Celtic Tales of Enchantment (4 page)

Diarmaid fell back, blood streaming from his body and staining the earth around his feet. He knew that if the kings succeeded in killing him, Fionn and his comrades would soon suffer a similar fate. Drawing on his last reserves of strength and courage, he parried the kings’ blows, and, with a great circular sweep of his sword, he killed all three of them, cutting off their heads with that single blow.

Fatha had by now slain the rest of the Lochlannachs. Carrying the kings’ heads, Diarmaid and Fatha hurried back to the Enchanted Palace.

‘I have killed the three kings of the Island of the Torrent,’ Diarmaid cried out triumphantly, ‘and I have brought their heads back.’

A great cheer came from inside the palace. ‘Victory and blessings be always with you,’ Fionn cried. ‘Now, sprinkle some of their blood on the door.’

As soon as Diarmaid did so the door flew open. He and Fatha went inside and saw how Fionn and the others were stuck to the ground.

Beginning with Fionn, they sprinkled blood on the clay beneath him and his companions. The spell was broken at once. Fionn and the warriors sprang jubilantly to their feet, stretching their aching muscles. Only Conán remained where he was, glued fast to the ground by the top of his head where the blood had not reached.

‘Are you going to leave me here like this?’ he growled, glaring at Diarmaid.

‘There is no more blood left,’ Diarmaid explained, holding up the drained heads. ‘I will try to pull you free.’

He caught Conán by the arms and, with a mighty heave, hauled him to his feet. There was a terrible ripping sound as Conán’s body broke free, leaving the skin and hair from the top of his head stuck to the ground. Conán was about to cry out in anger and pain when a cold glance from Fionn told him that, for once, he had better hold his peace.

‘We are not yet out of danger,’ Fionn warned them all. ‘We are weak from the effect of the spells and are in no state to fight. But we will regain our power at sunrise.’ He turned to Diarmaid. ‘In the meantime you and Fatha will have to continue to guard the ford.’

And so Diarmaid and Fatha set off to stand watch on the ford once more.

When word reached Sinsear, King of the World, and his people that the kings of the Island of the Torrent and their followers had been killed, Borba, son of the King of the World, declared that he would go and bring Fionn’s head back to his father.

Off he went, with hundreds of heavily armed warriors. They arrived at the ford with a great clanking of armour and weapons. Immediately they saw Diarmaid and Fatha they rushed across to attack them.

‘We are greatly outnumbered,’ Diarmaid said to Fatha. ‘But if we can just hold off until sunrise, Fionn and the others will come to our aid.’

The bloody combat began. Hard-pressed as they were, Fatha and Diarmaid yielded not an inch but stood shoulder to shoulder against their foes.

When at last the sun rose over the Palace of the Quicken Trees, Fionn, Conán, Goll and the others felt the strength flowing back into their bodies. They charged to the ford at full speed to help their embattled comrades.

Although by now exhausted and wounded, Diarmaid and Fatha were still holding the ford. Despite their great advantage in numbers, the Lochlannachs were only able to attack two at a time because of the narrow space where Diarmaid and Fatha had taken up their positions. This enabled one of them to deal with the Lochlannachs advancing on the left while his comrade dealt with those advancing on the right.

Suddenly they heard a loud shout behind them and Fionn and his companions came racing down the hill to help them. They launched themselves at the Lochlannachs and quickly drove them back.

Oisín still had no word of his father, nor of any of the Fianna who had gone after him. He decided to see for himself what was happening. When he and his men arrived at the ford they immediately joined in the fight.

Goll Mac Morna found himself facing Borba, the King of the World’s son. They fought each other in long and deadly combat. Goll finally got the upper hand and, with a sweep of his sword, sent the mortally wounded Borba flying into the swirling waters.

The remaining Lochlann warriors turned and fled. The Fianna pursued and killed most of them, but two managed to escape back to the Island Palace. Rushing into the hall, they told the King of the World how his son had been killed and his army defeated.

The king swore to have swift vengeance on Fionn and the Fianna. Summoning all his remaining warriors, his princes and chieftains, he led his vast army to the ford. Fionn and the others were still drawing their breath from the battle just ended when the enormous horde swept down on them.

But the main group of Fianna at the fort on the Hill of Allen had heard of the danger that Fionn and his comrades were in and were already making a forced march towards the ford.

