Here, overlooking the meadow full of the blood and dead flesh of his barons and peers, the king found his nephew, lying in the grass upon his sword and war-horn, facing towards Spain, the broken blocks of marble around him evidence of his final efforts.
Charles knelt to take Roland's body in his arms and wept for him anew.
“Lord have mercy on the souls of brave Roland, for France will never see again such a warrior and noble son as he. Slowly will my power wane with no kinsman or champion at my right hand. As age overtakes me, my days will be spent in grief for the loss of you, Roland. France is widowed with your death. Would that I, too, were dead, that my body might be interred with thine and join thee and the Peers in Paradise.”
The French army buried their dead upon the field of honour, all that is but Roland, Oliver and Turpin whom they carried to Blaye. Here, in the great cathedral they were interred with much solemn ceremony before Charlemagne returned to Aix.
Learning of the death of Roland, her betrothed, and her loving brother Oliver from the king himself, the beautiful maiden Aude fell at Charlemagne's feet. Alas, she had not swooned as all supposed but died of a broken heart that very instant.
The trial of Ganelon was long, thorough and tiresome and ended in his much deserved execution. The traitor was torn limb from limb after being set between wild horses. But memory of his name did not die with him, and to this day it continues to live in infamy and disgrace.
Son of the Morning Star
All of the gods in the mythology of the plains Indians of North America function as intermediaries between the supreme being, the Great Spirit, and humankind. The Morning Star is one of their principal heavenly deities, ranking second only to the Sun. In this Blackfoot myth, all the heavenly bodies are personified.
The Morning Star is imagined standing tall, a strong young man painted red, the colour of life, shod with moccasins, wrapped in a large robe and with a downy eagle feather stained red adorning his head. This is the image of the breath of life. To him the Great Spirit entrusted the Gift of Life, commanding him to spread it over the earth.
The Black Feet say he once fell in love with a lovely girl of their tribe, named Soatsaki. He admired her particularly as she slept on summer nights outside her tipi. She was flattered and honoured, and with her consent they married and he took her up to heaven. Here they dwelt with his father and mother, the Sun and the Moon.
In time, Soatsaki had a son whom they called Little Star. Her Mother-in-law, the Moon, gave her a pick as a present but warned her not to use it to dig up the turnip that could be found growing near the dwelling of the Spider Man.
But, eventually, overcome with curiosity, Soatsaki made her way to the spot where the turnip grew and, after digging and pulling, tore it from the ground. Light shown up from the hole. Intrigued, she leaned down. Far below she saw the Earth and her own family's camp. Clearly she could watch their doings and see their sadness and joy, and she began to grow terribly homesick.
At the height of her unhappiness the reason was discovered and for the sin of disobeying her Mother-in-law, and digging up the turnip, the Sun decreed that Soatsaki was to be banished from Heaven with her son.
Down to Earth they were lowered, wrapped in an elk skin and there the poor woman, separated from her husband, became ever more remorseful and unwell until she died. Of course, no one believed their story about their kinship to the Morning Star.
Alone and very poor, Soatsaki's son, who also had a scar on his face, fared very badly. Called ‘Poia’, or Scar Face, he was treated cruelly by other children and when, as a young man, he fell in love with the chief ‘s daughter, she laughingly rejected him because of his scar.
Torn between misery and outrage, lost as he was between two worlds and desperate both as a lover and lonely young man, Poia was determined to go to his grandfather the Sun and see if he could remove the scar. He trekked west, experiencing much and seeing many things on the way before he reached the Pacific shore. Here he stopped, and spent the next three days in fasting and prayer.
On the fourth morning, a glowing trail unrolled in front of him, stretching across the ocean. Without hesitation he courageously strode out upon it, following the magical trail all the way to the heavens. Near where the Sun himself lived, he found his father, the Morning Star, locked in desperate combat with three gigantic and hideous birds of prey.
