Robin was well acquainted with the Giant’s Stairs – as, indeed, who is not that knows the harbour? They consist of great masses of rock, which, piled one above another, rise like a flight of steps from very deep water, against the bold cliff of Carrigmahon. Nor are they badly suited for stairs to those who have legs of sufficient length to stride over a moderate-sized house, or to enable them to clear the space of a mile in a hop, step and jump. Both these feats the giant MacMahon was said to have performed in the days of Finnian glory; and the common tradition of the country placed his dwelling within the cliff up whose side the stairs led.
Such was the impression which the dream made on Robin, that he determined to put its truth to the test. It occurred to him, however, before setting out on his adventure, that a plough-iron may be no bad companion, as, from experience, he knew that it was an excellent knock-down argument, having on more occasions than one settled a little disagreement very quietly: so, putting one on his shoulder, off he marched, in the cool of the evening, through Glaun a Thowk (the Hawk’s Glen) to Monkstown. Here an old friend of his (Tom Clancey by name) lived, who on hearing Robin’s dream, promised him the use of his skiff, and moreover, offered to assist in rowing it to the Giant’s Stairs.
After supper, which was of the best, they embarked. It was a beautiful still night, and the little boat glided swiftly along. The regular dip of the oars, the distant song of the sailor, and sometimes the voice of a belated traveller at the ferry of Carrigaloe, alone broke the quietness of the land and sea and sky. The tide was in their favour, and in a few minutes Robin and his friend rested on their oars under the dark shadow of the Giant’s Stairs. Robin looked anxiously for the entrance to the Giant’s palace, which, it was said, may be found by any one seeking it at midnight; but no such entrance could he see. His impatience had hurried him there too early, and after waiting a considerable time in a state of suspense not to be described, Robin, with pure vexation, could not help exclaiming to his companion, ‘‘Tis a pair of fools we are, Tom Clancey, for coming here at all on the strength of a dream.’
‘And whose doing is it,’ said Tom, ‘but your own?’
At the moment he spoke they perceived a faint glimmering of light to proceed from the cliff, which gradually increased until a porch big enough for a king’s palace unfolded itself almost on a level with the water. They pulled the skiff towards the opening, and Robin Kelly, seizing his plough-iron, boldly entered with a strong hand and a stout heart. Wild and strange was that entrance, the whole of which appeared formed of grim and grotesque faces, blending so strangely each with the other that it was impossible to define any: the chin of one formed the nose of another; what appeared to be a fixed and stern eye, if dwelt upon, changed to a gaping mouth; and the lines of the lofty forehead grew into a majestic and flowing beard. The more Robin allowed himself to contemplate the forms around him, the more terrific they became; and the stony expression of this crowd of faces assumed a savage ferocity as his imagination converted feature after feature into a different shape and character. Losing the twilight in which these indefinite forms were visible, he advanced through a dark and devious passage, whilst a deep and rumbling noise sounded as if the rock was about to close upon him, and swallow him up alive forever. Now, indeed, poor Robin felt afraid.
‘Robin, Robin,’ said he, ‘if you were a fool for coming here, what in the name of fortune are you now?’ But, as before, he had scarcely spoken, when he saw a small light twinkling through the darkness of the distance, like a star in the midnight sky. To retreat was out of the question; for so many turnings and windings were in the passage, that he considered he had but little chance of making his way back. He, therefore, proceeded towards the bit of light, and came at last into a spacious chamber, from the roof of which hung the solitary lamp that had guided him. Emerging from such profound gloom the single lamp afforded Robin abundant light to discover several gigantic figures seated round a massive stone table, as if in serious deliberation, but no word disturbed the breathless silence which prevailed. At the head of this table sat Mahon MacMahon himself, whose majestic beard had taken root, and in the course of ages grown into the stone slab. He was the first who perceived Robin; and instantly starting up, drew his long beard from out the huge piece of rock in such haste and with so sudden a jerk that it was shattered into a thousand pieces.
‘What seek you?’ he demanded in a voice of thunder.
