‘What do these strange sights mean?’ Oisín asked Niamh.
‘They are signs that we have left the ordinary world and entered another world of magic and enchantment where things are not always what they seem. But these wonders are nothing compared to those you will see when we arrive in Tír na nÓg.’
They glided swiftly along until they spied beneath them a large island rising out of the sea. A splendid white palace stood in the centre, with a high tower at each of its four corners.
‘Who does that palace belong to?’ Oisín enquired.
‘It is the palace of the king of giants. He is known as Fomor of the Blows. His future queen is the daughter of the king of the Land of Life. Fomor took her by force from her own country and keeps her prisoner on the island.’
‘Why are they not married?’
‘She has put him under a geas, a sworn oath, never to marry her until she finds a champion to fight him in single combat. She knows that no one is likely to take on the task and so she has been able to put off the marriage, which she dreads. But it is very sad for her because she is destined to remain Fomor’s prisoner forever.’
Oisín drew a deep breath. ‘I feel sorry for the princess. If you have no objection, I will go to the palace and kill the giant so that she will have her freedom.’
‘It is what I would expect a hero like you to do,’ Niamh smiled. She signalled to the steed and he landed close to the palace.
The young princess came out and welcomed them. She led them into the palace and, seating them on golden chairs, she gave them choice foods and drinking-horns filled with delicious mead made from the finest honey.
When they had finished eating and drinking the princess told them her sad story. With tears in her eyes she said, ‘I will never see my mother and my country again as long as the cruel giant is alive!’
Oisín sprang to his feet and promised to be her champion. Just then, a huge ugly giant thumped into the palace. He carried a large iron club in his hand. Pointing it menacingly at Oisín, he challenged him to combat.
Oisín followed Fomor out to the green in front of the palace. Niamh and the princess watched anxiously from a window.
Although Oisín had fought many times in single combat, this fight was the hardest of his life. The duel lasted for three days and three nights, without pause for food or drink or sleep.
Time and again the giant’s iron club slipped through Oisín’s guard and thudded with bone-shattering force into his body. Whenever Oisín tried to wound Fomor, the monster evaded his sword with astonishing agility for a man of his immense bulk.
Niamh and the princess grew more anxious as they saw Oisín beginning to give way in the fight. If the giant emerged as victor, Niamh would lose her beloved Oisín and she trembled to think of what her fate might be then.
Oisín too was thinking of the awful consequences of his defeat. He gritted his teeth, summoning all of his strength for one final desperate effort.
His sudden onslaught sent the giant reeling back. Fomor stumbled and slipped to the ground. Oisín brought his great sword down on the giant’s neck and the blade went clean through. Fomor’s head rolled away over the grass.
Niamh and the princess shouted with joy. They helped Oisín into the palace where they healed his wounds with magical herbs and ointments. Soon he felt his strength beginning to return.
After they had rested, Niamh said that it was time for them to resume their journey to Tír na nÓg. They bid farewell to the princess and mounted the white steed. At a word from Niamh, the horse galloped off towards the strand and launched himself out over the waves.
Once again they glided over the vast blue-green sea. The sky darkened suddenly and the sun retreated behind a veil of clouds. A violent storm broke around them. Jagged flashes of lightning lit up the sea. The wind howled and blew in fierce gusts. The waves below them were whipped into a frenzy. But the white steed moved swiftly over it all, unaffected by the force of the raging elements.
The storm finally died away and the sun shone brightly again. Looking down, Oisín saw that they were approaching another country. It had wide green plains, purple hills and shimmering lakes and waterfalls.
In the centre stood a splendid palace encrusted with gold and gems of various colours. As the sun reflected off the jewelled roofs it sent multicoloured beams into the air, surrounding the island with a hundred rainbows.
Oisín had never seen anywhere as wonderful-looking. ‘What country is that?’ he asked.
‘That is my own land, Tír na nÓg,’ she responded. ‘And now it is your land, too. In it you will find everything I promised you.’
