Monsters of Celtic Mythology

by Bernard Evslin

  “The chance I give you. Which means the chance you give yourself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Your weapons will do for you only what you do for them. You must make them extensions of yourself. Infuse them with your own virtue. They will respond to your courage; smite with your strength, take their edge from your fineness.”

  “A stick against a sword … wood against iron …”

  “Wood is alive. Iron is wood, long dead. The devils are dead gods.”

  “Help me to understand.”

  “You have seen a horrible vision of man as mineral devil, consuming the earth with mineral fire. But that vision will begin to come true only when the weapons that men wield are stronger than man himself. On that day he begins to lose both strength and honor, and gives himself to the mineral devil. Do you understand?”

  “I’m trying to.”

  “You have come to me, Amara, Goddess of Growing Things. You are son of the oak, harvest prince, my green hero. You cannot bear metal. You must use the living tools I give you.”

  “Shall I cut my stick from that hawthorn tree?”

  “I’ll break it off. No blade must touch it.”

  “And the bag of seed?”

  “I’ll teach you its use.”

  Amara taught Finn how to use the seeds. They were acorns of the Druid Oak. Now, the roots of an oak tree go very deep. They sink themselves into the soil as far as they can, and grapple the earth hungrily. The bigger the tree, the longer its roots. And this Druid Oak was the biggest tree in all Eire, and perhaps in all the world.

  “Keep the seeds in your pouch,” Amara said. “And keep the pouch at your belt. The seeds will hunger to sink themselves into the earth and put out roots, so that you will be given an enormous family pull toward earth. Each time you touch the earth you will feel new strength coursing through your body, the incredible, stubborn, sappy strength of living things—the green strength, the magical plant strength which can push a tiny flower through a floor of stone, the flower we call saxifrage. So imagine what power it gives to the oak and the seeds of the oak. And that power, Finn, will flow through you when you touch the earth. With sword and battle-ax Goll will try to beat down your guard and beat you to earth. But if he does, you will drink of its strength and arise renewed.”

  “And the seeds stay always in my pouch?” said Finn. “And the pouch at my belt?”

  “Only if you know you face death the next instant may you take a seed from the pouch. Then take only one, and cast it upon the earth. But remember—only if you face death. If you do it before that time you will have scattered your strength and must fall under the blows of your enemy.”

  “I shall remember,” said Finn.

  “Go now. I shall watch over you. I—Amara, Lady of the Grove, Bride of the Oak, Queen of the Harvest, Goddess of Growing Things. Take of my strength. Drink of my bounty. Strike a blow for the quick, the living, the warm-blooded. Blessings of the seed be upon you, of the root and the blossom. Murmurous blessing of the leaves. Be of good cheer, have no fear, strike with joy. The grace of all natural strokes be with you—from tiger paw to leaf fall. Bless you, Finn, bless you. Your victory is ours.”

  She knelt and took him into her meadow-sweet embrace, kissed him upon the lips, leaving him reeling with happiness, and unafraid.

  All of Eire had come to see the battle, it seemed. Upon the great plain of Meath before the walls of Tara were assembled the bravest and fairest in all the land. The fog had blown away. A slant sun fell; the air was blue and smoky. Tents and pavilions flashed upon the plain, striped blue and crimson. Struck into the ground stood a forest of pennants—the colors of the warrior chief, colors of the fighting clans. The tents of the Fianna were green and gold; they sat in one cluster. The High King sat on the royal stone—three slabs of rock forming a natural throne—on a hill overlooking the plain. He sat there, his gold crown on his head, gold staff in his hand. His royal guard surrounded him. Standing there too, leaning on their spears, were the twelve brothers of Goll McMorna, underchiefs of the Fianna. The ladies of the court stood with their men. They wore gowns of silk and wreaths of flowers in their hair. They were tall and free limbed and easy laughing. They often accompanied their men into battle, and were sometimes feared more than the men themselves.

