The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends

by Peter Berresford Ellis

  But the days passed. The king sent throughout his land to find bards and historians who would bring testimony to the truth of the matter. But while many would say “everyone knows this” not one could offer specific proof. Proof rested with Mongán, for he was the one who had challenged Dallán Forgaill’s word, and so the Chief Poet did not have to prove his contention.

  On the third morning, the old poet appeared before Mongán and demanded the queen.

  “Three days were agreed, until the very hour,” rebuked the king. “Come back to the court when the sun is down, beyond the hour of feasting. That is the hour when the three days are up.”

  Disgruntled and muttering threats, the old poet shuffled off.

  Breothighearn was still tearful.

  “Do not be sorrowful, wife. I have faith that help will surely come,” Mongán insisted.

  “Three days have passed and no help has come,” his wife pointed out.

  Mongán smiled and tried to put a good face on matters, but he knew that she was right. No help had come to them during the three days, and now only hours separated them from the time when Dallán Forgaill would claim his prize.

  He sat with his arms around Breothighearn in her chamber and, as the hours rushed by, her tears fell faster and faster.

  Then, as the sun slid from the sky, Mongán suddenly raised his head, slightly to one side, as if listening.

  “What is it?” demanded his queen.

  “I hear the sound of footsteps, far, far away. I hear the tread of one who is coming to our aid. He comes from the House of Donn, purveyor of souls to the Otherworld.”

  Tech Duinn, the island where the god Donn gathered souls for their journey westward to the Otherworld, lay south-west of the kingdom of Munster.

  Queen Breothighearn shivered fearfully.

  Yet her husband went on: “I hear his feet splashing through the waters of the Leamhain and now, with bounds, he is crossing Loch Léin, through the lands of the Uí Fidgente, along the Suir on Moy-Fefin. His mighty stride is quickening, along the Nore, over the Barrow, the Liffey and the Boyne, across the Dee, the Tuarthesc, Carlingford Lough, the Nid and the Newry River – behold, he is scattering right and left the waves of the Larne in front of Rathmore!”

  The king rose up and flung out his arms dramatically. “He is here! We will go down into the feasting hall and confront Dallán Forgaill. Have no fear, my wife. All will be well.”

  The feasting hall of the royal fortress of the Dál nAraidhe was crowded. People had come from far and wide, for all had heard the news of the poet’s curse. There in the middle of the hall stood Dallán Forgaill, with folded arms and a sneer on his face.

  Mongán led Breothighearn into the hall, the queen looking pallid from her days of tears and sorrow, and sad was her beauty as she took her seat, her head bowed.

  There was a murmur of sympathy from those gathered in the hall.

  “I have come to claim what is mine by right,” called the Chief Poet, moving forward. “Mo mhallacht don lá a . . .”

  “Stay. Be not in such haste, vengeful poet,” said Mongán. “There was a condition before you cursed or took my queen.”

  The old poet chuckled cynically. “The condition was that you prove me wrong. Where is your proof that Fothad Airgtheach was killed here and is buried in yonder green hill?”

  “It is here,” he said quietly.

  Mongán looked to the closed doors of the fortress, which were barred from the inside, it being after dark. It was the custom to shut the gates of a royal ráth at dusk, to prevent lurking dangers entering. He looked at the closed doors and it was as if he were peering beyond them.

  Dallán Forgaill turned and frowned, seeing only the barred doors. “Where is it?” he demanded. “Is this a trick to delay me?”

  “A man is approaching from the south. He carries a headless spear-shaft in his hand. He leaps over the three ramparts which guard this fortress as easily as a bird takes flight on the wing, he comes towards the doors . . .”

  Then, before the eyes of all assembled, the great wooden bolts of the doors slid back without anyone touching them. The great doors swung inwards, as if guided by unseen hands.

  Standing in the door was a tall stranger. He was taller than most men of the kingdom; his figure spoke of great strength and his muscles rippled beneath his fine clothes. He wore a dark rich cloak, fastened by a beautifully crafted brooch. It flowed back from his shoulders. His face was young and very handsome and his hair was fair and curled, reaching to his shoulders. Even as Mongán had said, he carried a headless spear-shaft in one hand, with a great sword at his belt and an exquisite silver shield on his arm.

