Faoinèis, seeing no one more handsome in the room at that moment, turned her ready smile on Donall and pouted innocently.
“I will give you this dance, Donall, but it is bad manners, I am thinking, to quit this feasting and leave me here alone.”
They had scarcely taken the floor when the door burst open and in strode a handsome young man, looking more kingly than even the High King of Scotland, who dwelt at Sgàin. He crossed the floor to where Donall and Faoinèis were dancing, forcing them to halt. Ignoring Donall, he bowed low to Faoinèis, who blushed prettily and returned his salutation.
“Dance with me, sweet maiden. Dance with me, for I have never seen a maid so beautiful in all the kingdoms over which I am lord.”
Straightaway, Faoinèis went into the arms of the stranger, leaving Donall with anger on his brow.
Dianaimh came hurrying to Donall’s side.
“Dearest Donall, do not be angry with her. She is but following her nature, and that nature you cannot change. And be warned . . . that foolish girl is dancing with no mortal.”
They watched Faoinèis and her companion dancing. As they danced, the handsome Kelpie was smiling down at the vain girl.
“You are so beautiful that my heart stops its beating, every time I look at you.”
Faoinèis smiled contentedly, for she was used to young men making such silly utterances. But, at least, this young man was a powerful king and she had promised that one day she would marry such a man; and then she would have riches and power over as many men as she liked.
“Will you wed me, maid, that I might rest content?”
Now Faoinèis’ heart surged in joy at such an easy conquest, but she was not without cunning.
“How could I tell so soon what my answer would be?”
The Kelpie laughed good-naturedly. “Then I will be content to wait for an answer – but only until midnight, when I must start my journey back to my own kingdom.”
“At midnight? As soon as that?”
“I will meet you on the sandy sea-shore below this castle and, at the zenith of the moon, you shall give me your answer.”
Then, having completed the dance, the Kelpie bowed low, kissed her hand and withdrew.
Faoinèis was beside herself with joy at the prospect and she returned to where Donall was standing, his brow furrowed angrily, and with Dianaimh at his side.
“Still here?” she greeted him rudely. “I thought you had to leave after this dance?”
“That I do,” replied Donall seriously. “But I have remained to save you from a fate no mortal can endure.”
Faoinèis laughed heartily. “How dramatic you sound, Donall. Can it be that you are jealous of that handsome king?”
“Handsome king?” snapped Donall. “He is the evil spirit who has taken the souls of our companions – he is none other than the Kelpie!”
Now Faoinèis sneered at the young man. “Jealousy was written on your brow, little shield-bearer, but to come forth with such lies is beyond belief. Still, many a young man would lie, to have me smile on them. That I know.”
“He tells you the truth, Faoinèis,” interrupted Dianaimh. “That is indeed the Kelpie, and well I know it.”
“You are like peas in a pod, both liars,” sneered the girl. “You shall not spoil my happiness with such ridiculous stories. Here is the king that I one day knew I would marry.” She turned and flounced off.
At the full of the moon Faoinèis went down by the seashore and there stood the proud, handsome king.
“I knew that you would come.”
“I have given your plea some thought, my lord and, though there be many who desire me for a wife, I shall accept your offer.”
The handsome king disconcerted her by laughing. “I knew you would accept.”
Then he drew her towards him. From his pocket he took a ring of strange coral and placed it on her finger. “Now you are mine forever.”
His words sounded like a bell tolling a death-knell, causing her to give an involuntary shiver. But the uncomfortable sensation lasted only a moment, for she was a very vain girl. He took her hand and suddenly she found herself on the back of a broad cold white horse, and from this horse came the sound of the Kelpie’s laughter, sounding like the icy waters of a winter stream gushing over the stones.
