Celtic Myths

by Flame Tree Studio

  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 l
eg, 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.