The Ashes of Old Wishes

by Herminie Templeton Kavanagh

  And as they were going along that way in the shining afternoon of the day, a hornless fawn leaped suddenly up on top of the waves before them, and a red-eared white hound was chasing it. And straightway Oisin, the great hunter, was eager to follow in the chase; but it's what Niahm told him, that these forms running before them were only the creatures of the Sidh, and what they were trying was to lure him from her, the way he would be destroyed in the strong green waves. So, hearing that, Oisin turned his eyes away. Presently, again, a young maid came riding by on a brown steed, and oh, it's she that was beautiful! Her chalk-white skin was like the swan's breast as he plumes himself on the clear waters of Loch Dearg; her lips were the color of rowan-berries; and her hair was just a golden cloud on her shoulders.

  In her right hand she held an apple of green gold; and it was fast she rode, throwing many a look of terror behind the while.

  Close after her a youth came riding on a slim white steed; from his shoulders floated a mantle of crimson-red satin, and he was holding a naked sword in his hand.

  At that Oisin's hand was on the bridle-rein and his sword was almost from its scabbard, when Niahm quickly warned the champion to pay no heed, for no danger at all was on the maid, but it was she who was no other than the hornless fawn that went past them a minute before, and the youth with the naked sword was that same white hound with the red ear.

  As Niahm was saying this, the maid with the golden apple turned, laughed mockingly, and then she and the youth sank together into the sea.

  Many other things of wonder Oisin saw on that journey; but the white steed never changed his course nor stayed nor halted till at length and at last it reached the shores of the Country of the Young. There, in the great palace of that land, the king and the queen gave to their daughter Niahm, and to comely Oisin of the sword, a hundred thousand welcomes.

  Some of the poets were saying that it was three hundred years that Oisin lived with his beautiful wife Niahm and their children, and other poets used to be saying that it was five hundred years that he remained there. But, however long it was, one thing is sure: that he didn't feel the time passing, nor did he dream how long he had been away from his own land. For in the Country of the Young there is neither age nor sickness nor wasting nor dying, but always feasting and music and hunting and warriors contending one with the other.

  And so it was that presently all the recollections of green Erin and of the old life there were driven from his memory by the magic of his beautiful queen, and he was going on forever after, happy and contented with the feasting of today and the hunting of to-morrow. But, if Oisin had forgotten the house of his father, the fame of the warrior still lingered on the misty hills and in the wide valleys of his own country; for the bards of Ireland never left off singing of the brave deeds of the exile and of his comeliness and of his high honor.

  And this is the way it was with them when Patrick of the Bells came over to Ireland to preach the true faith to the people. And after a while it came about that Patrick loved to be listening to these old songs of brave deeds; for in his heart of hearts a great saint is neither more nor less than a warrior, only that it is against himself his arms are turned.

  And one evening, as Patrick sat listening to Cinnfaela, son of Oilill, and he singing the lay of "The Battle of Cnoc-an-Air," a strange wish crept into the saint's mind, and then it grew into his heart; and the wish was no less than that he might bring Oisin back across the western sea from the Country of the Young and baptize him, and so save the hero's soul for heaven.

  And so, for many a day, the saint prayed for this at matins and at vespers. But whether what happened was in answer to the prayer will never be rightly known; be that as it may, one thing is certain: On a day, as Oisin and his young men were coming home from the hunt, a great red cloud of Druid mist settled on the side of the hill before them, and out of the middle of the cloud a sweet-sounding harp began playing, and the heart of Oisin stood still, for he knew it to be Suanach, son of Senshenn, who was in it playing, and the song that Suanach sang was the lament for the death of Oscar.

  And straightway a sudden famishing for a sight of the wide green hills of Ireland and a hungry yearning for the sound of the long-forgotten voices took the strength from Oisin's limbs, and the enchantment fell from his eyes. When he came up to Niahm, it's what he said:

  "O Niahm, queen with the sweet voice, my breast is like an empty plover's nest, for the heart that was in it has flown over the seas to Ireland, and I think I shall die now of the lonesome sickness that is on me for a sight of my people."

  And she answered him and she said: "Ah, then, it's the sorrowful word you're bringing to me this day, husband of my heart, going away that way, and it's maybe never coming back to me."

  "Haven't we still the white horse of magic," he said, "to bring me back safe again to you? The thought of my people is like a burning coal in the middle of my brain."

  And it's what Niahm said: "There is grief before you where you are going, comely Oisin, for not one you ever cared for is alive this day to welcome you back to green Ireland. Great Finn and his champions are lying under the heavy stones these hundreds of years. Even the old gods have gone from there. A stranger from Rome with book and bell has banished them, and the faces of the hills are cold and strange. But I give you leave to go, for when the home longing comes into a man's heart, all the waters of the world will not quench its burning."

