Monsters of Celtic Mythology

by Bernard Evslin

  All the contrariness of Finn gathered itself in a cold coil in his chest, freezing his flesh. He summoned up the loveliest, coldest images his short life had ever known: icy fire of cat’s-eye, blue shadow of snow, turquoise wink of mountain lake, wind made visible being clothed in mist, silhouette of wild goose against the yellow moon, hard shark-smile of Norah’s Shoal, and, finally, the chill tinkle of Murtha’s laughter when she wanted him to know that he needed to be scorned.

  The cold images clustered like snow crystals, shielding him from the darts of fire. The crone, thwarted, screamed a huge gout of flame that rolled across the floor, charring away planks, eating the beams down to the foundation stone. The floor tottered, and the whole castle spun upon its axis, whirling its shadows, scattering moonlight like the jeweled fire-tops that pampered princelings play with in the Land Beyond the Sunrise.

  Finn fell to his knees, sinking beneath the heat of that hateful flame that was burning away his crystal shield. He stretched his arms toward Dagda’s harp, the harp of the ancients, which hung on Tara’s wall and had once belonged to the wizard bard of the Tuatha da Danaan, who sang the beginning of things, the roots of heaven and earth, in the days when the gods dawned upon the unpeopled world.

  The harp flew through the air into Finn’s arms. Cradling it, he played one icy plangent note, and released it. The harp flew as easily through flame as the phoenix, that marvelous bird that lives in the heart of fire and is reborn from ash, and has become the sign of man’s hope. Through net of flame flew the harp, singing icily, straight at the crone, and smote her so hard that her head was torn from her shoulders and was hurled through the window, spouting blood and fire.

  The window smashed and was glued by her blood, retaining the color of flame. Lozenges of moonlight fell upon the splintered floor, healing its planks. All things arose again from fire as Finn fingered the harp and sang the phoenix song, sang each weapon and its numbered battles, which he learned through his fingers as he sang, for the harp played him even as he played it. Song of battle and deed and death, the colored fountains of youth and the parching of age. Sang past his own memory of how his father had won the chieftainship of the Fianna from the arrogant beardless youth who was now the twisted old king. And of how he, his father’s son, come unto radiant triumph after the night of ordeal, would claim his own chieftainship, and begin that scroll of deeds that would become song, sung perhaps by his own son when it would be his time to sing.

  The tomcat bounded in wearing scorched fur, angry, his eyes spitting green fire, and leaped upon Finn’s shoulder to be comforted.

  The great gray falcon flew in, feathers singed, squawking a huge oath of vengeance upon everything that moved beneath the sky, and sat on Finn’s other shoulder. She and the torn were inseparable now. She had left Goll and belonged to Finn.

  And Finn, stroking them, smiled to himself, remembering what the harp had told him—that he would have to take a bird and break the spell of McMorna before he would be allowed to fight Goll to the death.

  He stood on the scorched grass, cradling the harp. Only the wing of the castle that held the council room where he had waited seemed to have suffered from fire. Otherwise, the walls of Tara gleamed in the moonlight—not even stained by the smoke. Finn gazed raptly at the white walls. Within waited the king, and Goll, and all the tribe of McMorna, and the rest of the brilliant court. He would go there now and tell what happened, and claim a victor’s prize.

  But the harp lifted in his arms and began to fly the other way, pulling him into the open field. “Stop,” said Finn. “We go to the castle now.”

  “No,” sang the harp. “You mustn’t enter.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re preparing to do something fatally foolish.”

  “What?”

  “If you go there now in the first flush of triumph, you will claim the chieftainship of the Fianna. In other words, you will challenge Goll. He will welcome the challenge. For he knows that if you fight him now you will lose.”

  “Why must I lose?”

  “Because you’re not ready. You are unqualified even for membership in the Fianna, let alone to lead that band of matchless warriors. So far, in your short span of years, you have done well, even very well, but for this you are not ready, not ready, not ready.”

  “I hear the thrice-said word; repetition does not make it more palatable. How about some details of my unreadiness?”

