His comrades expressed their joy and their sorrow also, while the hounds gathered at their feet, and Oisin’s hound, Sceolan, stared beseechingly at his master.
“You must obey Fionn now,”Oisin bade the hound, “for I myself am going far away.”
Sceolan lifted his muzzle and howled his distress, but the great white horse turned toward the west, and after calling out a final farewell to his father and his comrades, Oisin galloped away with Niamh.
LIKE A VISION from a dream they looked, those two riders on the faerie horse—he the handsomest man in Ireland, she the fairest princess from the Land of Youth. For Oisin, the journey was more fabulous than any dream. The sea unrolled before them like polished onyx, not flecked with foam now, but patterned with reflections of the sky, the forces of currents and wind and restless tides. As clouds swept across the face of the sun, the sea colors shifted through jade and aquamarine to amethyst and indigo. Along the way they passed mountainous islands, upon whose slopes rose lime-white cities and courts, forts, and palaces. Once, Oisin and Niamh saw beside them a hornless deer running hard over the water, and an eager white red-eared hound chasing after it. Later they saw a young girl on a horse going over the tops of the waves, and she was carrying a golden apple in her right hand. A young man riding an ivory horse galloped after her, wearing a crimson cloak and bearing a gold-hilted sword.
But Niamh’s incredible steed did not stop. The riders turned their backs to the island forts and palaces, and the horse under them moved quicker than the spring wind on the backs of the mountains. The sun was falling down behind the ocean, a brass penny flaming in a bath of molten copper. The sea seemed to catch fire. Long clouds ranged across the west like aerial volcanoes, and the great white horse, Capall Bán, galloped into the splendor of the skies.
As the day waned, storm clouds drew a curtain across the west. The sky darkened, and a reckless wind rose in every quarter. Next the sun disappeared, and evening scorched the air to ash. Still they rode on, Oisin and Niamh, although the wind eddied around them, whipping the wave crests.
Stars began to prick forth in the south, where the skies were clear. Gradually the clouds rolled away from the west, and the stormy wind abated. Then the firmament looked to be netted in an invisible web that reached right down to every horizon, and the stars were snagged everywhere through it. Against the deep purple of the heavens they glittered with heart-piercingly pure whiteness. How long the night endured, Oisin could not tell, but it seemed only a short while until the new-birthed sun opened like a marigold at their backs.As the new day dawned, they saw before them a vast stretch of shoreline from which climbed the slopes of mountains and hills, their peaks hidden in pale gauzes of vapor.
Oisin said softly into the ear of Niamh, “Is this the Land of the Young?”
“It is,”sh e answered him. “And indeed, Oisin, I told you no lie about it, and you will see all I promised before you . . .”Th en she leaned back against him, and whispered, “. . . forever.”
Capall Bán cantered on to the beach. Without pause he ran inland, through gorgeous countryside. It was like one gigantic garden; every bush and plant burgeoned with inflorescence, while the trees were simultaneously covered in blossom and luscious globes of fruit; quinces and oranges, figs and plums, apples and pears. From the grassy plains the mountains soared to sharp crags, draped with silver wires of waterfalls. Here and there Oisin saw mansions of shining stones, skillfully built.
Their road began to climb, but Capall Bán cantered tirelessly on, and at length they arrived at a stately citadel on a hill. On the hill’s crown stood a palace. Graceful pinnacles and turrets stood up like a forest from its multitude of roofs. The airy mansions of the citadel were adorned with slim columns and filigree, and fashioned from marble of every color.
The horse galloped swiftly up the urban streets. At last, when they reached the gates to the courtyard of the palace, he slowed to a halt, and the riders dismounted.
Tall gates opened wide, and from the courtyard emerged a hundred of the loveliest girls, wearing cloaks of silk worked with gold thread. They were carrying basketsful of perfumed petals, and as they strewed these scented flakes of color upon the ground, they cried, “Welcome, Oisin, son of Fionn mac Cumhail! Welcome to our country!”