‘I come,’ answered Robin, with as much boldness as he could put on, for his heart was almost fainting within him; ‘I come,’ said he, ‘to claim Philip Ronayne, whose time of service is out this night.’
‘And who sent you here?’ said the giant.
‘’Twas of my own accord I came,’ said Robin.
‘Then you must single him out from among my pages,’ said the giant; ‘and if you fix on the wrong one, your life is forfeit. Follow me.’ He led Robin into a hall of vast extent and filled with lights; along either side of which were rows of beautiful children, all apparently seven years old, and none beyond that age, dressed in green, and every one exactly dressed alike.
‘Here,’ said Mahon, ‘you are free to take Philip Ronayne, if you will; but, remember, I give you but one choice.’
Robin was sadly perplexed; for there were hundreds upon hundreds of children; and he had no very clear recollection of the boy he sought. But he walked along the hall, by the side of Mahon, as if nothing was the matter, although his great iron dress clanked fearfully at every step, sounding louder than Robin’s own sledge-hammer battering on his anvil.
They had nearly reached the end without speaking, when Robin, seeing that the only means he had was to make friends with the giant, determined to try what effect a few soft words might have.
‘‘Tis a fine wholesome appearance the poor children carry,’ remarked Robin, ‘although they have been here so long shut out from the fresh air and the blessed light of heaven. ‘Tis tenderly your honour must have reared them!’
‘Ay,’ said the giant, ‘that is true enough; so give me your hand; for you are, I believe, a very honest fellow for a blacksmith.’
Robin at the first look did not much like the huge size of the hand, and, therefore, presented his plough-iron, which the giant seizing, twisted in his grasp round and round again as if it had been a potato stalk. On seeing this all the children set up a shout of laughter. In the midst of their mirth Robin thought he heard his name called; and all ear and eye, he put his hand on the boy who he fancied had spoken, crying out at the same time, ‘Let me live or die for it, but this is young Phil Ronayne.’
‘It is Philip Ronayne – happy Philip Ronayne,’ said his young companions; and in an instant the hall became dark. Crashing noises were heard, and all was in strange confusion; but Robin held fast his prize, and found himself lying in the grey dawn of the morning at the head of the Giant’s Stairs with the boy clasped in his arms.
Robin had plenty of friends to spread the story of his wonderful adventure: Passage, Monkstown, Carrigaline – the whole barony of Kerricurrihy rung with it.
‘Are you quite sure, Robin, it is young Phil Ronayne you have brought back with you?’ was the regular question; for although the boy had been seven years away, his appearance now was just the same as on the day he was missed. He had neither grown taller nor older in look, and he spoke of things which had happened before he was carried off as one awakened from sleep, or as if they had occurred yesterday.
‘Am I sure? Well, that’s a queer question,’ was Robin’s reply; ‘seeing the boy has the blue eye of the mother, with the foxy hair of the father; to say nothing of the purty wart on the right side of his little nose.’
However Robin Kelly may have been questioned, the worthy couple of Ronayne’s Court doubted not that he was the deliverer of their child from the power of the giant MacMahon; and the reward they bestowed on him equalled their gratitude.
Philip Ronayne lived to be an old man; and he was remarkable to the day of his death for his skill in working b
rass and iron, which it was believed he had learned during his seven years’ apprenticeship to the giant Mahon MacMahon.
‘A Legend of Knockmany’ by William Carleton
What Irish man, woman or child has not heard of our renowned Hibernian Hercules, the great and glorious Finn M’Coul? Not one, from Cape Clear to the Giant’s Causeway, nor from that back again to Cape Clear. And, by the way, speaking of the Giant’s Causeway brings me at once to the beginning of my story. Well, it so happened that Finn and his men were all working at the Causeway, in order to make a bridge across to Scotland; when Finn, who was very fond of his wife Oonagh, took it into his head that he would go home and see how the poor woman got on in his absence. So, accordingly, he pulled up a fir-tree, and, after lopping off the roots and branches, made a walking-stick of it, and set out on his way to Oonagh.
