Myths and Legends of the Celts (Penguin Reference)

by James MacKillop

  On his arrival the unfortunate maidservant is again sent, under pain of death, to cajole the young man to come to the queen’s bed. In despair Máel Fhothartaig asks advice of his foster-brother Congal, who responds that he has a solution but for a price. He rejects an offer of the horse, bridle and clothes and says he will take nothing but the two prize hunting dogs. The ruse is simple. Máel Fhothartaig must leave early in the morning to herd cattle before Congal goes to the queen and tells her that the young man is hoping to tryst with her later that day at an appointed spot marked with white stones. After displaying her eagerness all morning, the queen sets off for the white stones and twice she runs instead into Congal, who reviles her with abusive language, like ‘Harlot!’ and ‘Wicked woman!’ The third time he escalates his attack with a horsewhip. Beaten but unbowed, she snarls back at him, ‘I shall bring blood into your mouth.’

  That night back at Rónán’s residence, the king is praising his son, who has not yet returned from the herding mission on which Congal had sent him. The dishevelled queen grumbles that the king is always puffing up his son. Rónán responds by extending his admiration and adds that the son does it all for the comfort of his father and his father’s new wife. In a surly voice she answers that the son does not get the comfort in return that he desires. ‘Three times Congal brought him to me,’ she charges, ‘and it was hard for me to escape from him.’

  Rónán angrily denounces her, ‘A curse on your lips, you evil woman.’ But she responds that she can prove her charges. Soon Máel Fhothartaig enters and begins to dry his legs by the fire, presenting the queen with her moment to act. He recites half a quatrain about cold weather, which she is able to complete with words about how cold it is for a man to be without his lover.

  ‘It is true, then!’ exclaims Rónán, signalling to one of his men, Áedán. The retainer immediately casts his spear toward the son, its shaft transfixing Máel Fhothartaig to his chair. A second catches the foster-brother Congal, and a third rips out the bowels of the jester Mac Glass. In his death throes, the son tells his father that he has been taken in by a miserable lie. Further, he relates how the young queen had been pestering him, how Congal led her away three times, and that he would no more sin with her than with his own mother. He swears by the tryst with death, to which he goes, that he is innocent.

  The words have their desired effect. After Máel Fhothartaig dies, Rónán mourns for three days, singing an eloquent, restrained lamentation that describes his wife as a guilty, lustful woman. In seeking vengeance, Congal’s brother Donn journeys to Dún Sobairche where he lures the queen’s father, Eochaid, from his palace, the better to slaughter him, his wife and his son. Donn carries the heads back to Leinster where he flings them on to the queen’s breast. At this she rises and throws herself on her own knife.

  The story ends with the introduction of Máel Fhothartaig’s previously unmentioned sons, whose mother’s name is neither given nor implied. They come to Rónán’s door and announce that a fight is to be held outside at which an old champion cannot stand. With that, blood comes to Rónán’s mouth, and he dies at once.

  Whoever constructed the story of Fingal Rónáin very likely borrowed from the widely known Greek tale of the virtuous charioteer Hippolytus and the lustful, vicious Phaedra, found in Euripides’ Hippolytus (428 BC) and elsewhere. Often misogynist early churchmen were fond of stories of erring women, and might also have drawn from the Biblical Joseph’s unwanted encounter with Potiphar’s wife (Genesis, 39: 12). The theme of mistaken sexual rivalry between son and father carries the folk motif number of K2111. See also tale type 870C.

  CORMAC’S GOLDEN CUP

  The following story revisits a fairy-tale world of mysterious strangers, trios of wishes asked and granted, and spoken words that have the power of defying the laws of nature. The storyteller attributes these fabulous events to the pre-Patrician king most famous in early Irish tradition, Cormac mac Airt, who, the Annals assert, reigned, with interruptions, from AD 227 to 266. Another of his titles, Cormac Ua Cuinn, links him with his almost equally famous grandfather, Conn Cétchathach [of the Hundred Battles]. The frequent citing of his name in early genealogies testifies to the depth of credence given his presumed historicity as well as the desire of ambitious families to be associated with him. His exploits related here, Echtrae Cormaic [Cormac’s adventures], splice together several early narratives with proffered moralizing and implied social criticism. Several commentators have noted that Cormac’s visit to Tír Tairngire [The Land of Promise] anticipates Perceval’s visit to Grail Castle. The motif of the testing cup of truth can also be found as far afield as early India.