The nimble-footed Clann Baoiscne led the first battalion. The stalwart Clann Morna led the second. The strong-armed Clann Mic an Smoil led the third, and the fearless Clann Neamhain led the fourth. As they marched along, their burnished weapons glittered in the sun.

They arrived at the ford just in time to help their hard-pressed comrades. Before the Lochlannachs could turn to face them, a hail of spears whistled through the air and killed many of them on the spot.

The Fianna then drew their mighty swords and waded into the widest part of the ford to meet the enemy in close combat. So closely did they fight that at times it was hard to distinguish between friend and foe. But at last the rapidly thinning numbers of the enemy began to fall back and scatter in panic.

Oscar, Fionn’s grandson, spied the standard of the King of the World where he stood in a protective circle of his best warriors. Like an enraged lion, Oscar cleaved his way through their ranks until he came face to face with the king.

The king swung his sword and the blade bit deeply into Oscar’s shoulder. Ignoring the searing pain, Oscar responded with a blow of his sword that sliced off the king’s right ear.

Bellowing with rage, the king flailed savagely at Oscar. The young Fianna warrior began to retreat before the ferocity of the attack. But, hearing a shout of encouragement from Fionn, he fought back and knocked the king’s shield from his grasp. Then, with a swift blow, he swept the king’s head from his body.

A great shout of triumph erupted from the ranks of the Fianna and what was left of the Lochlann army turned and took to their heels. The Fianna pursued them and killed many of them. Those who managed to get back to their ships sailed home as fast as they could.

And never again did any of them dare to venture near the shores of Ireland.

As for Conán Mac Morna, the hair which he had lost in the Enchanted Palace never grew again, and from that time on he was known among the Fianna as Conán Maol or Conán the Bald – a blow to his great pride and a fitting punishment for his selfishness and gluttony.

F
ollowing their defeat by the Fianna, the Tuatha Dé Danann were always on the watch for a chance to work some mischief on their old enemies. The hunting season was a favourite time for the Tuatha to brew up some of their magical tricks and catch the Fianna off-guard.

This thought disturbed the contentment of Fionn Mac Cumhaill as he and a group of the Fianna followed their hounds on a bright midsummer’s day hunt.

‘Who will go to the highest point on that hill and keep a watch out for any stranger that may come this way?’ he asked. ‘It is at a time like this, when we are all relaxed, that the Tuatha Dé Danann are most likely to play a trick on us.’

‘I will,’ offered the young warrior Fionn Mac Breasail. Clutching his weapons firmly, he went to the hilltop and took up position. From there he had a clear view over all the surrounding countryside.

As he turned to look eastwards, his gaze fastened on a giant of a man approaching the hill and pulling a large, shambling horse behind him. It seemed to Mac Breasail that this man was the ugliest person he had ever seen.

His huge body was ill-shaped and bloated. His legs were crooked. His mouth was twisted, and long pointed teeth projected from it at all angles. His eyes were like black holes in the skull of a corpse. Although the man carried a full array of weapons, they were rusted and neglected. A battered and broken old shield was slung from his right shoulder. In one hand he held a large iron club which he dragged along after him, so that it left a deep trench in the ground.

The horse trailing behind was an even sorrier sight. Dirty, shaggy hair covered its long, spiny back and the ribs were sticking out through its sides. Its legs and feet were crooked and splayed and a head that seemed too large for his body dangled awkwardly from a scrawny neck.

The animal walked very slowly and very reluctantly behind its master. Whenever it tried to stop to graze, the man clattered its ribs with his club.

Fionn Mac Breasail was not a coward, but when he saw the grotesque figures of the man and horse draw near, he thought he was looking at a demon sent from the Otherworld. He turned, and half-ran, half-tumbled back down the hill to where Fionn and his companions were resting.

Fionn Mac Cumhaill glanced up from the game of chess he was playing. ‘What is the matter?’ he asked curtly. Mac Breasail did not reply but pointed a trembling finger towards the hilltop. Fionn and his comrades stared in amazement at the weird-looking man and the even weirder horse coming towards them. The man stopped beside Fionn and saluted him.

Fionn looked at him questioningly. ‘Who are you and where do you come from?’ he asked.