  Within a few strides, he reached the centre of the hall causing, just by his presence, Dallán Forgaill to stagger away from him.

  The stranger spoke in a voice so deep and ringing that it seemed all the candles in their holders shook and flickered throughout the hall. “There is trouble in this ráth,” he observed.

  Mongán rose from his seat of office and took a step forward. “Indeed, you have observed correctly, stranger.”

  “Tell me of it.”

  “Yonder is Dallán Forgaill, the Chief Poet of Ireland. He tells me that Fothad Airgtheach was slain and buried in Dubhthair Laighean. I questioned his knowledge. The traditions of my people say that he was slain here at Magh Linne and sleeps in the green hill outside.”

  “He affronted my station,” snapped Dallán, “for which it is my right to curse him. I offered not to do so if he can prove his claim and, failing that, if he gives me his wife. The hour is now up for him to present the proof and so he must give me his wife or accept my curse.”

  The tall stranger looked long and thoughtfully at the poet. “Have you never heard the saying, O poet, ná malluigh do dhuine eagnaí – which is ‘never curse a wise man’? You tell a false history. Fothad Airgtheach was not slain in Dubhthair Laighean, nor, indeed, was he killed in Leinster, nor Munster, nor Connacht nor Meath – in none of the kingdoms save in Ulster did he meet his death.”

  The old poet looked outraged. In spite of the way the stranger had entered the feasting hall, vanity had claimed the poet again. “Sorrow will overtake you, stranger, for now I shall include you in my curse for the contradiction which you have placed on me.”

  The stranger smiled softly. “I do not think your curse will trouble me, poet,” he said quietly.

  Mongán interrupted hastily. “Proof positive is needed.”

  The stranger continued to smile. “Was I not summoned for that purpose?” he asked. “I will tell you a story. I was a member of the army of Fionn Mac Cumhaill. I was of the Fianna.”

  Dallán Forgaill intervened with a laugh. “Fionn lived hundreds of years ago! What boastful story is this?”

  “Hear me out!” the stranger calmly ordered. “Fionn and our army were campaigning in distant high-hilled Alba, when news reached us of how Fothad Airgtheach had killed his brother and set himself up as High King. Fionn was angry and he led the army back to Éireann. In the valley of the River Ollarba” (which is now the River Larne in Co. Antrim) “the Fianna and the warriors of Fothad Airgtheach engaged in battle.

  “When the fight was at its fiercest and the blood was flowing on both sides, I saw Fothad Airgtheach standing at the base of a sloping hill, watching to see how the battle went. I found the shelter of a rock and, taking a stand behind it, I aimed carefully with my spear. It passed through him and its head embedded itself into the soil.”

  The stranger held out his spear, the one without a head. “This is the spear, for I was not able to dig out the head during the battle but only retrieved this handle. If you go to that green hill outside this fortress, you will find the granite rock from whence I cast my spear and you will find the spear-head still embedded in the soil. Nearby you will find a small cairn where Fothad Airgtheach is buried. It stands a little to the east of where the spear-head is embedded. Underneath the cairn is a stone coffin holding the remains of Fothad Airgtheach; and
in it are also his bracelets of silver and his muintorc, his hero’s golden necklace. And on the cairn, in Ogham script, it is written who lies there.”

  “What does the inscription say, stranger?” asked Mongán, impressed.

  “It is written thus: ‘Fothad Airgtheach is here, who was killed in battle by Caoilte of the Fianna’. We of the Fianna buried him, just as I have described, and it was by us that his funeral obsequies were performed.”

  At this, Dallán Forgaill let out a bark of cynical laughter. “Do you claim, then, that you are Caoilte? Do you claim that you are hundreds of years old, for Caoilte was the great warrior of the Fianna and kinsman to Fionn Mac Cumhaill himself? By what marvel do you claim to have survived these centuries?”

  The tall warrior turned on him in sorrow. “I have not survived. Nor can any man outlive the earthly bounds. But heroes’ souls are reborn in the Otherworld, where we may sit in the hall of heroes. I have returned from the House of Donn. Why have I returned? Because we of the Fianna ever loved the truth. From the vales of the Otherworld, we sit and watch the mountains and valleys of Éireann as through a mist; we are glad in its joys and sorrowful in its grief. When doubt arises as to the past in which we were nurtured, our hearts ache.