  At dawn on a May morning, Cormac mac Airt is walking the ramparts of Tara when he espies an extraordinarily dressed stranger approaching. Grey-haired, the visitor wears cloth-of-gold attire with bright colours, the sort that would only befit a warrior or prince of high station. He carries a silver branch with three golden apples on his shoulder. When Cormac learns that the golden apples if shaken will produce a marvellous music that will bring sleep to even the most troubled, such as women in childbed, he asks to have it. The strange warrior gives his assent, asking only that Cormac promises the fulfilment of three wishes, to which the latter readily agrees.

  A year and a day pass, and the stranger returns. He asks to have the king’s daughter Ailbe. The request raises three loud cries from the women of Tara, but Cormac shakes the silver branch at them, banishing grief and casting them into sleep. And so his daughter Ailbe is delivered. In a month the stranger returns and asks for Cormac’s son Cairbre Lifechair. Again, despite courtly displeasure, Cormac agrees.

  On a third visit the stranger asks for Cormac’s own wife, Eithne Tháebfhota, daughter of Dúnlang, king of Leinster. Before Cormac can act, the stranger takes the woman with him. This is a loss that Cormac cannot endure. He pursues the stranger’s party with its captive until a great mist envelops them all in the middle of a plain. At this point the narrative takes a sharp turn, suggesting the remainder of Cormac’s adventures are from another source.

  All alone on the plain, Cormac comes upon a huge fortress with a wall of bronze around it. Within the walls lies a house of white silver, half-thatched with the wings of white birds. In all respects, what Cormac beholds is exceedingly strange. A fairy host of horsemen is thatching the rest of the roof with more white feathers, even though a gust of wind will carry off all they have completed. A stoked fire immediately consumes all the timber thrown into it, even a thick-boled oak. Moving on, he comes to yet another bronze-walled fortress, one containing four palaces. He enters and finds beams of bronze, wattling of silver and more thatch of white feathers. His hosts are drinking water from the five streams flowing from a shining fountain. Adjacent to the water are nine hazelnut trees that drop their nuts into the fountain, where they are eaten by five salmon. The euphonious sound of water falling in the streams is more melodious than any music that men sing.

  Once inside, Cormac is hospitably welcomed by a handsome warrior and a beautiful blonde woman in a golden headdress. Once a pig is put on a spit, the guest and his hosts enter upon a unique storytelling contest. A truth must be told for each of the pig’s quarters or it cannot be cooked at all. Three others at the banquet are not named but identified: a kitchener, the warrior and the woman. They relate what sound like tall tales that strain credulity, but they please the host with their truthfulness. Then it is Cormac’s turn. He tells the story we know has just happened, how first his son, then his daughter, and finally his wife were taken by a mysterious stranger. When this story is also judged true, the pig is now properly cooked. Cormac’s only complaint is his lack of company; he usually dines with fifty. At this the warrior-host begins a mellifluous lullaby that puts Cormac to sleep. Upon waking he finds fifty warriors as well as his lost family – daughter, son and wife.

  The ale and food are portioned out, and a cup of gold is placed in the handsome warrior’s hand. As Cormac is admiring its strange workmanship, the h
ost explains the cup’s unique qualities. If three falsehoods are spoken under it, the cup will split into three parts, which he proceeds to demonstrate with three successive lies. To weld the cup back together he follows with three testimonies about Cormac and his family. He declares that Eithne has lain with no man since she left Tara, nor has Ailbe, and that Cormac has lain with no woman. These words fuse the cup together, making it whole again. At this the host reveals that he is Manannán mac Lir, the god of the sea. It was he who appeared at the walls of Tara with the silver branch. Manannán explains the wonders Cormac had beheld, that, for example, the shining fountain is the fountain of knowledge, and the five salmon represent the five senses.