Poia immediately waded in to help his father, killing the monsters with his arrows and war club. As a reward for his bravery the Sun took away the scar that disfigured his face. Then, teaching him the ritual of the Sun Dance, his grandfather gave him a gift of ravens’ feathers as proof of his kinship with the Sun. Another present from his celestial family was a flute, together with the knowledge to play it to win the heart of his beloved.
Poia then returned to Earth by a path known as the Wolf Trail or the Milky Way. He taught the Black Feet the Sun Dance and married the chief ‘s daughter he had long loved, taking her up to Heaven to live.
The Sacrifice of Countess Cathleen
Probably Druidic in origin, this very old Irish legend was taken up by Christianity. Where once a woman might have been offered up to rapacious gods, to appease them, the sacrifice on the people's behalf became more spiritual than physical. One way or the other, sacrificing as opposed to doing battle was the usual form of a woman's heroism in many legendary traditions.
The fair Countess Cathleen had eyes of deep sea green and long flowing hair as golden as the ripe corn in her fields. She graced the very air she breathed with her beauty and charm, piety and dignity. The Countess lived in a stately castle set in a large forest, and scattered about her gates were the cottages of her people.
It was a happy time of relative peace in Ireland. The monasteries flourished where not long before warlike clans had held sway, and faith had replaced the blood lust in many hearts. Cathleen herself had come into womanhood soon after her people had embraced Christianity.
The young Countess loved the forests, fields and meadows beyond the walls of her home, and to watch the changes the seasons brought and the creatures living in the green woods and purple hills. She loved the legends of the old gods, the heroes of battles long past and, more than anything, she loved her clansmen and vassals. She prayed for them at all the holy hours, personally taught their children and gently looked after them when they were ill. Nowhere was there a more fortunate and contented people.
Then there came a disaster for all of Ireland and the bliss of these times passed into memory. Famine beset the land, seed corn rotted in the ground, rain constantly fell and mists filled the thick air, lying heavily on the sodden earth. Even when spring arrived at last, fields remained barren, cattle died in their stalls or in the bleak pastures. Oxen died at the plough and sheep perished in the fold.
As summer came and went, the berries failed in the sun-parched woods and withered leaves, fallen long before autumn had come, lay rotting on the dank ground. The small animals of the forest, the hares, rabbits, squirrels all died in their holes or fell prey to birds and larger beasts. These in turn died of hunger as the famine deepened. From mice and rats and hedgehogs to deer and foxes, all died, until hardly the sound of a fluttering wing disturbed the desolate woods.
The High King of Ireland declared a universal peace among those tribes still quarrelling, and raiders from abroad, with pickings so small, stopped plaguing their shores. None of this made much difference, however. Chiefs worked together, the wealthy aided the poor and all soon became equal in the misery of their terrible hunger.
Monasteries became deserted, their stores exhausted, their doors flung open, the brothers lying dead inside with no one to bury them. Hermits expired alone in their little beehive shaped cells or took refuge in some rich abbey that was still for a time able to feed its monks. And far from abating, the famine grew yet worse as each day passed.
No one suffered more than the lovely Cathleen, for although hungry like everyone else, she grieved too for the far worse plight of
her people. She prayed constantly for their deliverance but no help came from heaven. Slowly, the Countess was wasting away, as much from worry and despair for others as from her own lack of sustenance.
Her attendants tried everything to restore her spirits, to no avail. The old stories and songs were no use, the glories of nature were but a bitter memory. The only thing that moved her now was the desire to save her people.
All along her house and stores had been open to supply the needs of the homeless, the poor and the suffering. She spent her wealth freely on food for the starving until supplies became scarce and then sent ever farther for them to keep feeding her folk. When all known sources failed she tried again, paying hugely for the hoarded grain of greedy farmers who had held it back for just such an opportunity. When this supply dried up she gave generously of her own winter provisions of wine and corn. No one left her castle with an empty belly. Soon her name was blessed far and wide, and from far and wide the poor and starving made their way to her gates. Now not only her own clansmen looked to her daily for enough food and drink to stave off death until the pestilential mists passed from the land.
