Irish Folk and Fairy Tales

by Gordon Jarvie

  To a wonderful palace that is mine?

  White are the teeth there, and black the brows,

  And crimson as the mead are the lips of the lovers.

  O woman, if you come to my proud people,’

  Tis a golden crown shall circle your head,

  You shall dwell by the sweet streams of my land,

  And drink of the mead and wine in the arms of your lover.’

  Then he gently put his arms round the queen’s waist, and drew her up from her royal throne, and went forth with her through the midst of all the guests, none hindering, and the king himself was like one in a dream, and could neither speak nor move. But when he recovered himself, then he knew that the stranger was one of the fairy chiefs of the Tuatha-de-Danann who had carried off the beautiful Edain to his fairy mansion. So he sent round messengers to all the kings of Erin that they should destroy all the forts of the hated Tuatha race, and slay and kill and let none live till the queen, his young bride, was brought back to him.

  Still she came not. Then the king out of revenge ordered his men to block up all the stables where the royal horses of the Dananns were kept, that so they might die of hunger. But the horses were of noble blood, and no bars or bolts could hold them, and they broke through the bars and rushed out like the whirlwind, and spread all over the country. And the kings, when they saw the beauty of the horses, forgot all about the search for Queen Edain, and only strove how they could seize and hold as many as possible for themselves of the fiery steeds with the silver hoofs and golden bridles.

  Then the king raged in his wrath, and sent for the chief of the Druids, and told him he should be put to death unless he discovered the place where the queen lay hid. So the Druid went over all Ireland, and searched, and made spells with oghams on four wands of a hazel-tree. It was revealed to him that deep down in a hill in the very centre of Ireland, Queen Edain was hidden away in the enchanted palace of Midar the fairy chief.

  Then the king gathered a great army, and they circled the hill, and dug down and down till they came to the very centre. And just as they reached the gate of the fairy palace, Midar by his enchantments sent forth fifty beautiful women from the hillside, to distract the attention of the warriors, all so like the queen in form and features and dress, that the king himself could not make out truly, if his own wife were amongst them or not.

  But Edain, when she saw her husband so near her, was touched by love of him in her heart, and the power of the enchantment fell from her soul, and she came to him, and he lifted her up on his horse and kissed her tenderly, and brought her back safely to his royal palace of Tara, where they lived happily ever after.

  But soon after, the power of the Tuatha-de-Danann was broken forever, and the remnant that was left took refuge in the caves where they exist to this day, and practise their magic, and work spells, and are safe from death until the judgement day.

  ‘How Cuchulain Got His Name’ by Eleanor Hull

  In Ulster, near Cuchulain’s country, lived a mighty craftsman and smith, whose name was Culain. Now the custom is, that every man of means and every owner of land in Ulster, should, once in a year or so, invite the King and his chiefs to spend a few days, it may be a week or a fortnight, at his house, that he may give them entertainment. But Culain the smith owned no lands, nor was he rich, for only the fruit of his hammer, of his anvil and his tongs, had he. Nevertheless he desired to entertain the King at a banquet, and he went to Emain to invite his chief. But he said, ‘I have no lands or store of wealth; I pray you, therefore, to bring with you only a few of your prime warriors, because my house cannot contain a great company of guests.’ So the King said he would go, bringing but a small retinue with him.

  Culain returned home to prepare his banquet, and when the day was come, towards evening the King set forth to reach the fort of Culain. He assumed his light, convenient travelling garb, and before starting he went down to the green to bid the boy-corps of guards farewell.

  There he saw a sight so curious that he could not tear himself away. At one end of the green stood a group of a hundred and fifty youths, guarding one goal, all striving to prevent the ball of a single little boy, who was playing against the whole of them, from getting in; but for all that they could do, he won the game, and drove his ball home to the goal single-handed.

  Then they changed sides, and the little lad defended his own goal against the hundred and fifty balls of the other youths, all sent at once across the ground. But though the youths played well, following up their balls, not one of them went into the hole, for the little boy caught them one after another just outside, driving them hither and thither, so that they could not make the goal. But when his turn came round again to make the counter-stroke, he was as successful as before; nay, he would get the entire set of a hundred and fifty balls into their hole, for all that they could do.

