Monsters of Celtic Mythology

by Bernard Evslin

  So the High King of Ireland prepared himself against the coming of Finn, and plotted deeply with the sons of Morna. Now by the Law of Hospitality the boy could not be killed while a guest at the castle, nor upon the road to it. The trick then would be to make him quit the court by his own choice, for the law also said that a guest might not be forced to leave—but once having left the king’s table he was fair game and could be sent to join his father upon the unthawable ice fields that lie in the Darkness Beyond Night.

  “What we must do is make him want to leave,” said the king to Goll McMorna, eldest of the cruel, beautiful sons of Morna.

  “Well, let us think now,” said Goll. “If he was tutored by the Salmon he will know full well that he is protected by the Law of Hospitality, and will leave only if it becomes too uncomfortable for him to stay.”

  “The law also says he cannot be forced to leave.”

  “Who speaks of forcing? We will merely introduce him to an experience or two that no lad of mettle would care to miss. If the sport becomes too rough or an accident befalls—well, no blame can attach to us, for we shall have warned him.”

  “You speak in riddles, Goll. How can we warn him against danger and still lead him to it?”

  “If he be the true son of Cuhal, O King, then he will be ridden by a pride that will gall him bloody if he shows fear. I remember well how his father rode straight into our ambush, knowing that we couched there in our strength, but scorning to turn tail on a fight though he be outnumbered ten to one. Yes, for this son of Cuhal, our warnings will serve as a joyous summons to a fatal task.”

  Castles then were not so grimly gray as they were later to become. The walls of Tara were cut out of a white cliff; its roof was striped crimson and blue. Chariots circled the walls, carrying two warriors each. They were drawn by matched stallions. Finn, seeing this blaze of color for the first time, forgot about his murdered father and his plans for vengeance and gawked happily at the tall young charioteers whose hair streamed in the speed of their going. And the magnificent war stallions took the rest of his breath, for if there was one thing Finn esteemed above any other, it was a handsome animal—man, woman, dog, or horse.

  As the lad stood staring at the bright chariots, a man strolled up holding a falcon, not on his wrist as falconers do, but perched on his shoulder. This pleased Finn because the man had a hawk face himself and it was like seeing a man with two heads. Now riding on Finn’s shoulder was Drabne’s black tom, who accompanied the lad everywhere since breaking with the witch. The man looked down at the boy. The falcon glared down at the cat, who swelled with rage, arching his back and greening his eyes. Finn laughed.

  “Something amuse you?” said the man.

  “Much amuses me, sir.” said Finn. “I am easily entertained.”

  “Are you, now? But perhaps I do not care to be laughed at by a raw cub, whose name, estate, and parentage I do not know.”

  “My name is Finn McCool. I am my father’s son, as will be disclosed to those who knew him last. As for my estate, this I must discuss with the High King.”

  “And do you think the High King can listen to every vagabond who turns off the road?”

  “No, sir. But to Finn McCool, yes.”

  “Is there something special about you, Master McCool?”

  “I cannot tell. I am the only one of me I know.”

  “I have the liveliest kind of wish to beat you until you cannot walk,” said the tall man.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Finn.

  “You’d be sorrier yet, my lad, if you were not shielded by the Law of Hospitality.”

  “Seems a pity that a man like you should be balked by a little thing like a law,” said Finn.

  “Do not mock me,” gritted the man.

  “I know how you must feel not being able to beat me,” said Finn. “I see that you are a man of splendid wrath. I see the flaming coils of it springing from your head.”

  Now, it was a deadly insult at that time to refer to anyone’s physical appearance, unless it were a lover, chieftain, or closest kin, or any combination of these. And Finn knew that he was walking a knife edge. He was trying to provoke the man to attack, of course; for, without knowing the redhead’s name, he had recognized him immediately as a final foe whom he must either destroy or be destroyed by. And since he was too young to engage him in physical combat, Finn was trying to goad him into losing his temper and violating the Law of Hospitality, thus incurring the death penalty.