Oonagh, or rather Finn, lived at this time on the very tiptop of Knockmany Hill, which faces a cousin of its own called Cullamore, that rises up, half-hill, half-mountain, on the opposite side.
There was at that time another giant, named Cucullin – some say he was Irish, and some say he was Scotch – but whether Scotch or Irish, there was no question but he was a terror. No other giant of the day could stand before him; and such was his strength, that, when well vexed, he could give a stamp that shook the country about him. The fame and name of him went far and near; and nothing in the shape of a man, it was said, had any chance with him in a fight. By one blow of his fists he flattened a thunderbolt and kept it in his pocket, in the shape of a pancake, to show to all his enemies, when they were about to fight him. Undoubtedly he had given every giant in Ireland a considerable beating, barring Finn M’Coul himself; and he swore that he would never rest, night or day, winter or summer, till he would serve Finn with the same sauce, if he could catch him. However, the short and long of it was, with reverence be it spoken, that Finn heard Cucullin was coming to the Causeway to have a trial of strength with him; and he was seized with a very warm and sudden fit of affection for his wife, poor woman, leading a very lonely, uncomfortable life of it in his absence. He accordingly pulled up the fir-tree, as I said before, and having snedded it into a walking-stick, set out on his travels to see his darling Oonagh on the top of Knockmany, by the way.
In truth, the people wondered very much why it was that Finn selected such a windy spot for his dwelling-house, and they even went so far as to tell him as much.
‘What can you mane, Mr M’Coul,’ said they, ‘by pitching your tent upon the top of Knockmany, where you never are without a breeze, day or night, winter or summer; where, besides this, there’s the sorrow’s own want of water?’
‘Why,’ said Finn, ‘ever since I was the height of a round tower, I was known to be fond of having a good prospect of my own; and where the dickens, neighbours, could I find a better spot for a good prospect than the top of Knockmany? As for water, I am sinking a pump, and, plase goodness, as soon as the Causeway’s made, I intend to finish it.’
Now, this was more of Finn’s philosophy; for the real state of the case was, that he pitched upon the top of Knockmany in order that he might be able to see Cucullin coming towards the house. All we have to say is, that if he wanted a spot from which to keep a sharp look-out – and, between ourselves, he did want it grievously – barring Slieve Croob, or Slieve Donard, or its own cousin, Cullamore, he could not find a neater or more convenient situation for it in the sweet and sagacious province of Ulster.
‘God save all here!’ said Finn, good-humouredly, on putting his honest face into his own door.
‘Musha, Finn, avick, an’ you’re welcome home to your own Oonagh, you darlin’ bully.’ Here followed a smack that is said to have made the waters of the lake at the bottom of the hill curl, as it were, with kindness and sympathy.
Finn spent two or three happy days with Oonagh, and felt himself very comfortable, considering the dread he had of Cucullin. This, however, grew upon him so much that his wife could not but perceive something lay on his mind which he kept altogether to himself. Let a woman alone, in the meantime, for ferreting or wheedling a secret out of her good man, when she wishes. Finn was a proof of this.
‘It’s this Cucullin,’ said he, ‘that’s troubling me. When the fellow gets angry, and begins to stamp, he’ll shake you a whole townland; and it’s well known that he can stop a thunderbolt, for he always carries one about him in the shape of a pancake, to show to anyone that might be planning to fight him.’
As he spoke, he clapped his thumb in his mouth, which he always did when he wanted to prophesy, or to know anything that happened in his absence; and the wife asked him what he did it for.
‘He’s coming,’ said Finn; ‘I see him below Dungannon.’
‘Thank goodness, dear! an’ who is it, avick? Glory be to God!’
‘That baste, Cucullin,’ replied Finn; ‘and how to manage I don’t know. If I run away, I am disgraced; and I know that sooner or later I must meet him, for my thumb tells me so.’
‘When will he be here?’ said she.
‘Tomorrow, about two o’clock,’ replied Finn with a groan.
‘Well, my bully, don’t be cast down,’ said Oonagh; ‘depend on me, and maybe I’ll bring you better out of this scrape than ever you could bring yourself, by your rule o’ thumb.’