  Then they played a game of getting each other’s cloaks off without tearing them, and he would have their mantles off, one after the other, before they could, on their part, even unfasten the brooch that held his cloak. When they wrestled with each other, it was the same thing: he would have them on the ground before all of them together could upset him, or make him budge a foot.

  As the King stood and watched all this, he said: ‘’Tis well for the country into which this boy has come! A clever child indeed is he; if only his acts as a grown man were to come up to the promise of his youth, he might be of some solid use to us; but this is not to be assumed.’

  The King learned that the boy’s name was Setanta. Then the King said, ‘Have the child called, that we may take him with us to the banquet.’

  So when Setanta came, the King invited him; but the boy said, ‘Excuse me now awhile; I cannot go just now.’ ‘How so?’ said the King, surprised. ‘Because the boy-corps have not yet had enough of play.’ ‘I cannot wait until they have,’ replied the King: ‘the night is growing late.’ ‘Wait not at all,’ replied the child; ‘I will even finish this one game, and will run after you.’ ‘But, young one, do you know the way?’ asked the King. ‘I will follow the trail made by your company, the wheels of their chariots and hoofs of the horses on the road,’ he replied.

  Thereupon King Conor starts; and in time for the banquet he reaches Culain’s house, where, with due honour, he is received. Fresh rushes had been strewn upon the floor, the tables all decked out, the fires burning in the middle of the room. A great vat full of ale stood in the hall, a lofty candlestick gave light, and round the fires stood servants cooking savoury viands, holding them on forks or spits of wood. Each man of the King’s guests entered in order of his rank, and sat at the feast in his own allotted place, hanging his weapons up above his head. The King occupied the central seat, his poets, counsellors, and chiefs sitting on either hand according to their state and dignity. As they were sitting down, the smith Culain came to Conor and asked him, ‘Good now, O King, before we sit at meat I would even know whether anyone at all will follow you this night to my dwelling, or is your whole company gathered now within?’ ‘All are now here,’ said the King, quite forgetting the wee boy; ‘but why do you ask?’

  ‘It is only that I have an excellent watch-dog, fierce and strong; and when his chain is taken off, and he is set free to guard the house, no one dare come anywhere within the same district with him; he is furious with all but me, and he has the strength and savage force of a hundred ordinary watch-dogs. This dog was brought to me from Spain, and no dog in the country can equal him.’ ‘Let him be set loose, for all are here,’ said Conor; ‘well will he guard this place for us.’

  So Culain loosed the dog, and with one spring it bounded forth out of the court of the house and over the wall of the rath, making a circuit of the entire district; and when it came back panting, with its tongue hanging from its jaws, it took up its usual position in front of the house, and there crouched with its head upon its paws, watching the high road to Emain. Surely an extraordinarily cruel and fierce and savage dog was he.

  When
the boy-corps broke up that night, each of the lads returning to the house of his parent or his fosterer or guardian, Setanta, trusting to the trail of the company that went with Conor, struck out for Culain’s house. With his club and ball he ran forward, and the distance seemed short on account of his interest in the game. As soon as he arrived on the green of Culain’s fort, the mastiff noticed him, and set up such a howling as echoed loud through all the countryside. Inside the house the King and his followers heard and suddenly the King remembered Setanta, but he was struck dumb with fear, nor dared to move, thinking surely to find the little lad dead at the door of the fort. As for the hound himself, he thought with one fierce gulp to swallow Setanta whole. Now the little lad was without any means of defence beyond his ball and hurley-stick. He never left his play till he came near. Then, as the hound charged open-jawed, with all his strength he threw the ball right into the creature’s mouth; and as for a moment the hound stopped short, choking as the ball passed down its throat, the lad seized hold of the mastiff’s open jaws, grasping its throat with one hand and the back of its head with the other, and so violently did he strike its head against the pillars of the door, that it was no long time until the creature lay dead upon the ground.