Any hope that the clean cold of winter would clear the awful vapours was soon dashed. The poisonous yellow mists persisted and the famine yet gripped the feeble hearts of all and sapped the very springs of life. Everyone grew weaker, fainter and the winter frosts killed more than the heat of summer.
Finally, even in so saintly a land as Christian Ireland the sense of right and wrong disappeared. Respect for property vanished in the universal misery. Men began to steal and rob and trust to nothing but brute strength. They would stop at nothing to plunder others and survive. Conscience, mercy, and honesty were forgotten.
Bold, unashamed brigands cost Cathleen her remaining stocks of corn and fruit and the last few animals remaining in her flocks and herds. She was so filled with pity at the desperation of the thieves that she would not let her servants pursue them, eager though they were to do so and retrieve the lost supplies.
Now all the winter stores had been distributed and there was only enough left to feed her poor pensioners and her household on the shortest possible rations. Despite their earnest entreaties to take a little more for herself, she shared equally with them and would never have thought of doing otherwise.
Before much longer even this scanty fare would be expended and Cathleen's heart nearly broke as she watched her helpless dependants wither and die in front of her eyes. All looked up to her as an angel of pity and deliverance and yet she knew herself to be but an ordinary young woman, as helpless as the rest.
Each day she walked among them with her meagre dole of food, trying to give them courage, smiling and instilling hope by her very presence. In the privacy of her chapel however, in her fervent prayers, she could give vent to her fears and sadness. As she prayed to the Blessed Virgin Mary and all the saints for a way to save her tribe and all the people of her land, she ignored her own hunger and suffering.
One day while kneeling at prayer, overcome by her cares and weakness she fell into a faint and passed into a deep sleep. From within her troubled mind a thought emerged that seemed to come from Heaven itself and inspire her. On waking, she leaped up and skipped from the chapel with a light heart.
Her countenance was so changed, so relieved and gay that the servants stopped and stared. So wonderful was the happy glow of her face that her ageing nurse, Una, was overcome with a fear that the young Countess might be suffering from some form of enchantment by the old gods. Her worry that Cathleen might be bewitched away to Tir-nan-og, the land of never-dying youth, was palpable.
Seeing her anxiety, Cathleen took her hand and comforted her.
“Do not be afraid, dear Una. The Virgin has heard my prayer. The Saints have sent me a vision of what must be done.”
Running to the door of her own room, she called for a servant to send at once for Fergus, her steward. Known as Fergus the White on account of his shock of pale grey hair, the steward had served Cathleen's family for many years. Foster-father to her grandfather, he had seen three generations pass away and witnessed the painful transition from heathenism to Christianity. And now, of all his chief's family to which he was devoted and supremely loyal, there was only this one girl left. He would have loved her as if she were his own child had she been a harridan and a miser. For her sweet self he loved her even more. Coming to her at once upon being summoned, Fergus paid homage to his liege lady and knelt to kiss her hand.
“What do you want of me, Countess?” he asked, smiling despite the hard times, just to see her. “Shall I render the accounts of …”
“No, dear Fergus, there is no need. But tell me how much I have in lands. The value in gold.”
“Well, Countess,” Fergus scratched his grey head and thought. “Your lands are worth something like one hundred thousand pounds.”
“And what about the timber in my forests?”
“Another hundred thousand roughly, Countess.”
“What would my various castles and other houses sell for?”
“I would say several hundred thousand,” Fergus replied, wondering at her reasons for such talk when the famine made the value of such possessions meaningless.
“And in gold, how much have I stored within the treasure chests in your charge?”
“My lady,” the steward answered. “There is over five hundred thousand pounds in gold.”