She could not recover breath before the horse was dancing away across the dark waves of the ocean. All around her, she could hear strange sounds, as if all animal creation had joined together in a death dirge. She clung on for dear life and soon they were above the angry, boiling Corrievreckan. Straight into it plunged the Kelpie, with Faoinèis screaming on his back. Her cries were eventually lost in the sound of the briny whirling depths and drowned in the torrent of the primeval seas.
At that moment Donall had joined Dall, the Blind One, as he stood on the castle walls overlooking the seas. Around the Blind One stood the ring of silent kings and chieftains of all the islands, who had lost sons to the Kelpie. Dall raised his voice in a chanting wail. Then he stopped still and bowed his head.
“My magic is done. Come forth, you sons of chieftains, come forth from the sea! I command it.”
The Kelpie had returned to his coral throne and gazed in amusement at Ròn Ghlas Mòr. “It is done and time to keep my word to Dianaimh.”
“Shall I release the human souls?”
“You shall,” agreed the Kelpie, for his word was sacred.
The Corrievreckan began to whirl; the waves thundered shoreward, pounding the rocky coasts; and sea birds shrieked and flew for cover. Thunder and lightning rent the dark skies. Then a wave greater than all the rest suddenly spewed itself on the shore below the great castle of the King of Sgìtheanach and there, sprawled on the shore, were the sons of the kings and chieftains of the islands, safe and sound.
Watching below, for the Otherworld has means of seeing what transpires in this world, the Kelpie laughed, a genuine deep laugh. “Dall will now go down in tradition as a great magician.”
Ròn Ghlas Mòr smiled in agreement. “He had little enough knowledge to save the chieftains’ sons.”
“Indeed he did. Let the credit be his. We of the Otherworld do not break our word.”
“And Dianaimh was . . .”
“Was mine and now is lost to me, but out of the love that once we shared, my word was made absolute.”
It happened as the Kelpie foretold. Dall, the Blind One, was fêted at the courts of all the chieftains; the King of Sgìtheanach gave him a fine castle at Dùn Bheagain and enough money to keep him happy all his days. As for Donall, as he had refused to give in when lesser men might have done so, he could no longer be simply a shield-bearer to the son of the King of Sgìtheanach. So the king made him Lord of Rathar-sair and showered gifts on him, as did the other chieftains.
After a while, when he was out walking with Dianaimh, Donall turned and suggested they marry. There was no passion, no lustful desire between them, but they realised that they cared for each other so much that nurturing, cherishing, comforting and sustaining was more important than anything else. So Dianaimh and Donall were married and there was great rejoicing throughout all the western islands.
Deep below the turbulent waters of the Corrievreckan, the Kelpie hid a tear when he heard the news. Then he turned to the mortal whose task was keeping his coral throne polished.
“Do not slack in your task. There is work here for a thousand years more, before you can rest.”
And Faoinèis bowed her head in compliance to her lord.
19 Geal, Donn and Critheanach
Once, long ago, there lived a Lord of Cataibh who had three daughters. They were called Geal, which means “bright” or “fair”; Donn, which means “brown-haired” and Critheanach, which means “trembling”, because people trembled at the sight of her beauty. Now the three were triplets and they looked much like one another, unless one looked more closely.
Geal had been born first. Donn had been born next and Critheanach was the youngest. Soon after
their birth, their mother had died. The Lord of Cataibh never married again. He was a poor lord and did not have many riches. He could not even afford to employ any domestic servants to help him take care of his old, rambling castle. So his daughters not only grew up without a mother’s love or guidance but, as they grew older, all the household chores fell to them to perform.
More and more, over the years, the Lord of Cataibh retreated into his dusty old library and took little part in how his daughters ran the affairs of the castle.
Geal and Donn were very assertive girls and, because Critheanach was the youngest, they made her do all the dirty work about their father’s castle. Critheanach had to clean the kitchen, cook the meals and do all manner of disagreeable tasks. Indeed, her sisters would not let her go out until the work was done to their satisfaction and that, of course, was very seldom. They were quite tyrannical towards poor Critheanach.