  When Culain and the warriors within had heard the mastiff howl, they asked each other, as soon as they got back their voices, ‘What makes the watch-dog cry?’ ‘Alas!’ the King said, ‘‘tis no good luck that brought us on our present trip.’ ‘Why so?’ inquired all. ‘I mean that it is the little boy, my foster-son and Fergus’s, Setanta, son of Sualtach, who promised to come after me; now, even now, he is doubtless fallen by the hound of Culain.’ Then, when they heard that it was Conor’s foster-son who was without, on the instant and as one man they rose; and though the doors of the fort were thrown wide open they could not stand around, but out they stormed over the walls and ramparts of the fort to find the boy.

  At the rampart’s outer door they found the child, and the great hound dead beside him. Without a pause they picked up the boy and hoisted him on their shoulders, and thus, with all the heroes following, they came to Conor, and placed Setanta safe between the monarch’s knees.

  That was just how it was. But poor Culain. The smith went out to find his dog, and when he saw him lying there, knocked almost to pieces and quite dead, his heart was vexed within him. He went back to the house, and said, ‘‘Twas no good luck that urged me to make this feast for you, O King; would I had not prepared a banquet. My life is a life lost, and my substance is but substance wasted without my dog. He was a defence and protection to our property and our cattle, to every beast we had and to our house. Little boy,’ said he, ‘you are welcome for your people’s sake, you are not welcome for your own; that was a good member of my family you took from me, a guardian of house, of flocks and herds.’ ‘Be not vexed,’ replied the child, ‘for I myself will fix on my own punishment. This shall it be. If in all Ireland a whelp of that dog’s breed is to be found, ‘tis I myself will rear him up for you till he be fit to take the watch-dog’s place. In the meantime, O Culain, I myself will be your hound for defence of your cattle and for your own defence, until the dog be grown and capable of action; I will defend your territory, and no cattle or beast or store of yours shall be taken from you, without my knowing it.’

  ‘A good and just punishment,’ they all said, ‘and henceforward shall your name be changed; you shall no longer be called Setanta; Cu-Chulain, or the ‘Hound of Culain’, shall your name be.’

  ‘I like my own name best,’ the child objected. ‘Ah, say not so,’ replied the King’s druid, ‘for one day will the name of Cuchulain ring in all men’s mouths; among the brave ones of the whole wide world Cuchulain’s name shall find a place. Renowned and famous shall he be, beloved and feared by all.’ ‘If that is so, then am I well content,’ replied the boy.

  So from that day forth the name Cuchulain clung to him, until the time came when he was no longer remembered as the Hound of Culain’s Fort, but as the guardian and watchdog of defence to the Province against her foes; and then men loved best to call him ‘The Hound of Ulster’.

  ‘The Story of Deirdre’ by Joseph Jacobs

  There was a man in Ireland once who was called Malcolm Harper. He was a right good man, with a goodly share of this world’s goods. He had a wife, but no family. What did Malcolm hear one day, but that a soothsayer was travelling in the neighbourhood, and as Malcolm Harper was a right good man, he wished that the soothsayer might visit him. Whether it was that he was invited or that he came of himself, the soothsayer came to the house of Malcolm.

  ‘Are you doing any soothsaying?’ says Malcolm.

  ‘Yes, I am doing a little. Are you in need of soothsaying?’

  ‘Well, I do not mind taking soothsaying from you, if you had soothsaying for me, and you would be willing to do it.’

  ‘Well, I will do soothsaying for you. What kind of soothsaying do you want?’

  ‘Well, the soothsaying I wanted was that you would tell me my lot or what will happen to me, if you can give me knowledge of it.’

  ‘Well, I am going out, and when I return, I will tell you.’

  And the soothsayer went forth out of the house and he was not long outside when he returned.

  ‘Well,’ said the soothsayer, ‘I saw in my second sight that it is on account of a daughter of yours that the greatest amount of blood shall be shed that has ever been shed in Erin since time and race began. And the three most famous heroes that ever were found will lose their heads on her account.’