  Such was Finn’s plan, but, observing the man’s face gone suddenly cheese white, and the huge writhing fingers, Finn saw that he might have gone too far, that he might have let himself in for immediate annihilation, which was not part of his plan at all. For the boy had met enemies before—snakes and hags and all the sore magic blades in a witch’s kit—but he had never yet angered mortal man, and he was amazed to see how totally savage was this wrath, lighted by intelligence, more urgent than hunger, closer than breathing.

  The man said nothing at all; his fingers now were playing with the ankle gyve of the bird. The huge falcon rose suddenly from the man’s shoulder, soared until it was blotted in the gray brightness, then dived. It dropped out of the sky in a heavy, screaming stoop straight for Finn’s head. He looked up. Gaffing down upon him were the wicked hooks that could tear the heart out of an arctic goose in midflight. Bigger than the sky, they came clutching for his head.

  The cat on Finn’s shoulder yawned, flicking its coral tongue, grinning right into the hooks of death—then rose straight up to meet the diving falcon. Finn watched aghast, expecting to see his pet, twice beloved because taken from an enemy, smashed into a bloody rag of fur. But he had forgotten that it was a witch’s cat, witness to spells and incantations. The black tom uttered a rhymed meow and made a delicate pass with its paws. Finn saw the falcon dwindle into a wren, which had time for one flutter before the cat pulled it in, and, dropping back onto Finn’s shoulder, began to chew.

  “I would sooner have lost my stable of horses,” said the man softly. “I took that hawk from the King of Aram after a fight that lasted three days and cost ten of my best men, not to mention a few of the worst. How shall I refrain from killing you where you stand, despite all the Laws of Hospitality ever spoken by half-witted ancients?”

  “I put you under obligation,” said Finn.

  He said a word to the cat, who spat feathers that floated in the air, thickening into the royal shape of the falcon. The bird spread its huge wings briefly and resumed its perch on the man’s shoulder.

  “That’s a clever cat you have there,” said the man.

  “He has had certain advantages,” said Finn. “Now, sir, I have told you my name, will you tell me yours?”

  “Goll McMorna.”

  “How well things fall out. You are the man I have most wanted to know, and I meet you first. You were the leader of those who killed my father, I believe.”

  “Still am.”

  “So I must kill you, of course.”

  “Of course you must try.”

  “But not quite yet. I need to grow to my full size first.”

  “Better grow fast,” said McMorna. “That hospitality nonsense shelters you only while you are a guest here, and the Law of Obligation lasts only one year thereafter.”

  “Oh, but I may abide here quite a while. Tara’s hospitality is famous.”

  “Yes, the king has been known to devise novel entertainments,” said Goll, “especially for uninvited guests. Come, I’ll take you to him now.”

  The High King made Finn welcome. Stags were roasted whole in the great fire pits of the courtyard, and young pigs, wood grouse, and pheasant turned on their spits, dripping hot gravy and giving off a smell that made the dogs howl with greed. Finn was questioned about his favorite dishes, and was served winter strawberries in clotted cream, hot chestnuts, honeycomb—and one night a fat trout cooked according to the recipe given him by the Salmon that night he had fed it to the Druids and stuffed them so full tha
t he was able to make off with their secret wisdom.

  “You need new clothes,” said the king. “No son of Cuhal shall walk Tara clad like a tinker.”

  There was feasting every night. Bards sang stories, poets riddled, slave girls danced, acrobats turned, bears were baited, cocks fought. By day there was hunting and fishing and jousting—footraces, wrestling, puzzle verse, chess, and bowls. And all during these first days of welcome, Goll McMorna was at the king’s right hand, devising pleasures for Finn.

  Then, one afternoon, he and the king met secretly, and spoke in urgent whispers.

  That night at the feasting the king stood on the table, banging a gold dish with his dagger.

  “Silence!” he cried. “I would speak.”

  The voices fell off. The great dining hall filled with a silence so deep there seemed to be a humming at its core.