For a time the Countess remained silent and lost in thought. Then setting her jaw, a look of firm resolution came into her eye and she spoke, though not without a slight trembling of her lips and a flutter in her voice.
“Fergus, please take the gold and go abroad, as far as need be to buy plentiful food. I will keep my jewels and some gold, for I still have hope of finding a little more grain hidden away by venial farmers and traders who may not part with it for love of Christ but will sell it for inflated prices. You shall also have my authority signed and sealed to sell all my lands, forests, fields, houses and castles, saving only this one where I must live. Most urgently send a man to Ulster where the famine is less severe and have him buy cattle to be driven here as quickly as possible.”
Fergus stood astounded for a moment and then found his tongue. Desperately he tried to talk his mistress out of selling off nearly everything she owned. He begged her to keep her wealth and enjoy it fully when better times came once more, but she was deaf to his pleading.
“Fergus,” she said finally, by way of explanation. “A cry is in my ears.”
“Yes, Countess,” he sighed at last and nodded.
“I cannot ignore it,” she shrugged. “I must do something.”
“Very well, my lady.”
“Farewell, Fergus. God speed and look after you.”
So, a good and reliable man was sent north to Ulster to find what cattle he could, weak and famine-stricken though they might be, and Fergus journeyed to England. There, all was still prosperous and fertile, for the deadly famine had not touched that country and none even knew of that which afflicted Ireland.
Fergus spent the gold wisely and well and sold all the Countess Cathleen had told him to sell, everything but the one castle she dwelt in surrounded by her own people and the throng of dying folk about her gates and in her halls.
Loyal steward and friend, shrewd dealer and careful businessman, Fergus got good deals everywhere. It may even have been that Heaven smiled on the enterprise for the English merchants gave good prices. It may also have been that in their ignorance of Ireland's plight, they did not presume to take advantage of him.
One way or another Fregus did well on every score and bought grain, wine, fat oxen and sheep which were duly loaded aboard ships for transport back to Ireland. There was enough, he knew, to carry the starving peasants through the famine year until the next harvest. When the money was all gone and all ships fully laden and ready, they lay in the harbour and awaited a fair wind to carry them across the sea. Alas, none came.
A deadly calm persiste
d for days on end and the fleet sat with sails drooping and motionless, no hint of a breeze stirring them. Then fog came down so thick that no craft could set out all along England's coast. When at last the fog lifted, Fergus cast caution aside in his anxiety to return as soon as he could. The high running seas and bad weather, however, drove the ships back into harbour before they had gone far. Two vessels, indeed, were lost, striking rocks before sinking with their cargoes of food.
Fergus wept to see the wealth of his mistress so wasted and he dared not venture out onto the wintry sea until it was safe to do so. Two months were to pass after his arrival in England before he could sail back to Ireland, to his young mistress and their starving countrymen.
Meanwhile, the man sent to Ulster had also fared well in his trading and found surprising numbers of cattle to purchase. They were not strong, however, and driving them south was a slow business. Fodder was scarce, thieves had to be driven off and the weakness of the animals meant they could not be pushed very hard.
Cathleen knew none of this. No news came that food was on its way, though painstakingly. All she could do was wait in her remaining castle, filled with hungry mouths and growing desperation. Only her faith in God, and her own inspired vision, sustained her.
As the horror of death by starvation deepened, as the misery grew harder to bare, as grief and fear and death itself assailed the population, anger at Heaven seethed in many breasts. Christ and the Saints, they said, had abandoned Ireland, or they slept, or did not care. People remembered with longing the mighty old gods, for the new seemed powerless or indifferent. They yearned for the friendly ‘good people’ who had fled from the church bell, and some even began to secretly worship the old heathen gods once more. Love for Him was growing cold. Only fear of Christian Hell and its eternal tortures kept the majority from openly renouncing the One True God, and revolting against the Church. But, as ever, it was not the old ways and beliefs that were the real threat to righteousness.
Myths and Legends from Around the World Page 30