The white steed landed near the palace and Niamh and Oisín dismounted. A troop of tall warriors marched from the palace and, drawing up in front of them, they saluted ceremoniously.
These were followed by a group of nobles, led by the king, who wore a blue satin robe covered with precious gems and a golden crown sparkling with diamonds. Next came the queen with her attendants, a hundred lovely young maidens. Never before had Oisín seen a king and queen so full of grace and majesty. They greeted their daughter and embraced her.
The king turned to Oisín and, offering him his hand, he said, ‘A hundred thousand welcomes!’ Then, turning to the others, he declared, ‘This is Oisín, son of Fionn Mac Cumhaill, the great leader of the brave Fianna in Ireland. He is to be the husband of our beloved daughter, Niamh Cinn Óir.’
Facing Oisín again, he laid his hand on his shoulder. ‘You will never grow old in this magical land of ours,’ he said. ‘You will enjoy every kind of delight. My gentle daughter will be your wife and you will live happily together for ever and ever.’
Oisín thanked the king and bowed to the queen. They went into the palace, where a great banquet had been prepared in their honour. The feasting and celebration went on for ten days. On the tenth day, Oisín was married to Niamh of the Golden Hair.
For many years they lived happily together in Tír na nÓg. Time passed so quickly in this magical land that to Oisín it seemed like only a short period since he had left his father and all his comrades in Ireland. Life was so peaceful that he had no need for his old weapons of battle and he put them away. His great sword he hung on the wall beside his bed, to remind him of his warrior days in Ireland.
One morning, when the rising sun turned the blade into a shaft of gold, he remembered guiltily his promise to his father. He took down the sword and held it out before him. As he began to recall all the adventures he had with Fionn and the Fianna, a great longing grew in him to go back to Ireland. He wanted to meet Fionn and his old comrades again and to sit around their camp fire talking about their latest exploits and hunting expeditions.
That evening, as he and Niamh were strolling in the grounds of the palace, he told her of his desire to return to Ireland.
A shadow passed over Niamh’s beautiful face. ‘Are you not happy here in Tír na nÓg?’ she asked.
‘Of course I am,’ he assured her, ‘very happy.’ ‘But I promised my father that I would see him again and I have never gone back on a promise. I shall not stay long there, Niamh. And when I come back I will never leave your side again.’
‘Do you know how long it is since you left Ireland?’ Niamh enquired.
‘Two or three years?’ Oisin guessed.
Niamh shook her head. ‘It may seem like that here. But in the world you left behind three hundred years have passed.’
Oisín stopped and gripped Niamh’s arm. The blood drained from his face.
‘Three hundred years!’ he gasped.
‘Yes. And in that time many things have changed. Your father and the Fianna have passed on. A new religion has come to Ireland and has many followers. The old beliefs have almost died away.’
‘My father gone? And the Fianna, too? I do not believe it!’ Oisín declared. ‘You are telling me these things to keep me from going.’
‘I would never lie to you, Oisín,’ Niamh said sadly, tears brimming over in her
green eyes. ‘But I can see that you will not believe until you have seen it for yourself. Very well, take the white steed and go back to Ireland. But remember one thing: while you are there you must not get off the horse under any circumstances.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if even one of your feet touches the soil of Ireland you will be unable to come back to me or to Tír na nÓg ever again.’ She took his hand in hers. ‘And that would break my heart.’
Oisín kissed her gently. ‘I give you my solemn promise,’ he declared. ‘I will return.’
Oisín mounted the white steed and set off. The horse galloped towards the shore and launched itself over the waves. They travelled so swiftly that they outsped the wind and soon the green land of Ireland came into view.
The steed glided down and cantered through the country. Oisín looked carefully at every place they passed for any signs of recognition. It seemed to him that many things had changed since he was last in Ireland. Even in what used to be the Fianna’s old haunts, places where they had hunted and feasted, he saw no trace of his father or of his former comrades. Gradually he began to fear that Niamh’s information was true. His father and the Fianna had vanished from the face of the land.