  And Oisin could not believe that the great Finn was dead, and it's what he thought, that it was only the tenderness and the love that was in the heart of Niahm for him that made her, after the way of women, speak what was not true. But it's what he did: he took Niahm, his queen, up in his arms, and strove to comfort her, and it's she that cried her fill. By and by she spoke, and this is the warning she gave to him then:

  "Remember, O Oisin, what I'm telling you now: if you but touch your foot to level ground you will never come back to me. And I say to you again—and harken with every vein of your body, my husband: it's danger there is for you in every blade of grass and in every leaf on the bough when once you leave the Country of the Young. And a third time I warn you: if once you leave the horse's back, or touch hand or foot to the ground of Ireland, from that moment out your magic youth will fall from you, and you will be old and shrunken and sightless, and there will be no strength in your limbs, and the blood in your veins will turn to water, and death's hand will be on your shoulder. Ochone, mavrone, my grief and my woe, it's well I know you will never come back to us!"

  When Oisin fronted the white horse of magic to the sea, Niahm gave a great cry of sorrow; and when he leaped into the waves, it is kneeling on the white desolate sand she was, beating the palms of her hands and keening bitterly, like one crying over the face of the dead. And that is how it happened that a mortal brought the first sorrow into the Country of the Young.

  Oisin never looked back, but went as swift as the wind over the high-tossing sea and under the dark-running waves till he came to his own fair country of Ireland. And when he came into that land there was great wonder on him, for the duns of the kings and of the chiefs had disappeared altogether, and the people had dwindled in size till the tallest man of them could walk upright under Oisin's arm. And they stared at him with round eyes, and the women gathered their children and ran from him as if he were a god and it were from the Tuatha de Danaan he was coming. And he asked a man of them: "Where is Finn MacCumhull hunting the day?"

  And it's what the man said, he stammering with his wonder: "There is no such man in Ireland now; but hundreds of years ago there was a great champion named Finn MacCumhull, and he was the head chief of the Fianna; and the poets have songs about him, and they do be saying that he was the greatest hero that ever lived in Ireland."

  And a cold dread came on Oisin, and it's what he said: "And had he a son named Oisin?"

  "And the poets do be singing of him, too," the man said, "of how he went with Niahm, the golden-haired, across the seas to the Cou
ntry of the Young, and how he never came back. But don't be giving much heed to those old pishrogues, for I don't think they can be true."

  Then Oisin asked about Caolite, and Diarmuid, and Goll, and Lugaidh's son; but the man only stared and made a swift crossing sign on his forehead, and walked quickly away. And the people fled, every one, leaving the great, strange man and the white horse standing alone on the roadside.

  And a blast of loneliness, fierce as a sweep of storm from the ocean, smote Oisin, so that for a time he had no care to live. But presently from the moor a curlew began calling, and the bird's note put a thought of the great marsh about the dun at Almhuin into him, and it's to himself he said:

  "I will go up into Leinster; I will go up to the dun of my father at Almhuin."

  With that, he lifted the bridle-rein over the neck of the white horse of magic, and they went like the wind, without stopping, until they came to Leinster and to the hill of Almhuin. And when they came to the hill of Almhuin it was a sorrowful, woeful sight that lay before him; for the broad hillside was bare, the walls of the great dun had been leveled to the ground, and the tall weeds were blowing and nodding above the scattered stones. That is how he found the home of his people. But it's when he came to the wide, bare spot where the feasting-hall used to be standing, and to the great black hearthstones, long grown cold, that the wild grief overwhelmed him, and he struck himself on the breast with clenched fists, and it's what he said:

  "Oh, isn't it the sorrowful day, Finn of the open hand, for your own son to be this way a stranger above your empty hearthstone! And you, Goll, and Caolite, and Diarmuid of the fair women, and my own son Oscar, is there never one of you will rise up to bid me welcome? Oh, where shall I turn my face, and who will cover me in my wide grave!"

  And as he sat there mourning, his head drooped so low that the long yellow hair of him streamed upon the white mane of the horse, two red foxes came out of a hole and began fighting, one with the other, before him. So when Oisin saw that—the great sign of loneliness and desolation in the house of his father—the weakness of sorrow melted his bones and he sank from the top of the horse, and it's how he lay with his lips to the ground, his arms stretched wide, and he was the same as the dead.

  Now, it chanced at that hour that Patrick of the Bells, son of Calphrun, with two of his clerics, was on his way to Ath Cliath to preach the new faith to the people. And some one told Patrick of the strange, beautiful man who looked like a god of the Tuatha de Danaan, and who had just gone riding on a wonderful horse up the hill of Almhuin, and who was now lying as one dead upon the ground.

  But when Patrick went to that place, he saw no wonderful horse, and there was in it no god of the Tuatha de Danaan, but only a tall old man, and he lying moaning and mourning among the stones. For, as Niahm had foretold, the instant Oisin's foot touched the ground, the horse vanished, and the chill of the ages crept into his bones and into his heart, and he was a withered old man! Even the mind in him was old.

  After Oisin told his wonderful story to the clerics, Patrick took him by the hand and led him the ways to Ath Cliath, where for three days Oisin listened to Patrick of the Bells preaching to the princes and to the people. And every night, through the long hours till between the crowing of the cock and the full light of day, Oisin would be telling Patrick and his clerics in the monastery the story of the Fianna and of the wonderful Country of the Young. And they would never be tired listening to him.

