H.A. Guerber, Jake Jackson, Judith John, Katharine Berry Judson, Charles Kingsley, Andrew Lang, J.W. Mackail, Chris McNab, Professor James Riordan, Rachel Storm, K.E. Sullivan.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Foreword

Celtic Mythology

The Invasions Cycle

The Quest of the Children of Tuirenn

The Tragedy of the Children of Lir

The Wooing of Étain

The Ulster Cycle

The Birth of Cúchulainn

How Setanta Won the Name of Cúchulainn

The Tragedy of Cúchulainn and Connla

The Combat of Ferdia and Cúchulainn

The Story of Deirdre

The Fenian Cycle

The Coming of Finn mac Cumaill

The Rise of Finn to Leadership of the Fianna

The Pursuit of Diarmuid and Gráinne

Oisín in Tír na N-Óg (The Land of Youth)

The Mabinogion

The First Branch of the Mabinogi

The Second Branch of the Mabinogi

The Third Branch of the Mabinogi

The Fourth Branch of the Mabinogi

Peredur The Son Of Evrawc

The Dream Of Maxen Wledig

The Story Of Lludd And Llevelys

The Lady Of The Fountain

Geraint The Son of Erbin

Kilhwch And Olwen

The Dream of Rhonabwy

The Tale of Taliesin

Tales of Witchcraft & Magic

The Brownie

The Three Knots

The Daughter of Duart

The Cauldron

The Horned Women

The Story-Teller At Fault

Paddy O’Kelly and the Weasel

Morraha

The Greek Princess and the Young Gardener

Smallhead and the King’s Sons

The Wisdom of the King

The Curse of the Fires and of the Shadows

Tales of Giants

Conall Yellowclaw

The Battle of the Birds

The Lad with the Goat-Skin

The Shee An Gannon and the Gruagach Gaire

A Legend of Knockmany

The Leeching of Kayn’s Leg

How Fin Went to the Kingdom of the Big Men

The Ridere of Riddles

Tales of Fairies & Sea-folk

MacCodrum’s Seal Wife

The Fairies and the Blacksmith

The Fairy Changeling

The Thirsty Ploughman

Wee Johnnie in the Cradle

The Fairy Dancers

A Dead Wife Among the Fairies

The Shepherd of Myddvai

Brewery of Eggshells

Guleesh

The Field of Boliauns

Connla And The Fairy Maiden

The Sea-Maiden

The Black Horse

The Legend of Knockgrafton

Elidore

How Cormac Mac Art Went to Faery

Tales of Ghosts

The Fiddler of Gord

MacPhail of Uisinnis

Tarbh Na Leòid

The Sprightly Tailor

Andrew Coffey

Origin & Didactic Legends

Dubh a’ Ghiubhais

The Pabbay Mother’s Ghost

Luran

The Hugboy

The Three Questions of King James

King O’Toole and His Goose

The Tale of Ivan

Hudden And Dudden And Donald O’Neary

Beth Gellert

The Vision of MacConglinney

The Story of the McAndrew Family

The Farmer of Liddesdale

Legends & Fables for Children

The Little Bird

The Fox, The Wolf and The Butter

The Ainsel

Gold-Tree and Silver-Tree

Munachar and Manachar

Jack and His Comrades

Fair, Brown, and Trembling

Jack And His Master

The Russet Dog

Jack the Cunning Thief

Dream of Owen O’Mulready

Biographies

Text Sources

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