In the wake of the damsels a great shining army issued from the gates. Their armor and mail shimmered as if wrought from moonbeams. They were led by a strong, handsome king, garbed in a shirt of yellow silk, his golden cloak flying in the breeze, the jewels of his crown glittering in the sunlight. A young queen followed him, accompanied by fifty youthful handmaidens.
When all were gathered together, Manannán mac Lir took Oisin by the hand, and proclaimed before the assembly, “One hundred thousand welcomes before you, Oisin, son of Fionn mac Cumhail. As to this country you are come to,”h e said, “I will tell you news of it without a lie. It is long and lasting your life will be in it, and you yourself will be young forever. And there is no delight the heart ever thought of,”h e said, “that cannot be found here. For I myself am the king of the Land of Youth, and this is its comely queen, and it was our golden-haired daughter Niamh that went over the sea looking for you to be her husband.”
“Your Majesty,”a nswered Oisin, “I am honored to be welcomed with such ceremony. Greetings and salutations to you and your queen. I thank you with all my heart.”H e bowed courteously to the royal couple. Then Niamh placed her hand inside the crook of his elbow, and together they approached the royal house. All the aristocrats emerged to meet them, both lords and ladies.
Oisin and Niamh were married on that very day.When the nuptials had concluded, Manannán mac Lir led the newlyweds to the Great Hall of the palace. It was filled with hundreds of tables set with snowy linen and tableware of silver-gilt. Platters and dishes were sumptuously piled with sweetmeats of all descriptions.
“Herewith,”said the king of Tír na Nóg, indicating the hall with a wave of his hand, “in celebration of your arrival and wedding, a feast.”
The feasting and revelry continued through the length of ten days and ten nights, and afterward Oisin went to dwell with Niamh in their own palace.
THRICE THE SEASONS TURNED. Seasons did revolve in Tír na Nóg, because eternal sameness grows tedious eventually. Yet, temperate and sunny were the winters and the summers were balmy, while spring was an explosion of flowers and autumn a riot of leaves in scarlet, bronze, and amber.
Three beautiful children Oisin had with Niamh, two young sons and a daughter. Niamh gave the two sons the names of Fionn and of Osgar. The name Oisin gave to their daughter was Bláth: “The Flower.”
It seemed to Oisin that three cycles of the seasons numbered three years, for he was accustomed to measuring time, and could not shake off the habit despite that he knew he was dwelling in a land where time had no actuality. He did not feel moments passing, because they never passed, and only at an idle moment did he attempt to calculate the years at all.
But in that idle moment, when he began to consider the passage of hours and days and years, he recalled also the look of sadness in his father’s eyes and the dejection on the countenances of his friends when they had parted. And the desire came over him to see his father and his comrades again.
There came a morning when Oisin was walking among the blossoms with his beautiful wife, Niamh, in the company of Manannán mac Lir. The king and his daughter laughed and conversed, as blithe as always, but Oisin remained silent and thoughtful.When they asked what was troubling him, he said, “I long to see, once again, my father and the Fianna.”
Then it was the turn of Niamh to fall silent, whereas the king said gravely, “If that is your wish, Oisin, I will not prevent you. Mark you—it is on Capall Bán you must make the journey, for that great horse has the ability to cross back and forth between Ireland and Tír na Nóg.”
Following suit, Niamh said to her husband, “You will get leave from me, for I will never prevent your happiness. But for all that,”sh e added quiet
ly, “it is bad news you are giving me, for I am in dread you will never come back here again through the length of your days.”
Oisin smiled at her. “Have no fear, my darling. Capall Bán will bring me safe back again from Ireland.”
Niamh placed herself in front of her husband, obstructing him, so that he must stop in his tracks and look down into her face, meeting her steady gaze. “Bear this in mind Oisin,”sh e said, “if you once get off the horse while you are away, or if you once put your foot to the ground, you will never come back here again.”
He nodded assent. “Your worries are unfounded, because I will only be gone long enough to see my father and comrades, then I will return swiftly.After all, if I am not to dismount, I will not bide in Ireland for more than one day, for it would be difficult to find any rest while couched on the back of a horse!”