  “Do you know what each candidate must do before being accepted in the ranks of the Fianna? Buried to the waist, and armed only with hazel stick and wicker shield, he must be able to ward off the attack of nine warriors, fully armed. Next, having defeated the nine warriors and pulled himself from the hole, he must braid up his hair and run like a fox with the Fianna in full cry after him. Through all the woods and fields of Eire must he run, from sea to sea. And if he is caught, or if a twig snaps under his foot, or one strand of his hair be disarrayed in its shining braid, then the lad has failed and will never be admitted to the band. Several other small tasks he is set: to jump from a standing position over a stick held level with his brow; to run full speed carrying sword, shield, and spear under that same stick held at the height of his knee; to run barefoot over a field of nettles—to step full upon one and receive the thorn driven into his foot without moan or murmur of pain, then, hopping, and without losing speed, to remove that thorn from his foot, and so proceed over the field.”

  “Impressive,” said Finn. “How then shall I proceed?”

  “You must come with me,” said the harp. “I’ll lead you across the island to a secret valley, where the McMorna will not be able to search you out and kill you. And they will try, they will try. But there in that hidden place you will practice the skills of warfare. You will run and swim and leap and play with sword and spear and bow until you meet Fianna standards. Then, and not until then, you will return to this place and try those skills against your enemy.”

  Finn gazed at the sky; he did not answer.

  “If you do not heed me now,” said the harp, “if you go in there and make your claim, you will be handing Goll the easiest victory he has had since murdering your father.”

  “Let’s go,” said Finn.

  He strode away from the castle, shedding his weariness and going at a good pace because the harp was pulling him. The hawk flew in slow circles above his head so as not to outdistance him. The cat prowled after, his blackness making him invisible except for the green blaze of his eyes.

  4

  Amara’s Warrior

  Now, a year later, Finn decided that he could wait no longer to challenge Goll McMorna. Although he had not yet reached his full strength, he had spent long months in weapon practice and so honed himself for battle that he could bear no further delay. So he began to journey across Meath, harp slung, sword at his side. The cat stalked after through the grass; the hawk circled low.

  Finally, on a blue smoky fall day they neared Tara, castle of the High King, where Goll also dwelt, and Finn watched eagerly for the first sight of its white stone walls and its roof, striped crimson and blue. But no castle appeared. They had come to a wall of fog, not like any fog they had known; it did not move upon the wind, nor rise, nor thin away. When they tried to pass through they did not bump into anything solid, but simply lost the power of movement until they stepped back.

  “What is it?” cried Finn.

  “Nothingness grown solid,” said the harp. “A clot of that which is not, barring that which is. Different forms of not-ness mixed, perhaps—invisibility, silence, denial—who knows what angry gods build with. Beyond lies Tara, or where Tara used to be.”

  “You think this the work of angry gods?”

  “Or playful ones. They’re equally dangerous.”

  “What do we do? How do we pass?”

  “Hard questions. We cannot seek their answers in ordinary places. Say a verse—quickly! Touch me and sing!”

  Finn touched the harp strings and sang:

  Har
p on tree,

  Hawk to sea,

  Cat makes three.

  “I read it like this,” said the harp. “You must hang me on a tree. The winds will come telling what they see when they blow over Meath. And you send the falcon flying to question the fowls of air. Set the creepy cat crawling in the underbrush, seeking rats and such as live in holes and burrows, going in and out and are filthy and have information. We shall gather the news and bring it back.”

  “Away with you, friends!” cried Finn. “And I shall study this puzzling wall more closely.”

  The hawk flew away to question the gulls, as instructed. The cat vanished into the underbrush. And Finn hung the harp on a willow tree.

  He himself departed to circle the wall of fog and look for a way through, but he came back to where he had started without glimpsing Tara. He came to the willow tree where he had hung the harp. It swayed there in the wind, singing softly. The hawk sat on a branch near it, and the cat sat next to the hawk.

  “I found no way through the fog,” said Finn.

