Celtic Tales of Enchantment (2 page)

‘I find it strange that there is no one here to greet us. We are, after all, invited guests,’ Fionn commented.

‘Let me go in first and see what it’s like,’ Conán offered. His stomach rumbled hungrily as he entered the palace. When he saw how magnificent the interior was, his eyes bulged with amazement. The walls were decorated in a variety of radiant colours. Soft couches, covered in gleaming silk, were placed in a circle around a huge smokeless fire. From the depths of the fire came a delightful fragrance which filled the room with its perfume. And, best of all in Conán’s eyes, the golden tables which stretched the length of the room positively groaned under the weight of food. Roast pig, pheasant, venison and lamb were piled high on platters, surrounded by bowls of rare and delicious fruits and great flagons of wine and mead.

Conán rushed outside. ‘Never in all my life have I seen a banqueting hall as splendid as this one!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come in and judge for yourselves.’

Fionn and the others entered the palace. They stood and stared in amazement at the richness and splendour of everything.

‘No other king or chieftain in Ireland has a banqueting hall to compare with this!’ declared Caoilte Mac Rónáin.

‘But where is Miodhach?’ asked Fionn uneasily. ‘I do not understand why he is not here to welcome us.’

‘We may as well sit down while we wait for him,’ said Conán, licking his lips as he eyed the food.

They sat on the couches and waited. But there was still no sign of Miodhach. ‘I am weak with hunger,’ Conán complained. ‘No one will mind if I help myself to a haunch of venison.’

But, just as his hand reached out to grasp his prize, all the fine food suddenly disappeared. Every table lay bare; goblets, wine, fruit and meats had vanished without trace. ‘This is very strange,’ growled a disappointed Conán.

‘I see something even stranger,’ Goll muttered. ‘That fire, which was so clear and fragrant, is now foul and stinking and sending out clouds of black smoke.’

‘There is something stranger than that,’ Caoilte added. ‘These walls, which were covered with radiant colours when we came in, are now nothing but rough quicken tree planks.’

‘Look around,’ said Conán. ‘This hall, which had seven big doors leading from it, has now only one miserable door. And that is firmly closed.’

At this news, Fionn looked startled. ‘This is very serious,’ he said, ‘I am under a
geas
never to stay in a quicken tree palace with only one door. It means great danger. Let us rise and break our way out through the walls.’

But as he and the others tried to get up, the couches under them vanished and they fell heavily to the ground, where they were stuck fast. Conán grabbed his spear and, planting it on the floor, tried to lever himself upright. But he remained fixed where he was. He tried again, leaning all his weight on the shaft of the spear. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead, his arms and shoulders ached with effort, and suddenly he lost his grip on his spear. He plunged headfirst to the floor, and when he tried to straighten up, found that he was fixed by the top of his head to the cold clay.

‘Help me!’ he cried out to his brother.

‘How can I help? I can’t move either,’ Goll replied. ‘Your suspicions were well-founded, Conán. There is no doubt that Miodhach is behind this treachery.’

He looked across at Fionn. ‘Place your thumb in your mouth so that we may know the extent of the trouble we are in.’ Fionn had acquired the power to foretell events in this way when he burnt his thumb on the salmon of knowledge, caught in the sacred waters of the River Boyne.

Fionn put his thumb in his mouth for several seconds, then withdrew it, looking very troubled. ‘We are all in mortal danger. I can see no escape from Miodhach’s terrible trap.’

‘What does he intend to do to us?’ Goll asked.

‘He plans to kill us all,’ Fionn replied. ‘He has brought many Lochlannachs to this part of Ireland. They are commanded by Sinsear of the Battles, he who calls himself King of the World. With him are eighteen other kings and princes, and eighteen battalions of warriors. When they have disposed of us they will go after the High King and claim power over this land.’

Fionn glanced grimly at his comrades. ‘There are three thousand men in each battalion,’ he said ominously.

Goll shook his head. ‘Then we are hopelessly outnumbered.’

‘And while we are stuck to the ground like this, we can’t even make a decent fight,’ his brother added.

‘Miodhach got the three kings of the Island of the Torrent to use their magical powers to cast a spell on us,’ Fionn explained. ‘They brought over clay from that enchanted island and placed it on the floor of this palace. It is that which keeps us stuck to the ground. The only way the spell can be broken is by spilling the blood of those same three kings on the clay.’

The others groaned loudly. It seemed hopeless. Fionn raised his hand. ‘Lamentation will not help us,’ he said. ‘It is better that we should sound the Dord Fianna. Some of our comrades may hear us and come to our aid.’ The Dord Fianna was a musical war-cry which the Fianna used in times of battle or danger.

So Fionn and his comrades began to sound the Dord Fianna in a last desperate attempt to escape death at the hands of their enemies.

Oisín was getting worried. ‘My father has been gone for hours. I wonder why he sent no messenger to us as he promised,’ he said anxiously. ‘Someone will have to go to the palace and find out what has happened.’

‘I’ll go,’ volunteered Fionn’s youngest son, Fiachna.

‘And I will go with you,’ said Inse Mac Suibhne, who was Fionn’s foster-son.