  On the next morning Cormac arises to find himself on the green of Tara, and with him are his wife Eithne, son Cairbre and daughter Ailbe. With him also are the silver branch with the golden apples and golden cup of truth.

  FERGUS, MONSTERS AND LITTLE PEOPLE

  Although Fergus mac Léti is a mythical king of Ulster, his story is usually classed with this cycle through a kind of filing accident. The earliest version of his narrative, the seventh- or eighth-century Echtra Fergusa maic Léite [Adventure of Fergus mac Léti], survived in legal texts because it was cited in the study of the proper disposal of disputed property. As in other early Irish stories, place-names refer to real places, even though the dispute suggested in the story could hardly have taken place. That is the only rooting in history to be found here. This Fergus, a swimmer, is very likely only a double of the hero Fergus mac Róich, so prominent in Ulster stories.

  Instead of inhabiting the realms of great kings, Echtra Fergusa maic Léite includes fantastical elements that would later prove enchanting to storytellers in oral tradition, such as sea monsters and the first appearance of the leprechaun in Irish literature. The inherent popularity of such motifs may help explain why a later burlesque, Rabelaisian version of the story appeared in the thirteenth century.

  At the beginning of the story, Fergus mac Léti is a powerful king in Ulster, the north of Ireland, who has under his sworn protection the nobleman Eochaid Bélbuide [yellow mouth]. When, during a war, a group of men from the midlands sent by Conn Cétchathach [of the Hundred Battles] come and kill Eochaid, King Fergus finds it an outrageous offence; indeed, it is known in Irish law as a díguin (slaying of a person under a king’s protection) and Fergus demands compensation. When he comes south to insist on compliance, Conn and his followers are unable to stand up to him. They cede to him a tract of land, which may be Mag Muirtheimne (coincidentally Cúchulainn’s country) or farther south, near the mouth of the Delvin River. Also in the package is the mother of one of the assassins, a noblewoman named Dorn, whom Fergus makes a household slave. Satisfied, Fergus makes peace and returns to the north.

  Next day at an unnamed spot on the shore, Fergus and his charioteer stop for a rest, and in the heat of the day fall asleep. Otherworldly visitors come to them in their slumber. Water-sprites swarm out of the sea and lift Fergus, still sound asleep, out of his chariot. They separate him from his esteemed sword Caladhcholg (a counterpart of Fergus mac Róich’s Caladbolg). Next they carry him into the water, and when one of his feet dips below the surface, he wakes instantly and seizes three of the tiny creatures. He demands that they grant him three wishes, namely the power of swimming under water in (a) seas, (b) pools and (c) lakes.

  The word for sprites with small bodies is lúchoirp or lúchorpáin, which through metathesis, the switching of the consonants c and p, and anglicization becomes the familiar term leprechaun. These eighth-century creatures, water-sprites, bear only the slightest resemblance to the solitary fairies found in T. Crofton Croker’s Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland (1825), followed by nearly two centuries of commercial and popular distortion and caricature. In spite of the figure’s instant recognizability, the leprechaun is neither the most striking instance of fairyhood within Irish tradition nor is it that tradition’s most representative character. In Irish tales the leprechaun is neither cute nor charming, qualities ascribed to him by Albion’s patronizing attitudes toward Hibernia.

  The little men grant Fergus’s three-part wish, firstly by something like earplugs made from magical herbs and secondly by a waterproof tunic wound round his head that anticipates a modern diving helmet. These gifts come with an important proviso. Fergus will not be allowed his new power at Loch Rudraige [Dundrum Bay, Co. Down] in his own country.

  Recklessly, Fergus ignores this prohibition. He does indeed attempt to swim under water at Loch Rudraige, where he comes face to face with the fearsome monster known as the muirdris. The beast alternately inflates and deflates itself like a bellows. Just the look of it is poisonous, and Fergus finds himself suffering a horrifying disfigurement. His mouth is wrenched backward from his face and pushed round to find a new berth on the back of the king’s head. Lacking a mirror, Fergus cannot sense what he has suffered, but his charioteer’s horror at seeing him sends an unmistakable signal.