  “Nor will you,” said the harp. “Now listen to what we have learned, we three. It is a magic fog, sowed by a hundred mist crones, flying in formation. They are the daughters of Drabne, whom you thwarted thrice and damaged severely, and they have vowed your destruction.”

  “But why the fog?”

  “To hide McMorna from you and prevent your challenge. And, it is said, Goll will stay hidden until this coven, and the assorted demons they have espoused, cook up a tactic that will assure your defeat.”

  “Things don’t seem to be going so well,” said Finn.

  “Not well at all, my boy. You need some influence in high places too, or you’ll never get to lead the Fianna. All you’ll be leading is your own funeral procession.”

  “What shall I do?”

  “Seek the help of a god.”

  “I don’t know any who’ll help me. In fact, I don’t know any at all.”

  “Try a goddess, then. Perhaps you’ll do better in that direction.”

  “What goddess?”

  “Amara, Queen of the Harvest. You may have pleased her without knowing it. She has always loathed Drabne in all her guises, and must have rejoiced in her defeat.”

  “Really? You think she might help me?”

  “It’s worth a try. You have nothing to lose.”

  “Come then,” said Finn. “We’ll look for Amara.”

  He found her under an oak tree, picking acorns. It was the largest oak in Eire, perhaps in the world. Unimaginably old, with a huge bole, massive limbs, and deep-ridged bark. It was called the Druid Oak, and was Amara’s favorite place.

  She was so tall she could stand under the tree and put fallen birds back into the nest merely by reaching her arm. Clad in green she was; her hair hung thick and yellow as sheaves of wheat. As Finn approached her he became aware of the fragrance arising from her bare shoulders; she smelled of sunshine and crushed grass. Her beauty robbed Finn of his sense; he could hardly speak.

  “Do you seek me, lad?” she called.

  “I seek you, O Queen of the Harvest. I seek your favor.”

  “Speak.”

  “I go in search of my enemy, Goll McMorna, and my cause is just. But he is being aided by witches and demons and the devil knows who, and I need help in high places.”

  “Mine, you mean.”

  “If you please.”

  “I must tell you this: Any favor I show you will be more than offset by the wrath of Vilemurk, the Foul-weather Fiend, Blighter of Crops, and my age-old enemy. Any friend of mine is a foe of his, and his rage is terrible.”

  “Your favor, I trow, is worth his wrath.”

  “One more thing. You should understand that a god’s favor can damage a weak man beyond repair—that it can twist him and blast him until it seems like a curse.”

  “Ah, Lady, I am accustomed to risk. And I have already been blessed or cursed by the sight of your beauty. I will take all you have to give, if you do the giving.”

  “You will obey me in all things?”

  “I will.”

  “Stand there, then, and accept what comes.”

  She stretched her arms high. Her tall radiance blotted the weak sunlight. The afternoon was stunned by her beauty. The brook stopped chattering, and the wind held its breath. The rough meadow grass stiffened. The Druid Oak stretched huge arms toward her, then tore itself out of the ground and hobbled toward her on its twisted roots. The birds, shaken from their nests, chided as they came. Finn would have fled the tree, but Amara pushed him into the thick of its brush. He tried to lunge away but could not break loose; he was tangled in a vine. Amara laughed and wound another coil of vine about him, binding him fast.

  “Do not struggle, foolish one,” said Amara. “Let him take you into his oaken embrace. Do you not know him? He is the Sacred Oak, broken shadow of the eldest god, who has taken root in this place and drinks its living waters, and grows huge and lusty, putting out blossoms, dropping acorns. He is a god, a rough, wooden, shade-giving god. He is the oak of your clan, Finn, vined by mistletoe, that magic loop. Yield … yield … it is a father’s embrace. He is of your father too, this oak; his long taproot drinks of dead kings.”

  Finn stopped struggling. In the music of her voice, he gave himself to the idea of the oak. A green drowse fell upon him, and he slept.