Each Saturday there was a great fair at nearby Dòrnach and, each Saturday, both Geal and Donn would dress in their finest clothes and go off to visit the fair. Now the reason why they did this was that there were often many handsome young men at the fair and the girls had reached the aois a taghadh, that is the age of choice, whereby they might choose a husband. Naturally, it never occurred to either Geal or Donn that their sister Critheanach was also of that age. They were more concerned in finding their own husbands.
One Saturday morning, after Geal and Donn had left for the fair, there was a knocking on the kitchen door of the castle. When Critheanach opened the door, there was an old woman standing there. And a curious old woman she was. If the truth were told, she was none other than a sìtheach, one of the fairy folk. She said that she was selling a seun or charm.
Instead of sending her away in anger, as many folk do, Critheanach smiled sadly. “Alas, I have no money to buy a charm, as much as I would like to. My two sisters need all the money in the castle to go to the fair.”
Now the old woman’s name was Baobh and she said: “And why are you not at the fair, young Critheanach? It is there that you should be, and not working in your father’s kitchen.”
“I cannot go. I have no money. Nor have I good clothes to wear at the fair. Besides, if Geal and Donn were there and saw me, they would beat me senseless for leaving the kitchen without finishing the work.”
Baobh sniffed in disapproval. “Fine sisters they must be. Have no care to the work. For clothes I will give you, whatever dress you desire and a fine mare to take you to the fair, with a purse of gold to spend there.”
Critheanach looked sceptical but the old woman demanded to know what dress she would like.
“A dress of brightest green, a shawl the colour of purple heather and shoes to match,” cried Critheanach with a laugh.
“It is done!” cried Baobh.
Sure enough, Critheanach was dressed as she had wanted, in clothes so splendid that she looked every inch a princess. At the door stood a milk-white mare with a golden bridle and a golden saddle.
“Now you may go to the fair, but you must not speak directly to your sisters nor to any young men. And after an hour, you must ride home as fast as the mare will carry you.”
So Critheanach rode to the fair and the people stared at her in astonishment. Who was this beautiful young princess who rode on such a wondrous horse and who was dressed so richly? While the young men strutted before her, to attract her attention, they were not so sure of themselves to speak to her directly and neither did she speak to them. She spotted Geal and Donn but she did not speak to them either. She rode about the fair and marvelled at it, for she had never been allowed away from home before. Then a bell tolled the hour and she knew her time was up and she turned and raced for home.
She had barely reached the door and dismounted when the horse vanished and she was dressed in her old clothes again. Hurrying inside the house, she found, to her astonishment, that all the work had been done.
Not long afterwards, Geal and Donn came in and were talking about the strange young woman at the fair.
“She was a wonderful grand lady,” they said. “Never have we seen such a dress and such a horse. There wasn’t a young man in all the fair who did not try to attract her attention, but she would have none of them.”
They demanded that their father, the poor Lord of Cataibh, provide them with dresses of equal splendour so that the next time they went to the fair, the young men might notice them. Poor man, he had no option but to take some of his priceless books and sell them to raise the money for them.
On the next Saturday, just after Critheanach’s sisters had departed for the fair in their new dresses, there was a knocking at the kitchen door.
There was the old woman, Baobh, who smiled at her. “What? Not gone to the fair today?”
Critheanach smiled sadly. “It was a great joy to be able to go last week. But I still have no clothes, no money and my sisters will still beat me if the housework is not done.”
“Bi d’ thosd!” cried the old woman, which is the equivalent to saying “tush!”
Then she said: “The work will be done, and you shall have a dress, money and a horse to take you there. But again, as before, do not speak with your sisters nor any young men, and ride home as fast as you can at the end of an hour.”
Critheanach agreed quite happily.
“What dress would you like?” asked the old woman.
“I’d like the finest red satin and red shoes and a silken white cloak.”