Yet she was not appeased. “O, Oisin,”sh e said, “I tell it to you now for the third time, if you once get down from the horse, you will be an old man, blind and withered, without liveliness, without mirth, without running, without leaping. And it is a grief to me, Oisin,”sh e continued, “that you ever go back to green Ireland. It is not now as it used to be, and you will not see Fionn and his people, for there is not now in the whole of Ireland but a Father of Orders and armies of saints.”
“I am not deterred,”declar ed Oisin, dismissing her warning.“You do not understand—I know the places where the Fianna are most likely to be found, the places they dwell and hunt. I will go to their favorite haunts, and I will find them, even if the whole of Ireland is filled with clerics as you say. I will find them.”
“You will not,”sh e whispered, but he could not believe it, and longed to see for himself.
Along the shores of Tír na Nóg the briny waves rustled, silky as layers of flounced petticoats. They lapped crystallized sands strewn with shells colored like opals, twists of driftwood, seaweed necklaces, luminous scatterings of uncut jewels, and the spiral of a narwhal’s tusk. Lying faceup beneath clear skies, the sea was encrusted with winking scintillants. Oisin narrowed his eyes against the flare and flicker, focusing on the east as he strapped the saddle on the back of Capall Bán and tightened the girth strap. Already he had taken his leave of the king and queen.Now he turned to his three children, bidding them farewell and telling them he would return soon.
Last of all he went to his wife. Rare was she, and finer than wild music, as she stood upon the strand. Her gown was a lacework of cobwebs and starlight, and the hem brushed her narrow feet.
“I will be leaving now,”h e said.
“Alas,”said she, “it is long the clouds will be over me tonight.”
She was weeping. Never before had he seen her weep, and he looked upon her with wonder, for her tears shone more like pearls than salt water. His heart was moved, and he took her gently in his embrace. “I love you,”h e said. “I’ll come back so swiftly you’ll hardly know I was gone.”
Niamh wiped away her tears and bestowed upon him such a look of sorrow that he imagined he might die of it. He remembered her look of love the first time they had met, and at that instant he was sorely tempted to abandon his quest, but he thought better of it, for the absence of Fionn and the warriors of the Fianna was an ache beneath his ribs.
“And here is my kiss for you, my darling Oisin,”said Niamh, “for you will never come back anymore to the Land of Youth.”
Then she brushed her lips against his cheek and turned away.
As he rode off over the sea he looked back and saw her standing on the beach, her golden hair lifted by the breeze, fanning out from her face like the petals of a radiant flower.
OISIN’S JOURNEY ACROSS THE SEA back to Ireland was without incident. Indeed, so eager was he to reach his homeland, and so accustomed was he to the supernatural phenomena of Tír na Nóg, that he scarcely took note of any sights or sounds along the way. Through the starry night he hastened, until the sun blazed out in front of him and the bright hooves of Capall Bán were splashing through the shallows of the beach in Kerry whence he had departed. The tireless faerie horse bore him up the slopes and across the meadows, and all the while Oisin was looking about him, for this was a favorite hunting precinct of the Fianna. Every moment he expected to hear the hounds baying, or to witness the hunters making their way across the turf behind the milling hounds.
He saw no one. Not even any stranger to whom he could direct a question.
Therefore without delay he turned his face and went on. To Dún Almhuin he rode. This was a massive fort on the hill of Knaockaulin in County Kildare, which was built by Fionn’s great-grandfather Nuada Airgetlámh—Nuada of the Silver Arm, king of the Tuatha de Danaan. As Oisin galloped up the incline he noted weeds had taken root in the road, and the cow pastures were neglected, and the place was deserted. He searched in growing dismay, but found no sign of Fionn’s strong fort and his lofty hall except some low piles of crumbling stone among the weeds and nettles.
Terrible anguish seized him then, and he said aloud, “Och, ochone my grief! It is a bad journey that was to me, and to be without tidings of Fionn or the Fianna has left me under pain through my lifetime.”
But he had not yet given up hope.