  There were others there too—a dreadful legion whom no one saw. They had the power of keeping themselves invisible to mortal eyes until they chose to appear. These were Drabne’s daughters and Vilemurk’s cohorts, summoned there to help Goll, if needed. Mist crones and frost demons, the Master of Winds, and Vilemurk himself, of course. He was too important for complete invisibility, though; all you could see of him was the edge of his beard, like a fleecy cloud.

  The king raised his staff. Trumpets cried. Goll McMorna entered the field, riding a huge black horse. Lances of sunlight shivered on his breastplate of brass and his brass greaves. He carried a long spear for throwing, a great two-handed sword for closer work, and a battle-ax slung. A mighty shout arose when he appeared. He stood in his stirrups and shook his spear. The shouting doubled and redoubled until the glade rang with the voices of the fighting men of Eire. The Fianna added its keening eagle war cry, and each clan answered with its own battle shout.

  Then Finn came into the field. There was a great collective sighing gasp of wonder and disappointment. He didn’t seem like he was coming to fight at all. Where Goll was all massive heaviness and brassy strength, Finn—clad in green, unmounted, walking across the field—seemed to have the lightness of the meadow grass itself, which was barely disturbed as he walked. Light footed he came. He wore no armor, only his woolen tunic, dyed green. On his head was a crown of oak leaves. All he bore in the way of arms was a hawthorn stick and a wicker shield. At his belt was a leather bag.

  The king raised his staff again. The trumpets sounded a challenge. Finn stood on the grass, facing Goll, and called:

  “I, Finn McCool, son of Cuhal, grandson of the oak, wearer of Amara’s green, accuse you, Goll, son of Morna, of my father’s murder and wrongful claim to the chieftainship of the Fianna. I challenge you to mortal combat.”

  Goll sat on his horse like a brass statue. His voice rang like brass as he answered:

  “I, Goll McMorna, scourge of the Clan Cuhal, chief of the Fianna, wearing tomorrow’s bright metal, give the lie to all you say. I accuse you of conduct unbecoming a member of the Fianna. I accuse you of salmon poaching, witch baiting, cat theft, hawk theft, and of foul tampering with the sacred Druid feast. I accept your challenge, and shall prove your guilt upon your body.”

  The king raised his staff again; the trumpets sounded a third time. The fight began.

  Goll set his lance, crouched in his saddle, and spurred his horse into a thundering gallop. Finn stood there, waiting. The crowd gasped, seeing the slender youth hold his ground before the huge horse hurtling toward him. At the very last second Finn seemed to sway away without moving his feet. Goll’s lance whistled past his shoulder; the great horse rushed past, just grazing his tunic, and hurtled to the other side of the field before Goll could rein him up.

  Finn stood there, waiting, a smile on his face. He still had not moved his feet. Again Goll charged. Again Finn swayed like a river reed touched by a breeze. Again the stallion’s shoulder grazed his tunic as it stormed past. And Finn stood there, unhurt, still smiling.

  Now Goll changed tactics. He made the horse walk slowly, like a cat stalking a bird, over the field toward Finn. Goll poised himself in the saddle, sword held high. Finn left his place then and circled very slowly, crouching slightly, holding his wicker shield in one hand and the hawthorn stick in the other. Goll walked his horse in tightening circles around Finn until he towered over the boy—then raised his sword and brought it crashing down. The crowd shouted at this terrific blow, expecting to see the heavy blade split Finn vertically, like a cook slicing a celery stalk.

  Finn held up his wicker shield slantwise so that the sword fell upon it, but glancingly, an
d was deflected. The blow was so powerful that Goll almost fell from his saddle, but he recovered quickly, raised his sword again, and struck another blow, which, this time, Finn deflected with a whisk of his stick. Finn’s blow was so swift it was almost invisible, slashing Goll across the wrist at the moment of downstroke, so that the huge blade was again made to swerve, but this time with terrible effect.