Within a blink of an eye, she was standing dressed as she desired, and outside was the milk-white mare with the golden harness.
The people at the fair were more astonished than ever to see her ride up. The young men pushed each other out of the way to get near her and smile at her. And though they doffed their caps and bowed, she said nothing to them. Nor did she speak with her sisters whom she saw at the fair. She went about the stalls and people thought that her silence denoted a haughty attitude and that she was some grand princess.
Then a bell began to toll the hour. She put her heels to the sides of her mare and had barely reached the door when the mare vanished and she was back into her old clothes again. And, going inside, she found all the work was done.
A short time later, in came Geal and Donn, full of the news from the fair. Their talk was of nothing but the mysterious and beautiful princess and her fine clothes. Geal and Donn gave their father, the Lord of Cataibh, no peace, until he promised to get them dresses that looked like the strange lady’s robes. He, poor man, had to take more precious books from his library, selling them in order to raise the money for their finery.
Now on the third Saturday, just after Geal and Donn had gone off to the fair, there came a knocking on the kitchen door. Critheanach opened it and, lo and behold, it was the old woman Baobh again.
“What?” she exclaimed. “Are you still here and not gone to the fair?”
“I would willingly go if I could finish this work and if I had a dress and money to go with,” replied Critheanach sadly.
“Have no care for the work. It will be done. Now, what dress would you like?”
“I’d like a dress of red silk from the waist down and white silk from the waist up, and a cloak of green silk about my shoulders, and red shoes on my feet.”
Within a blink of an eye she was dressed as she had wished, and with a purse of gold to help her; outside was the milk-white mare with the golden harness.
Off she went to the fair, having been warned by Baobh to maintain the same conditions as before: not to speak to any young men, and certainly not to speak with her sisters, and be home after an hour.
Once again the people at the fair crowded around when news came that the beautiful grand lady had once more come to the fair. Everyone felt that she was a princess from a foreign country, for she never spoke. Now it happened that news of the visits of the grand lady had spread and that it had reached the ears of the Prince of Loch Abar, who was visiting Dòrnach, and he came to the fair and found himself with a crowd of y
oung men, jostling each other to catch a glimpse of her.
Critheanach stayed at the fair awhile, but now she was not so fascinated by it, nor with the vain young men who tried to attract her attention. She did not speak to them nor to her sisters, whom she saw on the edge of the crowd, their faces clearly showing their annoyance by the lack of attention paid to them in the new dresses their father had provided. So when the bell began to toll the hour, she was rather relieved that it was time to leave the fair and resolved never to go to the fair again, for it had lost all its charm.
She had not reckoned with the tenacity of the Prince of Loch Abar, whose name was Duncan. He refused to be pushed aside by the local young men, and made his way to the front of the crowd. Having seen and fallen in love with the beautiful features of Critheanach, he decided to let nothing stand in his way in trying to make her acquaintance. Though she refused to speak to him, he ran by her horse and, when she set off at a gallop home, he grabbed for her stirrup to stay her. As he did so, he chanced to grasp her shoe and off it came in his hand. He was left behind, standing in the roadway, with her shoe in his hand.
She had barely reached her house when the mare disappeared and back she was in her own clothes.
While the work was all done, there was one difference. The old woman, Baobh, was standing in the kitchen, frowning.
“You have lost something, Critheanach.”
At once the girl knew what she meant. “There is vexation on me, for I have lost one of my shoes.”
“True for you,” agreed the old woman. “I came to tell you that this loss is now your fortune, so do not be afraid of what will happen.”
And with that, Baobh disappeared, as if she were a candle-flame being blown out.
Then Critheanach’s sisters came in, angry and talking about the latest appearance of the grand lady. This time, they spoke of the young prince who had so demeaned his station as to run alongside the horse of the beautiful woman and tug off her shoe.
Indeed, at the fair, the local young men were mocking Duncan, Prince of Loch Abar.
The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends Page 32