  When he awoke he was sitting in the shade of the Druid Oak, which had rooted itself again. Dusk had fallen, and a cold wind blew. Amara spoke to him:

  “You have taken a step toward understanding. Now do this: Strip yourself naked despite the cold, or rather because of the cold, so that you will be frozen away from your own self, so that your blood will slow and a silence come upon you, and a stillness upon your fancy, and you will invent nothing and claim nothing, but give yourself to perfect attention. After three days we will come together, and I shall hear what you have learned.”

  And so it was done. Finn sank into the ground past the roots of grass and flowers and the gnarled clutch of the oak to a warm place where waters are born out of underground steam. After three days he thawed, and clawed his way up again into light, disturbing moles.

  Amara was waiting for him under the oak tree. “Did you dwell in that darkness?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “In the silence?”

  “I did.”

  “Were you cold?”

  “I was.”

  “Did the darkness and the silence and the cold help you to perfect attention?”

  “They did.”

  “Did light come to you in the darkness?”

  “The only light came from a kind of dream that happened outside my head, not inside. A bright picture floated before me in the darkness. I saw low burned hills and a flash of sea. And things tearing the earth—pecking metal lizards all over, eating every inch of space, swarming on the beaches, filling the air with a brown oily smell, coming out of the earth to eat the living green. I felt my heart being devoured, Amara, as I watched the metal lizards eating the trees and pecking at the sand and drinking the margins of the sea. What were they? What did I see?”

  “Mineral devils.”

  “And what are they?”

  “They belong to the kingdom of Vilemurk. As Frost Demon and Lord of Misrule, he is King of the Mineral Devils. But you saw more in your vision. What else did you see?”

  “It was too horrible. I cannot bear to remember.”

  “You are my warrior. You must look horror in the face, and not flinch. Tell me what you saw.”

  “The mineral devils making a mineral masterpiece—a great egg that breaks into fire when it is laid by mineral birds. And the birds were in the air, dropping their eggs of fire, smashing cities, igniting the dust, fusing bones and beams, roasting the cattle in their fields and the fish in the lake.” His face was wet with tears. “What was it, Amara, what did I see?”

  “You saw man himself as mineral devil. In your vision of time to come, he has turned away from the living
gods and worships himself as mineral devil. Vilemurk triumphs, Drabne prevails. My crops are dead and I am dead. Man has turned his trees to spikes, his grass to barbs, and his path is stone.”

  “Will this come to pass? Must it be?”

  “There is no ‘must’ in human affairs, O boy-who-would-be-a-man. That is a Vilemurk idea. The mineral devils want man to believe that his future can be read in the cold and mathematical stars. And so man loses hope, loses joy, and abandons himself to the devil-gods of industry, artifice, anthill order. He trades his warm living body for a cold idea. Sells himself to the smith demons, to the Vilemurk vision, the Drabne design. Chains himself to anvil and stokes the forge fires until he drops from exhaustion or is flogged to death.”

  “Every word you speak, Amara, whets my appetite for battle.… Speaking of smiths, though, I wish I had a better blade.” He drew his sword and looked at it ruefully. “This is well enough, but I wish I had my father’s blue sword. It was taken from him when he was killed. Some McMorna has it now.”

  Amara said: “You will use no sword when you fight Goll McMorna.”

  “No sword?” cried Finn. “Why not?”

  “They are made of metal, and metal belongs to Vilemurk.”

  “This sword belongs to me.”

  “Its metal belongs to Vilemurk and will not serve you. Goll McMorna is Vilemurk’s man. Right now he is in the smithy, being armed by mineral devils. They are dressing him in metal. When he faces you he will wear brass armor and carry an iron sword.”

  “How will I be armed?”

  “With a hawthorn stick and a bag of seed. You will wear no armor, but a light woolen tunic, dyed green. No iron hat, but a crown of leaves. You will wield a hawthorn stick. At your belt will hang a bag of seed.”

  “And Goll will be wearing—what again?”

  “Breastplate and greaves of bright brass. He will carry a spear for throwing, and a huge two-handed sword for close work—and a battle-ax slung.”

  “A stick against a sword?” said Finn. “Goll is a fearsome warrior in his own right, you know, even without this inequality of arms. What chance will I have?”