  On the fourth day of the preaching, when Patrick was getting ready to baptize the people, it's what he said to Oisin:

  "Come out now with the others, son of Finn, till I baptize you and save you from the torments of hell; for if you are not baptized you can never enter heaven."

  "But tell me first, Patrick of the white book, where are the Fianna-—-my son, Oscar of the strokes, Art Garriada, the victorious Caolite, son of Ronan, and Finn, my father—are they in your heaven?"

  "No," answered Patrick, "their likes would not be let into heaven; they died unbaptized. They are prisoners in deep hell, suffering the torments of fire."

  A spot of red anger burned on either cheek of Oisin, and it's what he answered:

  "Then keep your heaven for yourself, O Patrick of the crooked-staff, and for the likes of these ill-singing clerics! As for myself, I want none of it. I will go to this hell you speak about to be with Finn, my father, and my son Oscar, and the friends of my youth."

  And Patrick was sore sorry to hear this, for he loved greatly the high loyalty and the white honor of the old Fenian; still, he could not keep back a quick surge of wrath, so he said:

  "O witless old man, if you had been given but the quick peep of one eye into the place where the Fianna are confined, it is a different sort of wish that you would be speaking, and it's humble and frightened enough you would be at the same time!"

  Then Oisin, striving hard to keep back the anger, asked of Patrick:

  "But how big is this hell of which you all are so much afraid, O son of Calphrun?"

  And Patrick was obliged to answer him: "I do not know how big the place is; but, be content, it is wide enough and deep enough and strong enough to hold forever the sinful Fianna of Ireland."

  Then Oisin burst forth: "Well, let me tell you, O stranger in the country, if hell were half the size of Ireland, my Finn and his champions would cut their way with their swords from one end of it to the other. And know, too, if it were heaven they were wanting to go into, it isn't the likes of your God that would be keeping them out. It's little knowledge you have of Finn, son of Cumhull, to be saying things like that. On the plain of Gabhra, Finn with his own hand slew two hundred fighting-men."

  "It isn't hundreds that Finn has against him now, O sinful old man, but thousands and tens of thousands and hundreds of thousands."

  "If there were as many against him as there are drops of water in Loch Dearg, O Patrick, who belittles the champions of Ireland, my Finn and his heroes would not leave a head on a neck, from one end of hell to the other."

  And Oisin was not baptized that day. And neither on the next, nor for seven days after that day, did Patrick even speak to the rough old warrior of heaven or of repentance or of any pious thing; but every night of the seven the two were together, it's only kindness and the deep flattery of long-reaching questions that the pagan got from Patrick. And the saint noticed with great grief that every day the old chief was fainter of voice and weaker than he was the day before, and the fear grew heavy on Patrick that Oisin would die unbaptized. And if the son of Calphrun grew fond of Oisin, it was fonder of the saint that Oisin himself became; and it's what he said at last:

  "O Patrick of the long prayers, it's little liking I have for your clerics and their fasting and their singing and their sour faces; but you, O strange man with the pleasant word, it's great the warmth that's in my heart for you, and it's loath I'd be to part with you when we die. Maybe it's not much enjoyment you'll be having in heaven, I'm thinking, with all these wearisome persons fretting and keening from morning till night around you about their souls. Whisper! Do you, Patrick, give up heaven and come with me to the Fianna, where I promise there is plenty of eating and drinking, and singing, and hunting, and courting, and chessplaying, and warriors contending one with another. I'll speak the good word for you to Finn, my father, and it's a hundred thousand welcomes will lie before you."

  But Patrick answered him sadly: "O foolish man of the sword, it's little of those pleasures are allowed to the enemies of heaven."

  On another day Oisin said: "It's what I'm thinking sometimes, Patrick of the white cloak, that if Finn and the King of saints are enemies now, it must be the way that some other king is carrying jealous lies between the two of them. Couldn't you send word to your King that Finn was always the true-hearted man with the open hand?"

  "Finn and the Fianna are overthrown; they are in the bonds of pain, being punished for their pride, their boasting, and their misdeeds."

  Then Oisin burst forth aga
in: "It's easy for you to say that to me now, when the strength has gone from me, O soft-handed priest; but if Minne, the least of the Fianna, were here, it's few psalms your clerics would be singing in this house the night, and it's many's the sore head would be running about Ath Cliath looking for a place to hide itself. And now, don't be talking to me that way any more, O Patrick of the crooked staves, for it's little heed I'll be giving you from this out!"

  "O witless old man," cried Patrick, in great distress, "it's a bed of fire you are making for yourself this day, when you should be striving for the delights and pleasures of heaven!"

  "Tell me, Patrick of the golden vestments," the son of Finn asked again, "will Meargach of the green spears, who fought against us with his hosts at Cnoc-an-Air, enter heaven?"

  And it's what Patrick answered then: "The unbaptized are enemies of my King; they can never enter heaven!"

  And it's then that Oisin said: "It wasn't that way at all with my king, for the whole world might come to his door and get meat and shelter there; and they'd find a smith at a forge, too, that would be mending their arms while they stood boasting, maybe, that those same arms would be reddening the ground with our blood on the morning of the morrow. But tell me another thing, O Patrick: would my horse or my hound be allowed with me in that city?"