  “So sorrowful we were at the distress of the queen, Breothighearn, and the helplessness of the king, Mongán, who could not prove what he knew to be true, that the Mother Goddess relented and granted me a mortal body to return with these words of counsel and knowledge to those we left behind. At dawn, do you go and seek the cairn of Fothad Airgtheach and all shall be found as I have said. The mouth of Caoilte Mac Ronán knows nothing of falsehoods and vain boasting. The rallying call of the Fianna was – ‘The Truth against the World.’ Be it so!”

  With that, the stranger was suddenly no longer in their midst. He had vanished like a puff of smoke.

  The following morning Mongán, with his queen, a sulking Dallán Forgaill, and his entire court, left the fortress and went to the green hill, as they had been told to do. The first thing they saw was the stone rock where Caoilte had cast his spear. Then they saw the spot where Fothad Airgtheach had fallen and dug down to find an ancient spear-head. Then, a short way to the east, they found a cairn above a stone coffin and on the cairn were the words carved in Ogham, exactly as the shade of Caoilte had described them.

  “Well, poet?” demanded the king, pointing to the inscription.

  But Dallán Forgaill had already left the company and set off south to his own country.

  Mongán and Breothighearn went back to their fortress, rejoicing with their subjects that the curse of the poet had been lifted from them.

  It is recorded that this was not the first nor the last time that Dallán Forgaill had abused his office as Chief Poet. It is told that Dallán Forgaill went to Aodh Mac Duach, the king of Airghialla, and recited a poem in his praise. Then he demanded, as payment, the king’s great silver shield, with gold inlay, which had, it was said, been wrought by Gobhan the smith-god.

  Now the king was under a geis, a prohibition from the god, not to give the shield to any human. So King Aodh offered gold and silver from his own purse, but Dallán refused and threatened to curse him, as he had tried to curse Mongán, but Aodh stood firm and said he could not part with the shield as it was forbidden by the gods. So Dallán in his arrogance made his curse. But he had abused his art and the curse rebounded; the gods ensured that he lived only three days afterwards.

  And of the grave of Fothad Airgtheach? Well, the hill is now called Ballyboley in the Valley of the Six Mile Water and there is still a cairn there, old and weather-worn. You cannot see now if there was Ogham carved on it or not, it is so old. The old folk thereabouts will tell you that it marks the “King of Ireland’s Grave” and is a place where you must tread with reverence.

  Mongán was fortunate, however, that the Fianna had heard his distress and that Caoilte was allowed back from the Otherworld to avert the poet’s curse. Others have not always been so fortunate. So beware of causing the tempestuous anger of the poet to break forth. The poet’s curse is a terrible thing.

  7 Cellachain of Cashel

  Caiseal Mumhan, the stone fort of Munster, which is now called Cashel in the county of Tipperary, is a great limestone rock rising from the plain some hundreds of feet, which dominates the surrounding countryside. It is a mystical place where, for twice a thousand years, the great dynasty of the Eóghanachta ruled Munster until the last regnant king, Donal IX MacCarthy Mór, passed from this earth in AD 1596 and the ancient kingdom fell to strangers, and these strangers finally drove the heirs of the Eóghanachta out of the land and into exile.

  It was said that when the sons of Golamh, who was also called Míl Easpain, invaded Éireann and defeated the ancient gods and goddesses, the children of Danu, the Divine Waters, two sons of Golamh named Eber and Eremon decided to divide the land between them. To Eremon went the northern half of the island while to Eber Finn went the southern half, that is all the land from the River Boyne, south to the Wave of Cliodhna.

  Now the kings of Mumhan, the land of Eber Finn, sought for a suitable capital, from which to rule the great kingdom, for many years. It had to be a high place, from where they might view their extensive kingdom and reach forth their hand to protect their people. Be it known that the very word ríge, meaning kingship, is the same as ríge, the act of reaching forth. There were many petty kings in the line of Eber and each petty king wanted the over-king of Mumhan to reside in his territory so they would have prestige.