‘I am a Fomhórach from the northern land of Lochlann,’ said the man, in a gravelly voice that seemed to come from the very depths of his body. ‘I travel around from one country to another, serving great chieftains like yourself, in return for what I consider to be a fair wage. I have come here today to ask you to take me into your service.’

The Fomhórach bowed. ‘I am known, by the way, as An Giolla Deacair.’

‘An Giolla Deacair? The Troublesome Slave? Surely,’ said Fionn, ‘that is the name given to a lazy, worthless fellow?’

‘I will be honest with you,’ the Giolla Deacair replied. ‘There is no servant in all the world lazier than I am. As well as that, I am a very difficult person to deal with. Even if my master should be very kind to me, I will give him no thanks or credit for it.’

Fionn smiled. ‘You are certainly honest, anyway, even if you are unpleasant and hard to deal with. But I have never refused service and wages to anyone who asked me. I shall not refuse you either.’

So, he agreed to take the Giolla Deacair into his service. Then he resumed his game of chess. The Giolla Deacair went over to talk to Conán Maol, the fattest, greediest and most ill-tempered man in the Fianna.

‘Who gets the best pay in the Fianna?’ he asked, ‘a foot-soldier or a horse-soldier?’

‘A horse-soldier,’ replied Conán.

‘Then I will join the horse-soldiers. As you see, I have a fine horse of my own.’

‘That bag of bones!’ Conán guffawed. ‘Call that a horse? It can hardly stand on its feet.’

‘It is an excellent steed,’ the Giolla Deacair declared, indignantly. ‘I would not trust anyone to look after it except myself.’

Fionn and his companions burst into raucous laughter. Ignoring their hoots of derision, the Giolla led his horse to the field where the Fianna’s horses were grazing on the rich grass.

But, instead of joining them in peaceful grazing, the strange horse began to wreak havoc among the other animals. It kicked out viciously in all directions. It crippled some horses and bit others with its long crooked teeth.

The Giolla’s horse then left that field and headed for the next field where Conán’s horses were grazing separately.

With a fierce oath, Conán yelled to the Giolla Deacair to take his horse away before it did any further damage.

‘If you do not stop that mad brute of yours, I will knock it senseless!’ he threatened.

‘The only way to stop it is to put the halter on it,’ the Giolla said. ‘But then it would be unable to graze and would grow weak and hungry.’

‘It can die for all I care,’ Conán growled. ‘Put the halter on it.’

‘Do it yourself,’ the Giolla said. ‘I can’t be bothered.’

Conán grabbed the halter and ran to the horse. He flung the halter over the animal’s head and tried to lead it away. The animal stopped immediately. Its body and legs froze and, despite his great strength, Conán could not make it budge an inch.

He tugged and strained at the halter, but still the horse refused to move. The others all mocked Conán.

‘Poor Conán,’ said his brother, Goll. ‘Look how weak he is. He musn’t be getting enough to eat!’

Feargus Finnbéal, the poet, advised him to mount the horse and gallop it over the rough countryside so as to break its spirit and make it obedient.

Conán leaped up on the horse’s back and tried to make it move. The horse remained motionless.

‘It is used to carrying the Giolla Deacair, who is heavier than you,’ said Feargus. ‘It will not budge until it has a similar weight on its back.’

Conán stared appealingly at his comrades. ‘You heard what Feargus said. Which of you will get up on the horse’s back with me?’

‘I will!’ shouted Cóil Cróga, leaping up on the horse behind Conán. Still the animal refused to move. Others piled on. Soon there were fourteen of the Fianna sitting behind Conán on the horse’s very long, very uncomfortable back. They pounded the animal with their fists and dug their heels into its sides, but still it refused to shift.

The Giolla Deacair went over to Fionn. ‘Your men are ill-treating my horse,’ he protested. ‘I am sorry now that I agreed to enter your service. I will not stay here another second!’ He turned and set off slowly. When the horse saw him leaving, it began to move after him, with the fifteen Fianna warriors still on its back.

The Giolla Deacair suddenly increased the length of his strides and headed off quickly in a southwesterly direction. The horse broke into a canter and then a gallop as it followed its master. The men on its back tried to jump off, but found to their dismay that they were welded to the horse like a sword to its hilt. The rest of the Fianna had a good laugh at their predicament. Conán threw a desperate glance back at the receding figures of Fionn and the others.