As the steed galloped on, Oisín saw a group of men and women ahead. To his eyes they appeared to be very small and stunted, nothing like his own great size or that of the other members of the Fianna. He drew level with them and greeted them. They responded courteously, although they were clearly overawed by his appearance.
‘Do you know anything about the whereabouts of Fionn Mac Cumhaill and the Fianna?’ he asked.
They looked at one another in puzzlement. Then an old man stepped forward and said, ‘We have indeed heard of the great Fionn Mac Cumhaill and the band of heroic warriors called the Fianna. Many stories are told about them and their wonderful deeds.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘But they lived hundreds of years ago and they are long dead.’
He looked at the powerful young stranger who seemed so affected by what he had said. ‘According to the stories,’ he added, ‘Fionn had a son named Oisín who went with a lovely maiden to a magical land called Tír na nÓg. He was never seen again and his father and his friends were said to be very sad after his departure.’
With a heavy heart, Oisín set off on the white steed for the Hill of Allen where the great fort of the Fianna stood. Surely there, of all places, he would find the answers he was looking for.
The Hill of Allen was lonely and deserted. All that was left of the imposing fort which had once resounded with the shouts of warriors, the songs of bards and the happy sounds of people feasting and making merry was a crumbling ruin, overgrown with weeds.
Desolate, Oisín resumed his journey. He travelled on towards the east and arrived at a spot called Glenasmole, the Glen of the Thrushes. In the old days he and Fionn had often gone hunting there. He noticed a group of people gathered around something in the centre of the glen.
One of them called out to him, ‘You appear to be a man of great strength. Please help us.’ Oisín guided his horse over to the group and saw they were trying to raise a very large flat stone.
It was already half-lifted from the ground but the men beneath it were unable to raise it any further and were now trapped under its weight. They were in danger of being crushed to death by the stone.
Oisín could not understand why a whole group of men lacked the strength to lift a stone which he or Fionn or Oscar would have had no trouble in raising with one hand. Reaching down from his horse, he caught the stone with his right hand and prepared to throw it clear.
But, unnoticed by Oisín, the saddle-girth had loosened under the tremendous strain as he leaned forward to lift the stone, and now it suddenly snapped. Oisín was pitched sideways. Remembering Niamh’s warning, he grabbed desperately for the reins, but they slipped through his sweating palms and he hit the ground. As soon as his right foot touched the soil a terrible change came over his body. The onlookers were horror-struck as, before their eyes, the mighty warrior – young, vibrant and strong – was reduced to a stooped, half-blind old man, his face seamed and furrowed with wrinkles and his muscled arms withered and shaking.
As soon as the white steed lost its rider it took off like the wind back to Tír na nÓg and was never seen again.
Seeing how weak he had become, and afraid to have Oisín among them after what had happened, the people thought it best to bring him to Saint Patrick. The saint took in the old man and gave him food and shelter for the short time he had left to live. As they sat around the fire at night, Patrick told Oisín all about the new faith he had brought to Ireland.
In return, Oisín recounted the many adventures of Fionn and the Fianna and his own stay in the magical world of Tír na nÓg.
And, on his deathbed, he dreamed that a lovely young girl on a white horse came to carry him off. It was his beautiful Niamh Cinn Óir, coming to reclaim the last of the Fianna.
AILNE’S REVENGE
The Fenian warrior patrolling the southern shore of the mighty River Shannon stopped and rubbed his eyes. He focused them again quickly and stared out across the broad expanse of water.
What he saw confirmed that he wasn’t imagining things. A large fleet of ships stretched across the horizon, forty, maybe fifty of them. Their masts were hung with black raven flags which flapped menacingly in the stiff breeze as they sailed up the estuary towards the Kerry coast.
The warrior turned and raced away at high speed, his flying feet barely touching the ground as he ran. He must warn Fionn and the Fianna of this invasion as soon as possible.