She then made a high smoke fire on the top of the hill, after which she put her finger in her mouth, and gave three whistles, and by that Cucullin knew he was invited to Cullamore – for this was the way that the Irish long ago gave a sign to all strangers and travellers, to let them know they were welcome to come and take share of whatever was going.
In the meantime, Finn was very melancholy, and did not know what to do, or how to act at all. Cucullin was an ugly customer to meet with; and, the idea of the ‘pancake’ aforesaid flattened the very heart within him. What chance could he have, strong and brave though he was, with a man who could, when put in a passion, walk the country into earthquakes and knock thunderbolts into pancakes? Finn didn’t know where to turn for help. Right or left – backward or forward – where to go he could form no guess whatsoever.
‘Oonagh,’ said he, ‘can you do nothing for me? Where’s all your invention? Am I to be skivered like a rabbit before your eyes, and to have my name disgraced forever in the sight of all my tribe, and me the best man among them? How am I to fight this man-mountain – this huge cross between an earthquake and a thunderbolt? – with a pancake in his pocket that was once –’
‘Take it easy, Finn,’ replied Oonagh; ‘troth, I’m ashamed of you. Keep your head, will you? Talking of pancakes, maybe, we’ll give him as good as any he brings with him – thunderbolt or otherwise. If I don’t treat him to as smart feeding as he’s got this many a day, never trust Oonagh again. Leave him to me, and do just as I bid you.’
This relieved Finn very much; for, after all, he had great confidence in his wife, knowing, as he did, that she had got him out of many a quandary before. Oonagh then drew the nine woollen threads of different colours, which she always did to find out the best way of succeeding in anything of importance she went about. She then platted them into three plats with three colours in each, putting one on her right arm, one round her heart, and the third round her right ankle, for then she knew that nothing could fail with her that she undertook.
Having everything now prepared, she sent round to the neighbours and borrowed one-and-twenty iron griddles, which she took and kneaded into the hearts of one-and-twenty cakes of bread, and these she baked on the fire in the usual way, setting them aside in the cupboard according as they were done. She then put down a large pot of new milk, which she made into curds and whey. Having done all this, she sat down quite contented, waiting for Cucullin’s arrival on the next day about two o’clock, that being the hour at which he was expected – for Finn knew as much by the sucking of his thumb. Now this was a curious property that Finn’s thumb had. In this very thing, moreover, he was very much resembled by his great foe, Cucullin; for it w
as well known that the huge strength he possessed all lay in the middle finger of his right hand, and that, if he happened by any mischance to lose it, he was no more, for all his bulk, than a common man.
At length, the next day, Cucullin was seen coming across the valley, and Oonagh knew that it was time to commence operations. She immediately brought the cradle, and made Finn to lie down in it, and cover himself up with the clothes.
‘You must pass for your own child,’ said she; ‘so just lie there snug, and say nothing, but be guided by me.’
About two o’clock, as he had been expected, Cucullin came in. ‘God save all here!’ said he; ‘is this where the great Finn M’Coul lives?’
‘Indeed it is, honest man,’ replied Oonagh; ‘God save you kindly – won’t you be sitting?’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ says he, sitting down; ‘you’re Mrs M’Coul, I suppose?’
‘I am,’ said she; ‘and I have no reason, I hope, to be ashamed of my husband.’
‘No,’ said the other, ‘he has the name of being the strongest and bravest man in Ireland; but for all that, there’s a man not far from you that’s very desirous of taking a shake with him. Is he at home?’
‘Why, then, no,’ she replied; ‘and if ever a man left his house in a fury, he did. It appears that some one told him of a big basthoon of a giant called Cucullin being down at the Causeway to look for him, and so he set out there to try if he could catch him. Well, truthfully, I hope, for the poor giant’s sake, he won’t meet with him, for if he does, Finn will make paste of him at once.’
‘Well,’ said the other, ‘I am Cucullin, and I have been seeking him these twelve months, but he always kept clear of me; and I will never rest night or day till I lay my hands on him.’
Irish Folk and Fairy Tales Page 10