  “Tonight is the Night of the Winter Burning,” said the king. “Tonight, we fortunate ones who dwell at Tara pay our yearly toll of shame and blame and flame. Tonight we are visited by the Destroyer, and a brave man will watch, and there will be peril and pain. I need a brave man now. Who offers himself? Any man here may volunteer save Goll McMorna, whose chieftainship makes him exempt, and Finn McCool, who is too young and tender for such an adventure—and a guest besides. Speak, then. Who dares watch through the fatal night?”

  Finn saw Goll smiling narrowly at him through the wavering yellow rushlight. The lad leaped to his feet, crying:

  “I claim guest-gift!”

  “What?” cried the king. “Now?”

  “Even now.”

  “It is considered more courteous for a guest to take his gift when his visit ends.”

  “At the risk of discourtesy, O King, I must ask it now. Immediately. I cannot wait.”

  “What is it you wish, then? If it lies within my bounty I must grant it.”

  “I wish to stand watch tonight against the Dread Coming.”

  “Impossible!”

  “Entirely possible. It lies within your bounty.”

  “We need a strong man to stand against the Intruder. And even so, he will perish. But at least he will have made honorable resistance. You are but a lad with no experience in battle.”

  “Being young is an experience in itself,” said Finn. “It has given me training in being outweighed, outnumbered, and—most advantageous of all in conflict—underestimated.”

  Goll McMorna spoke: “It cannot be permitted, brave youth. It is certain death.”

  “‘Certain death’ is a redundancy,” said Finn. “Death is more certain than the royalty of kings, the stillness of stealth, the wisdom of good advice; it is, in fact, our prime certainty, and it is something that I, son of my father, have forbidden myself to consider. I ask your permission, King. Grant it and you are quit of guest-gift.”

  “Will you allow me to watch with you?” said Goll McMorna.

  “What?” said Finn, smiling. “Challenge a foe, knowing myself backed by the strongest warrior in the realm? Where’s the honor in that?”

  All the men of the court sprang to their feet and cheered at the quickness and courtesy of his reply.

  “Very well,” said the king. “I have no choice. I must grant your request and make preparations for a noble wake.”

  Upon this Night of the Winter Burning it seemed as if all the great world beyond the castle had gathered its weathers to contribute flame. The moon burned in the black sky, casting sparks that were stars. Water glittered in fen and tarn; slippery lights danced on the waves of the sea. Hayricks smoldered in the dark fields. The moonlight fell, now silver, now green, now gold, as it fractured variously from mown grass and cope and tangled heath. Moonlight splintered upon the windows of Tara, and all the world was coldly aflame as Finn watched.

  He was alone in the great council chamber. Everyone else had gone to sleep. Even the sentries had gone to sleep by order of the king, for none might await the Dread Coming save the Appointed Watcher. It was an enormous room Finn waited in. Here the king called his Druids and captains to make battle plans and to solve affairs of state. Here, although the boy did not know it, had Cuhal, his father, taken the chieftainship of the Fianna.

  Weapons gleamed on the wall. The long, thick lance used for horse charge; the slender throwing javelin; the short hand spear for the hedge defense; the great two-edged sword for cutting and thrusting; the broad, short swords of the ancient iron men who, in the mists of memory, had taken land to the east, slaughtered without pity, built roads, and vanished. Harpoons of the island fighters who used the same small spear for killing men and sticking big fish. Peasant weapons for working and fighting: pitchfork, sickle, scythe, mattock, pruning hook. Weapons taken from enemies: the curved new-moon swords and horn bows of the little slant-eyed men who rode small horses on beefsteak saddles—which were also their rations—and who devoured the land like a pestilence when they rode out of the rising sun. Battle-axes and antlered helmets of the huge yellow-headed pirates who struck the coast like seahawks in their winged ships. And the enormous, long swords that took two hands to swing, called claymores, belonging to the tall Picts in the north.

  Finn gazed upon these weapons. He had never yet fought with weapons. His fingers itched to hold each one, to strike with it, and to add his own trophy to the loot upon the wall. He brooded upon the weapons. Each one, he knew, held a scroll of stories, of battle and death and brave intention. He wanted to know each story and add his own. There among the weapons, like a swan among gulls, hung a harp, an ancient one by its shape. Locked in its strings, he knew, were the songs of these weapons and the men who wielded them.

