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.
Celtic Myths Page 67