  The edge of the blade hit Goll’s horse full upon the chest. The black stallion whinnied in agony and threw itself backward, flinging Goll clear, then rolling over the grass in his death throes. But the man was such a superb warrior that he did not allow this fall to unbalance him, but twisted in the air and landed crouching on his feet. Goll rushed toward Finn, slashing with his sword. Finn circled slowly, weaving shield and stick, deflecting the heavy blows. But Goll was enraged by the death of his horse. He was swept with battle fury, fired with a savage strength such as he had never known. He battered at Finn with his heavy sword until, finally, the blade sheared through the wicker shield—which turned it enough so that the flat of the blade fell upon Finn’s shoulder. But it was a paralyzing blow. Finn felt his arm and shoulder go numb. Before he could recover, Goll had cut at him with a vicious backhanded stroke, slashing his right arm, and he could barely hold the hawthorn stick.

  He leaped aside to avoid a third blow, but was so weakened by the loss of blood he fell to earth. Finn immediately felt a giant sappy strength flowing through him, stanching his blood, filling him with an ecstasy of vigor. An amazed Goll saw the youth, beaten to earth a second before, spring up and face him again, smiling.

  Now Finn moved so lightly that to strike him was like attacking a butterfly with a club. He floated away from Goll’s blows, then slid in again jabbing with his pointed stick, stinging like a hornet. Again and again he touched Goll on the parts of his body not covered by brass—his arms, his legs above the greaves, his face beneath the helmet.

  The crowd, wondering, saw the mighty Goll stop and stand, bewildered, like a man attacked in the glade by a swarm of hornets. They saw him wipe the blood from his face and paw at Finn with his sword. But the boy was all about him, stabbing, dancing in and out so fast the eye could not follow, and Goll could not touch him with his blade.

  Now Vilemurk took a hand. He whistled up a hailstorm—a small one—which fell on the field from a cloudless sky, and spat ice at Finn as he stalked toward the confused Goll. And Finn, stepping across the field, ready for a final attack, full of confidence and cold joy, suddenly felt his feet slipping … slipping. He shuffled desperately, trying to keep his balance—for Goll had recovered and was coming toward him.

  Then he lost sight of Goll completely. He saw nothing. He was blinded by a moist grayness that pressed upon him, snuffing the sun, blotting his sight. The crowd lost sight of him and could not understand. Where he stood was a column of fog. What had happened was that the mist crones, signaled by Vilemurk, had flown down invisibly to join the hailstorm and cast their fog upon Finn, fitting it as closely as a garment.

  Goll, standing on the sunny field, saw the misty shape of his foe, stumbling and groping, and was able to approach without any danger to himself. He walked up to the column of mist and began to slash it with his sword, slashing again and again, leaving the mist in tatters.

  The brothers of Goll raised their eagle cry as they saw Finn stagger out of the fog, bleeding from a hundred wounds. They saw him sway, and sink to earth. But Vilemurk understood now that Finn was renewing himself every time he touched the earth, and he would not let that happen again. He whistled a third time. The Master of Winds shook a small tornado out of his cloak—a black funneling spout of wind. It whirled down on Finn, seized him, whirled him on the grass, bleeding as he was, then lifted him into the air and held him aloft so that he could not touch the earth.

  Finn hung in the air, almost dead. Goll had thrown off his helmet. He walked slowly to where Finn floated, shoulder high, drawing his dagger as he went. Goll’s hair was red as blood. His face was greenish white, cheese colored, dewed with sweat, twitching with delight. He wound his left hand into Finn’s black hair and drew back his head, stretching his neck. Then he raised his knife.

  Finn’s thoughts were dim as his life bled away. He felt the hand of his enemy on his head, but in his dimness the heavy hand felt like a caress. A thought floated free:

  “Time to cast the seed, for, surely, I’ll never be any closer to death than this.”

  His fingers twitched at his belt, but he had lost too much strength. He could not untie the leather pouch and cast the seed. He saw Goll’s knife glittering above his head.

  Then, in the hills, Amara laughed.

  Goll was taking his time, raising the knife high, admiring how it flashed in the sun, knowing the crowd was hypnotized by the flashing blade too, and that they were watching him, Goll, standing triumphant over his fallen foe. And as the knife glittered, Amara laughed. Finn, with his last failing sense, heard her laugh. And Goll heard her laugh. He stood there, arm high, transfixed by the wild music of her laughter. All the vast crowd heard that laughter.