  By now he had almost forgotten about his mission that night and the Dread Coming. He kept staring at the harp. Each string was a thread of moonlight. The Thrig of Tone had taught him only the reed pipe, but as he stretched his fingers he could feel a current of story-music streaming between him and the harp. Then, amazed, he saw the harp slide along the wall. He dropped his hands and the harp stopped, raised them again, and the harp slid toward him. Just as he was caught up in the delight of this, something said:

  “Burn! Burn!”

  He whirled toward the voice. He saw a tall, cloaked figure looming blackly against the moon, which now looked in through the window in perfect fullness. The figure dropped its cloak. It was female. But difficult to see now for she was clad in a long tunic, moon colored. Her eyes were two holes and her mouth was another. Her nose was a hole. And he felt his wits slipping as her hair shook, for there was no distinction between the color of her hair and that of her face. He saw that it was not hair at all, as we know it, but strands of skin with the power of movement. It moved upon her head, separating into tentacles of flesh that curled, noosing his attention as a snake, weaving, charms a bird so it cannot move.

  “Stand!” said Finn. “Name yourself.”

  “You know two of my names.”

  “Drabne?” whispered Finn, feeling himself dissolve in horror. “Fish Hag?”

  “We are acquainted, you see. But not nearly so well as we shall be.”

  “Your errand here?” he muttered, trying to stop his bones from turning to mush.

  “I come to burn,” she said. “I am she who comes by night to parch all moist ideas of youth, to devour honor and courage and all their ornaments and implements, and finally, most cruel, to incinerate hope itself by my punctuality. For men know that I must come upon this night, and no matter what they do or how they pray, they cannot postpone my visit.… Queen of Crones am I, marrow of death, come to teach the nature of flame. What is it, young man? You like riddles. What is flame? Give me its name.”

  Finn said nothing. He was trying to escape the mesh of that weaving hair. Trying to struggle out of the spell cast by that voice and the words it said.

  “You do not know? Then I shall teach you. Fire is impatience, deadliest of sins. Fire is despair galloping. Fire is the inevitable summoned too soon in the secret craven hollow of men, who, in their vile fear of What Must Be,
bring it on too soon to ease the pain. Fire is impatience. Fire is death dancing, the music of chaos, the jewel of waste—see?”

  From all the holes of her face flame gushed. Fire spurted yellow, red, and green. Tapestries burst into flame. The draft of the flame moved the weapons on the wall, making them chime, touched a string of the harp, which uttered one moaning syllable like a strong man in unutterable pain. She spat at the huge oaken council table, which fell into ash.

  Then, most horrible, he saw the tentacles that were her hair coil upon themselves, and violently uncoil, springing clear off her head and hissing through the air toward him. He snatched a sword from the wall and flailed the air, cutting the tentacles into pieces as they came. Each piece, as it fell to the floor, became a flesh worm with a torch in its tail. The fiery army inched toward him as their mistress harried them onward, screaming out of her mouth-hole.

  Finn could not defend himself. There was no use striking with his sword. The tentacles were cut as fine as could be. They swarmed up his legs, stinging him with their fiery tails. In his agony he sang the Final Rune taught him by the Salmon.

  Creature pair of earth and air,

  Here and there and everywhere,

  Come, I pray, and serve me fair.…

  No sooner had he sung that than he saw his black tomcat leap into the room. Half-blinded by smoke, he saw the great gray falcon of Goll McMorna stoop for the kill, claws gaping. Cat and hawk moved through the fiery worms like mowers through a field, slashing with tooth and claw, sweeping the meaty little gobbets into their jaws, flame and all, screaming the proud scream of rage consuming its object, growing with what it fed upon.

  But the ordeal had only begun. Still confronting Finn was the tall, robed figure of his enemy, bald now, her head pocked with scorch marks, closer now. He heard the soft wordless crooning of her hate. She smiled at him. An arrow of flame seared his head and buried itself in the oaken bench, which flared brightly, fell to ash. She moved toward him. The front of his shirt caught fire.