Back down the road he went, and turned his horse’s head toward Glenasmole, the Glen of the Thrushes, another favorite hunting ground of the Fianna, near Dublin.
The valley measured one mile across, from north to south, and three miles in length. Grassy walls sloped gently down to the stream flowing along the floor of the glen. Clumps of trees grew at random on the slopes; rowan and hawthorn, beech and wild apple, punctuated with clots of yellow-flowering gorse and rosy briars. Along the banks of the waterway, old willows let down their attenuated showers of green hair.
The soil was thin, and in patches the bare rock showed through. Granite boulders rested here and there, whose surfaces were flecked with mica and tapestried with lichen. Most of these monoliths were small enough for a child to sit on, but some were as large as a bull, and one was taller than a man.
It was there in Glenasmole that Oisin first spied some people. A group of men was struggling to move the largest rock, and on seeing this, Oisin grew puzzled. Any one of the Fianna could have picked up the block with one hand, and the strongest among them would have been able to throw it from the south side of Glenasmole and landed it on the north side. Yet here were ten men shoving and hauling and levering at the rock, and not able to shift it as much as an inch.
Beetles of dread swarmed in Oisin’s vitals, and he murmured to himself, “What has happened to the people of Ireland since I departed for Tír na Nóg?”
He rode up to the men, but was unable to recognize any of them. As he took in their appearances he noted that they were small and puny, by comparison to the Fianna. Upon noting Oisin’s approach they straightened up from their task, and when he reined in the horse they wished him good health. There was wonder on them all when they looked at him, seeing this stranger so unlike themselves, so tall, so strong, yet obviously no more than twenty winters of age.
The scion of the Chieftain of the Fianna sat erect in the saddle. Proud of bearing was he, powerful of shoulder, hard and lean as a blade of bronze. Flawlessly carved was his countenance, and from beneath dark brows lanced two flashes of brilliance from lakes of shadow. His hair was a spillage of black water infused with points of light, and the onlookers were dazed by his extreme comeliness.
“Greetings, good folk!” said Oisin. “Have you heard if Fionn mac Cumhail is still living, or any other one of the Fianna, or what has happened to them!”
“Fionn mac Cumhail?” one man echoed. “There’s no one in these parts by that name, and there never was.”
“The Fianna?” repeated another. “Back in days of yore, mothers and nursemaids used to tell tales to frighten naughty children, about a race of wicked giants called the Fianna, who wandered the countryside devouring people.”
“But nobody recounts those gests anymore,” said a third man. �
�It must be nigh on three hundred years ago those tales were invented, and after three centuries they’ve lost their fascination.”
It was at that instant, when it was borne in on him by their talk that Fionn was no longer living, nor any of the Fianna, that a cry of sheer desolation seared through Oisin’s spirit. It expanded through the core of his being, filled his skull, and escaped from his mouth to fly away like a wounded bird.
All this time he had thought he had been away for three years, but his father and his friends had been dead for centuries. Despair turned his veins to ice, and all of a sudden a tremendous weariness overwhelmed him. Desperately, he yearned after his lost family and friends.
The men stared in apprehension at the young rider, who was obviously waging some inner struggle. His handsome face was racked with torment, his brow was creased as though he suffered extreme pain, and his shoulders sagged as if the burden of all hopelessness had been laid upon them.
At length Oisin managed to master himself, although his voice was hoarse. “It is a good thing they don’t tell those stories anymore,” he said with vehemence. “They are lies. I am Fionn’s son, Oisin, and I was a member of the Fianna myself.”
The men’s doubt showed plainly on their faces, and the first one said,“That is hard to believe, for how could you still be young and living?”
“Believe it,” said Oisin passionately. “There never was Fionn’s equal for strength or bravery or a great name. There ought to be many a book written down,” he said, “by the sweet poets of the Gael, about his doings and the doings of the Fianna, and it would be hard for me to tell you all of them. And Fionn had a son, and there came a faerie princess looking for him, and he went away with her to the Land of Youth, and that man is myself.”
Emerald Magic Page 27