Celtic Myths

by Flame Tree Studio

  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 th
at 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.”