  After a time a daughter was born to Malcolm, and he did not allow a living being to come to his house, only himself and the nurse. He asked this woman, ‘Will you yourself bring up the child to keep her in hiding far away where eye will not see a sight of her nor ear hear a word about her?’

  The woman said she would, so Malcolm got three men, and he took them away to a large mountain, distant and far from reach, without the knowledge or notice of anyone. He caused there a hillock, round and green, to be dug out of the middle of the mountain, and the hole thus made to be covered carefully over so that a little company could dwell there together. This was done.

  Deirdre and her foster-mother dwelt in the bothy on the mountainside without the knowledge or the suspicion of any living person about them and without anything occurring, until Deirdre was sixteen years of age. Deirdre grew like the white sapling, straight and trim as the rash on the moss. She was the creature of fairest form, of loveliest aspect, and of gentlest nature that existed between earth and heaven in all Ireland – whatever colour of hue she had before, there was nobody that looked into her face but she would blush fiery red over it.

  The woman that had charge of her, gave Deirdre every information and skill of which she herself had knowledge and skill. There was not a blade of grass growing from root, nor a bird singing in the wood, nor a star shining from heaven but Deirdre had a name for it. But one thing, the woman did not wish Deirdre to have either part or parley with any single living man of the rest of the world. But on a gloomy winter night, with black, scowling clouds, a hunter of game was wearily travelling the hills, and what happened but that he missed the trail of the hunt, and lost his course and companions. A drowsiness came upon the man as he wearily wandered over the hills, and he lay down by the side of the beautiful green knoll in which Deirdre lived, and he slept. The man was faint from hunger and wandering, and benumbed with cold, and a deep sleep fell upon him. When he lay down beside the green hill where Deirdre was, a troubled dream came to the man, and he thought that he enjoyed the warmth of a fairy broch, the fairies being inside playing music. The hunter shouted out in his dream, if there was anyone in the broch, to let him in for the Holy One’s sake. Deirdre heard the voice and said to her foster-mother: ‘O foster-mother, what cry is that?’ ‘It is nothing at all, Deirdre – merely the birds of the air astray and seeking each other. But let them go past to the bosky glade. There is no shelter or house for them here.’ ‘Oh, foster-mother,
the bird asked to get inside for the sake of the God of the Elements, and you yourself tell me that anything that is asked in His name we ought to do. If you will not allow the bird that is benumbed with cold, and done to death with hunger, to be let in, I do not think much of your language or your faith. But since I respect your language and your faith, which you taught me, I will myself let in the bird.’ And Deirdre arose and drew the bolt from the leaf of the door, and she let in the hunter. She placed a seat in the place for sitting, food in the place for eating, and drink in the place for drinking for the man who came to the house. ‘Oh, for dear life, you man that came in, keep restraint on your tongue!’ said the old woman. ‘It is not a great task for you to keep your mouth shut and your tongue quiet in return for a home and the shelter of a hearth on a gloomy winter’s night.’ ‘Well,’ said the hunter, ‘I may do that – keep my mouth shut and my tongue quiet, since I came to the house and received hospitality from you; but by the hand of thy father and grandfather, and by your own two hands, if some other of the people of the world saw this beautiful creature you have here hid away, they would not long leave her with you, I swear.’

  ‘What men are these you refer to?’ said Deirdre.

  ‘Well, I will tell you, young woman,’ said the hunter. ‘They are Naois, son of Uisnech, and Allen and Arden his two brothers.’

  ‘What like are these men when seen, if we were to see them?’ said Deirdre.

  ‘Why, the aspect and form of the men when seen are these,’ said the hunter: ‘they have the colour of the raven on their hair, their skin like swan on the wave in whiteness, and their cheeks as the blood of the brindled red calf, and their speed and their leap are those of the salmon of the torrent and the deer of the grey mountainside. And Naois is head and shoulders over the rest of the people of Erin.’

  ‘However they are,’ said the nurse, ‘be you off from here and continue your journey. And, King of Light and Sun! in good sooth and certainty, little are my thanks for yourself or for her that let you in!’