  Fergus flees to the land and falls asleep there. His charioteer travels on to Emain Macha to meet with wise men of Ulster and tell them what disaster has befallen the king. Under the custom and laws of the time, no person having a serious physical blemish could serve as king, and any reigning king suffering the freakish disfigurement visited upon Fergus would have to abdicate. As testimony to their faith in this king, the wise men agree to enter into a conspiracy to conceal what has happened. Even Fergus himself will not know the full extent of his misfortune. His residence will be cleared of all strangers when he returns, as well as anyone else who would betray the secret. At Emain Macha his head will always be washed while he is lying on his back so that he cannot see his own reflection in the water. Only servants trusted not to tell either Fergus or anyone else will be allowed to serve him. As difficult and unlikely as this scheme is to execute, it succeeds for seven years.

  One servant had been forgotten, the highborn and resentful Dorn, held as a slave because of her son’s actions. When she is commanded to wash Fergus’s head one day, the king is exasperated with the slowness of her ministrations and strikes her with his whip. After enduring constant humiliation for years, Dorn loses her composure and begins to taunt Fergus about his grotesque appearance. As well as being insulted, Fergus now must acknowledge what happened to him in the loch. At this he takes out his sword and cuts the queen/slave in two.

  Fergus’s next move is clear. He must drive straight to Loch Rudraige to find and to overcome the monster. Its terror has disfigured him and he must now triumph over the object of his fear. He plunges into the lake and battles under water with the muirdris for a day and a night. Ulstermen gather along the shore to watch as the loch seethes like a cauldron while huge waves crash upon the beach. At last the king emerges from the water and climbs to a high sandbank separating the inner from the outer bay, declaring his victory and brandishing the head of the monster. This sweet moment of triumph vanishes as Fergus falls back dead in the water, having conquered his fear at the cost of his life.

  The burlesque thirteenth-century version of Echtra Fergusa maic Léite embroiders details to lengthen the narrative and also greatly expands the roles of the water-sprites or leprechauns. They are much smaller here, able to stand in the palm of the hand of a normal-sized man. New also are the names for the sprites, Iubdán the king, Bebo his queen, and Eisirt their court poet. Eisirt has psychic powers, like the leprechauns of later tradition. He knows when Fergus is having an affair with his steward’s wife and that Fergus’s own wife is having another with her stepson. King Fergus once again does battle with the monster of Loch Rudraige, now called sínach. Fergus’s mouth is turned to the back of his head, but his wife is the one who reveals the secret. Before the revelation, they have a petty dispute over a bathroom trifle. Fergus uses his sword rather than his bare hands to kill the monster in the second encounter.

  It has long been suggested that an English translation of the thirteenth-century version of Echtra Fergusa maic Léite w
as read to Jonathan Swift and thus influenced the creation of the Lilliputians in Book I of Gulliver’s Travels (1726). Vivian Mercier’s The Irish Comic Tradition (1962) argues convincingly that this is so.

  The transfer of land to Fergus for the violation of díguin, which prompted early lawyers to preserve the eighth-century manuscript, plays no role in the resolution of the action.

  PART THREE

  Welsh and Oral Myths

  13

  British Roots and Welsh Traditions

  NATIVE FOREIGNERS

  In their early literature, the Welsh people describe themselves as living on Ynys Prydain, the Isle of Britain. It was not simply that the Cambrian Peninsula containing the principality of Wales was a part of the island of Britain. Instead, the early Welsh correctly perceived that they were the cultural and linguistic descendants of the ancient Britons who were conquered and colonized by the Romans. Their literary purview extended in pre-modern times to regions of Great Britain that we today do not think of as ‘Wales’. The lengthy early poem Y Gododdin, attributed to Aneirin of the sixth and seventh centuries, begins near what is today Edinburgh and continues into northern Yorkshire. Large areas of the Lowlands of Scotland, especially in the southwest, remained Welsh-speaking for many centuries into the Middle Ages. The later, almost wistful name for these lost provinces is ‘the Old North’.