  No one knew what it was; no one had heard anything like it. There was something of the hawk’s cry in her laughter, of lark-thronging dawns. Of the tumbling of waters. Of mare trumpeting, answering stallions on the hill. In her laughter was gaudy summer and the million-voiced murmur of grass, and the hush of a pumpkin moon.

  The dimming spark of Finn’s life flickered in the gust of that laughter, and flared briefly. His fingers twitched again at the mouth of the pouch and worked it open. He plucked an acorn from the bag and let it drop to earth—just as Goll recovered from his hesitation and slashed downward at Finn’s throat.

  The seed was quicker. An oak sapling sprouted with magic speed, striking Goll’s arm, knocking the dagger aside. A hedge of saplings sprang between Finn and Goll, shutting Goll off from his prey, forcing them further and further apart—one sapling then another springing from the ground, locking their branches, twining their twigs, making a brambly hedge for Goll—a leafy cell. He struggled and plunged but could not free himself. Vines caught his arms and legs. He was a prisoner of growth.

  Vilemurk saw what was happening. He gestured to the Master of Winds, who immediately flung a sharp-edged gale to scythe down the hedge. But the downdraft of the gale hit Finn and pressed him to earth. As soon as he touched earth his wounds closed; his mind cleared. A sappy green strength coursed through him, and he sprang to his feet, bright as morning.

  The gale scythed down the saplings. The hedge was falling. Goll was struggling free. Finn picked up his hawthorn stick and let himself be taken by the gale. He went flying across the field like a leaf—going with enormous speed, holding the pointed stick. And when he hit Goll he had all the force of the gale behind him—that force which has been known to drive a splinter of wood through a stone wall. The hawthorn stick went through the brass breastplate like a needle through cloth and came out the other side. Goll fell heavily, gaffed like a trout.

  Finn stood over him, hair ruffled by the wind, eyes glowing. He raised his hawthorn stick on high and lifted his voice in the great victory cry of the Fianna. The Fianna called back. He was their chief now.

  The Clan McMorna howled their grief. The daughters of Drabne screeched in rage as they flew off. Vilemurk made no sound; he departed invisibly, planning vengeance. He would have to wait, he knew, but he could do that. Foul-weather fiends are very patient.

  The hawk screamed with joy. The cat cried murder and amour.

  Finn lifted his face toward the sky. He was not smiling. His face was not that of a boy, but of a man who has killed an enemy who was trying to kill him.

  Amara laughed again from the hills.

  PIG’S PLOUGHMAN

  A full turn of the wheel

  brings back GALEAL—

  a more ardent reader than ever

  Characters

  Monsters

  Pig’s Ploughman

  The Lord of Winter, also known as Vilemurk


  Dragon

  Ice-breathing monster who serves Vilemurk

  Mist crones

  Winter demons

  Head smith

  A mountain troll

  Gods

  Lyr

  God of the Sea who doubles as a monster according to mood

  Mortals

  Finn McCool

  A young hero

  Houlihan

  Slovenly cattle breeder and thief

  Kathleen

  Houlihan’s daughter

  Carth of the Cove

  Kathleen’s husband

  Widow of the Cove

  Kathleen’s mother-in-law

  Animals

  Cat

  A huge black tom, Finn’s loyal friend

  Hawk

  A falcon, another loyal friend of Finn’s

  Seven sharks

  Three swans

  Contents

  CHAPTER I

  Names for the Frost Fiend

  CHAPTER II

  Gods at Odds

  CHAPTER III

  Houlihan’s Daughter

  CHAPTER IV

  The Divided Husband

  CHAPTER V

  The Captive God

  CHAPTER VI

  Fire and Ice

  CHAPTER VII

  Dragon Time

  CHAPTER VIII

  Another Sword

  CHAPTER IX

  How Lyr Paid His Debt

  1

  Names for the Frost Fiend