Their billowing sails propelled by the strong wind, the ships headed swiftly for land and were soon anchored in a safe harbour. First to step ashore was the King of Iceland, Mergach of the Sharp Spears. He was followed by a vast army of fierce-looking warriors, all armed to the teeth.
Mergach stood on a hillock and addressed his men: ‘As you know, I have long wanted to add the land of Ireland to my kingdom. At last the chance has come. We have had fair winds behind us and the gods are with us. I swear to you, before the sun sets three times, Ireland will be mine!’ He swept his arm towards the empty countryside behind him. ‘No one stands in our way. Onward to victory!’
‘Victory, victory!’ With a mighty cheer the warriors echoed their king’s battle-cry, raising their spears to the heavens in salute. Then, ranged into battalions, each under the command of a chieftain, they marched southwards towards their enemy.
For two days they met no opposition. On the third day, as they neared the top of a hill, a great force of Fianna warriors, led by Fionn Mac Cumhaill, swept down suddenly upon them. A fierce battle raged for two days and two nights. Warrior stood against warrior in single combat and the clash of blade upon blade could be heard for miles around. When at last the fighting ended, Mergach, King of Iceland, and his entire army lay dead upon the battlefield. So great was the carnage that the hill on which they fought was known ever after as Cnoc an Áir, the Hill of the Slaughter.
When news of Mergach’s death reached Iceland, his wife, Ailne, raised a great cry of grief and despair. ‘By all the gods,’ she swore, ‘Fionn Mac Cumhaill and the Fianna will pay dearly for my husband’s lost life.’ Her brother, Draoiantóir, a giant and magician, also vowed to take revenge. His two sons had been among those slain in the bloody battle of Cnoc an Áir.
Ailne and her brother met in his castle to plan the best way to trap Fionn and his comrades. ‘They are reputed to be very powerful warriors,’ Ailne said. ‘If they could overcome my husband and his army, no mortal power will be of use to us. You will have to use your strongest magic to capture them.’ She drew closer to her brother and whispered: ‘This is how I think we should do it …’
Fionn and some of the Fianna were hunting on the edge of a great wood. Suddenly, a deer came bounding out from a clump of bushes. For a second it paused in front of them, as though daring them to catch it, and then leapt away again.
It was
one of the finest deer any of them had ever seen. Fionn signalled to his hounds, Bran and Sceolaing, and they set off in pursuit of the animal. Then he and his companions joined in the chase.
The deer sped like the wind over hills and glens. The hounds almost caught up with it a few times, but on each occasion, just as they were snapping at its heels, the deer put on an extra burst of speed and left dogs and men far behind.
Finally, it disappeared from view over a high hill. When the Fianna reached the summit, there was no sign of the deer anywhere. They broke into small groups and went in different directions in search of the animal. Fionn and Dara combed the small wood at the foot of the hill, but found no trace of the deer.
‘The animal has got away,’ Fionn said. ‘There is no point in continuing with the search today. Let us return to our camp and try our luck again tomorrow.’
Fionn and Dara set off back the way they had come. But, without warning, a thick mist suddenly enveloped them. Unable to see further than a hand’s breadth in front of them, they wandered off the track and stumbled into a clump of thorny bushes.
They decided to rest for a while until the mist had lifted. But, after some time, when there was no sign of any break in the blanket of fog, they began to fear that something was wrong.
‘This is no normal mist,’ Fionn said. ‘I sense trickery. Let us sound the Dord Fianna, so our comrades will hear and come to our aid.’
The Dord Fianna was the traditional war-cry of the Fianna, which could also be sung in times of danger.
When their friends heard the Dord they knew that Fionn and Dara must be in some kind of trouble. Led by Oisín, they set off in the direction from which the cry came. But then the sound changed, seeming to come from a different location, and they turned around to head that way. Again and again the sound changed direction, until the warriors were left completely confused, calling out for Fionn as they raced this way and that.
Celtic Tales of Enchantment Page 5