Celtic Myths

by Flame Tree Studio

  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.