They hurried away. As they approached the palace they heard the humming sound of the Dord Fianna.

‘Things must be well with them if they are making music,’ Inse observed.

Fiachna listened, then shook his head. ‘When the Dord Fianna is sounded so slowly and sadly, it usually means danger.’

There was a lull in the Dord and Fionn heard the voices outside. ‘Is that Fiachna,’ he called out.

‘Yes,’ Fiachna replied. ‘And Inse is here too.’

‘Do not come any closer,’ Fionn warned. ‘Miodhach has betrayed us. This palace is full of spells and we are stuck to the ground by the sorcery of the three kings of the Island of the Torrent. Nothing can free us but the sprinkling of their blood on the clay beneath us.’

‘What can we do to help?’ Fiachna asked.

‘Return to the camp at once and get Oisín and the others,’ Fionn ordered. ‘If you stay here you will both die under the swords of the Lochlannachs who will soon be on their way to the palace.’

But Fiachna and Inse refused to desert Fionn and the others. ‘Well then, hurry to the ford nearby and prepare to defend it,’ said Fionn. ‘The Lochlannachs have to cross it in order to get to the palace.’

Fiachna and Inse ran back to the ford. ‘One man can defend this,’ Fiachna said. ‘You stay here and guard it while I go and see what the Lochlannachs are up to.’

Inse drew his sword and took up position where the ford narrowed to a single passageway. He watched as Fiachna crossed to the far side and raced away.

In the enchanted Quicken Tree Palace, Fionn and his comrades were startled by the sound of loud mocking laughter outside the door. It opened suddenly and Miodhach appeared. He looked down on the helpless men. ‘Don’t go away!’ he jeered. ‘I have some other surprises in store for you. And don’t lose your heads yet. It will be time to lose them later!’ Still laughing, he slammed the door behind him and was gone before any of his hostages could respond.

Miodhach hurried off to his Island Palace where his Lochlannach friends were waiting. When he told them how Fionn and his companions had fallen into their trap they cheered jubilantly.

A prince among the King of the World’s followers decided that he would go straightaway to cut off Fionn’s head and bring it back to his king, thus gaining all the glory for himself.

The prince set off with a hundred of his warriors. As they arrived at the bank of the ford they saw Inse on the other side.

‘What people do you belong to?’ the prince demanded in a ringing voice.

‘The people of Fionn Mac Cumhaill,’ Inse responded.

‘Then lead us to where Fionn is,’ the prince ordered.

‘Do not attempt to cross to this side of the ford,’ Inse warned. ‘Fionn sent me here to guard it and I will allow no one to pass alive.’

The prince turned to his followers. ‘Kill him!’ he ordered. Brandishing their weapons, the warriors rushed into the water. Because the ford was so narrow on Inse’s side they could attack him only one at a time. With his mighty double-edged blade Inse cut each one down as they came against him. Soon, bodies of dead Lochlannachs were strewn all over the ford. The prince bellowed with rage and, weapon in hand, launched himself at Inse. The air rang with the clash of their weapons as they fought fiercely in the centre of the ford. But the prince was strong and fresh while Inse was tired and already wounded from combat. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground. Before he could regain his feet, the prince’s sword swept down and cut off his head. The prince raised the head triumphantly in the air and took it away to show the King of the World that he had slain Fionn Mac Cumhaill’s foster-son.

Along the way he met Fiachna. ‘Where have you come from?’ he asked the prince.

‘From the ford near the Palace of the Quicken Trees,’ the prince said. ‘I was on my way to kill Fionn Mac Cumhaill but this Fianna whelp was defending the ford and killed all my men.’

He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin and held up the head of Inse. ‘See, I cut his head off. I am taking it to the King of the World, who will reward me well.’

Fiachna reached out and, taking the head, kissed it. ‘Do you know to whom you have given this head?’ he asked, his voice hoarse with grief.

‘Are you not one of the King of the World’s men?’

‘I am not,’ Fiachna said. ‘And neither shall you be for much longer!’

He drew his sword and attacked the prince. The fight was short and savage. It ended when a powerful slanting blow from Fiachna’s weapon felled the prince to the ground. Fiachna beheaded him and hurried with both heads back to the ford.

There he replaced Inse’s head on his body and gave him an honourable burial. Then, carrying the prince’s head, he raced back to the Palace of the Quicken Trees. From outside the door he shouted Fionn’s name.

‘Is that the voice of Fiachna?’ Fionn called.

‘It is indeed,’ replied Fiachna. ‘I have come with sad news. Our brave comrade, Inse, is dead. He defended the ford like a true hero, killing a hundred Lochlannachs, but he was slain by a prince of the King of the World’s army. I have avenged Inse and cut off the prince’s head.’

‘My poor Inse,’ said Fionn, mournfully. ‘I loved him like my own son. He was a valiant warrior and his death does him honour, but it is a sad loss for all the Fianna.’ Addressing Fiachna, he ordered: ‘Return to the ford and defend it as bravely as Inse did. Our comrades may arrive in time to help us.’

Before Fiachna headed off he stuck the head of the prince on a spear and planted it in the ground outside the palace – a warning to their enemies that the Fianna were not easily defeated.