‘Shame on you all!’ he shouted. ‘Are you willing to stand by and let your comrades be borne away by this ugly animal?’

Fionn signalled to the others to join him in following the horse and the Giolla. They set off in pursuit, but no matter how fast they went, the Giolla and his horse went faster, travelling like the wind over mountains, valleys and rivers.

Soon the Giolla disappeared from sight. Then, just as the Fianna thought that the horse had also eluded them, they saw it standing on a strand by the very edge of the sea.

The warrior who was leading the chase managed to get a grip on the horse’s tail. He held on tightly, hoping to delay the animal until the others arrived to help him. But the horse shot into the waves, dragging the man after him. When he tried to let go, he found that both his hands were stuck firmly to the animal’s tail.

The horse continued on its journey through the sea. The waves did not touch it nor the fifteen Fianna on its back, nor the unfortunate man clinging to its tail. Instead, the water parted before the animal, so that it travelled on a path of dry ground.

Fionn and his companions stood, crestfallen, on the strand, watching their comrades disappear from view and wondering would they ever see them again. Fionn turned sadly to Feargus.

‘Is there nothing more we can do to help them?’ he asked.

Feargus gazed thoughtfully out to sea. ‘We should find a ship and search for them.’

Fionn and the others agreed. On their way to their camp they met two brothers, Fearadach and Foltlár, and told them about the Giolla’s trick and how they were looking for a ship to follow him.

‘I am a skilled builder of ships,’ Fearadach replied.

‘And I am an expert tracker,’ Foltlár added, ‘on sea as well as on land. We would like to help you.’

‘We need a shipbuilder,’ Fionn said. ‘And, although we have the most skilled trackers on land, we have none who can also track on sea. We would welcome your help.’

When the ship was ready, Fionn selected his grandson, Oscar, as well as Diarmaid Ó Duibhne, Conán and his brother Goll, and Fearadach, Foltlár and ten others to accompany him on the quest for the Giolla Deacair. He instructed his son, Oisín, to remain in Ireland in charge of the rest of the Fianna while he was away. Then he and the others set sail in the direction the horse had taken.

After many days’ voyaging they arrived at the base of a cliff which soared so high into the sky that the peak almost touched the clouds.

‘This is where the track of the Giolla Deacair runs out,’ Foltlár said. ‘He and his horse, and the men stuck on its back, must have travelled on over that cliff.’

Fionn stared up at the rock and shook his head gloomily. ‘I can’t see a way to the top of that,’ he declared. There was a murmur of agreement from his companions. Then Feargus spoke up.

‘There is one among us who could do it,’ he said, ‘if he has not lost his daring and courage.’ He stared meaningfully at Diarmaid.

Diarmaid craned his neck to look up at the towering cliff. ‘It is a very hard challenge you place before me,’ he said. ‘But, for the sake of our comrades, I will do my best to climb the cliff.’

He buckled on his sword, harnessed his spear to his back with one of the ship’s ropes and began to climb. It was slow, dangerous progress as he searched for footholds in the cracks in the rock. Halfway up, a shrieking gull flew out of her nest, right in front of his face. Startled, Diarmaid jerked back; his feet slipped from under him and he was left dangling by his fingertips. His friends gasped, as, for what seemed like an eternity, he hung from the vertical drop. Then his desperate feet found a niche and he hauled himself upwards again.

At last he reached the summit, and, tying the rope securely to a big boulder, he lowered it down to his comrades. ‘I will go ahead,’ he shouted, his voice faint and echoing. ‘You can follow my tracks.’

Then he set out across the plain that stretched before him. After travelling for a short while he came to a well full of clear spring water. He placed a mark on the side of the well for his comrades to see. On a nearby ledge lay a richly ornamented drinking-horn. Taking the horn, he filled it from the well and had a long refreshing drink.

Suddenly he heard a furious bellow behind him. Swirling around, he saw a tall, fully armed warrior striding towards him.

‘Who gave you permission to drink from my well with my drinking-horn?’ he shouted. ‘I will have satisfaction from you!’

Drawing his sword, the warrior rushed at Diarmaid. The Fianna warrior immediately drew his own sword to defend himself.

They fought for hours. Wide cracks appeared on their shields as they slashed at each other with their great weapons. Then Diarmaid’s opponent began to tire. He edged away and was about to jump into the well when Diarmaid managed to get a tight grip on him.