  There were two swineherds. One of them was Duirdriu, who was swineherd to the King of Éile, while the other was Cuirirán, swineherd to the King of Múscraige. These territories were in Aurmuma, or Ormond, which simply means East Munster. The swineherds were tending their herds south along the river which rose in the kingdom of Éile, which was the Suir. They had left the course of the river and gone to where the great rock rose from the plain.

  It was a great wooded country and it was said that the gods and goddesses of the Otherworld haunted the great rock and its plains. The Bodb Dearg, the son of the Dagda, who succeeded his father as the ruler of all the gods, had his palace in Munster and many women of the Otherworld married the rulers of the kingdom.

  As they tended their herds by the rock, a great tiredness suddenly fell over Duirdriu and Cuirirán and they slept. It was an Otherworld sleep, for they slumbered for three days and three nights.

  In their sleep they saw a vision. They saw the prince called Corc, son of Lugaidh, of the line of the Eóghanachta, and they heard voices blessing him and hailing him as the descendant of Eber the Fair, rightful ruler of all the Milesians. The voice proclaimed that the blessings Corc would have were without counting and such blessings were given to all who came to rule rightfully and in justice at Cashel.

  When the two swineherds awakened, Duirdriu hastened back to his lord, who was Conall Mac Nenta Con, king of Éile. When he heard about the vision, Conall went immediately and laid claim to the land where this dream occurred, so that when the matter was reported to the prince Corc, son of Lugaidh, he would have to buy the land from Conall and Conall would obtain great prestige in having the High King of Mumhan reside on his land.

  Meanwhile Cuirirán, the other swineherd, had gone straight to Lugaidh and told him about the prophecy concerning his son Corc. The old man was delighted that his seed, and his dynasty, would now be able to build a great capital and be blessed for as long as they ruled justly. So Lugaidh sent for his son Corc and told him he must go south to Cashel with Cuirirán.

  Corc kindled a fire on the Rock of Cashel and solemnly laid claim to it in the name of the descendants of Eber. He sent Cuirirán to summon the under-kings of Munster and it was the king of Múscraige who came hastening first to Cashel for Cuirirán was his swineherd and so went to him before anyone else. And the king of Múscraige bowed his knee to Corc and demanded that all his line should be the first ever summoned to Cashel in time of need. This Corc said would be done.
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br />   When Conall Mac Nenta Con, king of Éile, was summoned to Cashel, he sent a messenger to Corc asking him arrogantly what profit there was in summoning him, the king of Éile, to Cashel, for it was already in his possession. He demanded to know why Corc had taken possession of Cashel without first asking his permission. Now the message came by Duirdriu. Cuirirán told Corc that Duirdriu had been with him when he had the vision and perhaps Duirdriu had reported the vision to Conall.

  So when he had delivered the message, Cuirirán went up to Duirdriu as if he were an old friend and said: “You are tired from your journey. Come and drink with me, that you might be refreshed.” So the swineherd of Éile drank strong ale and when the ale was upon him, he confessed to Cuirirán what he had done.

  So Corc sent again to Conall of Éile to summon him to Cashel and to tell him, if he did not come, he must face Corc in a combat of truth. When Conall of Éile arrived, Corc had his carpenter, Mochta, take his axe and heat it in a fire of blackthorn. When the axe was red-hot, Corc asked that he draw it from the fire.

  “Whoever speaks the truth is protected. Come here, Conall, and place your tongue on the blade of this axe. If this land was truly yours, then you will not be harmed. But if you have falsely claimed it to get tribute from me, then your tongue will be burnt.”

  Now Conall Mac Nenta Con, king of Éile, was a man who was brave in war but he knew that he could not stand against the gods. So truth was the victor in this contest. Conall Mac Nenta Con, king of Éile, made this prophecy: “Great my shame, true king of Mumhan. My sword will ever be in your service and, at the time of the greatest need for your seed, my seed will come to Cashel bearing poetry and sword, and both will be wrought in your cause.”

  That pleased Corc and he made a truce with Conall. Indeed, he made a truce with all the under-kings of Munster, except with Cass of Luimneach on the Shannon, who claimed that he was the rightful descendant of Eber Finn and should rule in Mumham. As everyone knew this to be false, they rejected Cass and his kind and had no dealings with them.