Irish Fairy Tales (19 page)

That, by itself, is wonderful, for there are few people who remember that they have been to Faery or aught of all that happened to them in that state.

In truth we do not go to Faery, we become Faery, and in the beating of a pulse we may live for a year or a thousand years. But when we return the memory is quickly clouded, and we seem to have had a dream or seen a vision, although we have verily been in Faery.

It was wonderful, then, that Fionn should have remembered all that happened to him in that wide-spun moment, but in this tale there is yet more to marvel at; for not only did Fionn go to Faery, but the great army which he had marshalled to Ben Edair
¹
were translated also, and neither he nor they were aware that they had departed from the world until they came back to it.

Fourteen battles, seven of the reserve and seven of the regular Fianna, had been taken by the Chief on a great march and manoeuvre. When they reached Ben Edair it was decided to pitch camp so that the troops might rest in view of the warlike plan which Fionn had imagined for the morrow. The camp was chosen, and each squadron and company of the host were lodged into an appropriate place, so there was no overcrowding and no halt or interruption of the march; for where a company halted that was its place of rest, and in that place it hindered no other company, and was at its own ease.

When this was accomplished the leaders of battalions gathered on a level, grassy plateau overlooking the sea, where a consultation began as to the next day's manoeuvres, and during this discussion they looked often on the wide water that lay wrinkling and twinkling below them.

A roomy ship under great press of sall was bearing on Ben Edair from the east.

Now and again, in a lull of the discussion, a champion would look and remark on the hurrying vessel; and it may have been during one of these moments that the adventure happened to Fionn and the Fianna.

“I wonder where that ship comes from?” said Conán idly.

But no person could surmise anything about it beyond that it was a vessel well equipped for war.

As the ship drew by the shore the watchers observed a tall man swing from the side by means of his spear shafts, and in a little while this gentleman was announced to Fionn, and was brought into his presence.

A sturdy, bellicose, forthright personage he was indeed. He was equipped in a wonderful solidity of armour, with a hard, carven helmet on his head, a splendid red-bossed shield swinging on his shoulder, a wide-grooved, straight sword clashing along his thigh. On his shoulders under the shield he carried a splendid scarlet mantle; over his breast was a great brooch of burnt gold, and in his fist he gripped a pair of thick-shafted, unburnished spears.

Fionn and the champions looked on this gentleman, and they admired exceedingly his bearing and equipment.

“Of what blood are you, young gentleman?” Fionn demanded, “and from which of the four corners of the world do you come?”

“My name is Cael of the Iron,” the stranger answered, “and I am son to the King of Thessaly.”

“What errand has brought you here?”

“I do not go on errands,” the man replied sternly, “but on the affairs that please me.”

“Be it so. What is the pleasing affair which brings you to this land?”

“Since I left my own country I have not gone from a land or an island until it paid tribute to me and acknowledged my lordship.”

“And you have come to this realm—” cried Fionn, doubting his ears.

“For tribute and sovereignty,” growled that other, and he struck the haft of his spear violently on the ground.

“By my hand,” said Conán, “we have never heard of a warrior, however great, but his peer was found in Ireland, and the funeral songs of all such have been chanted by the women of this land.”

“By my hand and word,” said the harsh stranger, “your talk makes me think of a small boy or of an idiot.”

“Take heed, sir,” said Fionn, “for the champions and great dragons of the Gael are standing by you, and around us there are fourteen battles of the Fianna of Ireland.”

“If all the Fianna who have died in the last seven years were added to all that are now here,” the stranger asserted, “I would treat all of these and those grievously, and would curtail their limbs and their lives.”

“It is no small boast,” Conán murmured, staring at him.

“It is no boast at all,” said Cael, “and, to show my quality and standing, I will propose a deed to you.”

“Give out your deed,” Fionn commanded.

“Thus,” said Cael with cold savagery. “If you can find a man among your fourteen battalions who can outrun or outwrestle or outfight me, I will take myself off to my own country, and will trouble you no more.”

And so harshly did he speak, and with such a belligerent eye did he stare, that dismay began to seize on the champions, and even Fionn felt that his breath had halted.

“It is spoken like a hero,” he admitted after a moment, “and if you cannot be matched on those terms it will not be from a dearth of applicants.”

“In running alone,” Fionn continued thoughtfully, “we have a notable champion, Caelte mac Ronán.”

“This son of Ronán will not long be notable,” the stranger asserted.

“He can outstrip the red deer,” said Conán.

“He can outrun the wind,” cried Fionn.

“He will not be asked to outrun the red deer or the wind,” the stranger sneered. “He will be asked to outrun me,” he thundered. “Produce this runner, and we shall discover if he keeps as great heart in his feet as he has made you think.”

“He is not with us,” Conán lamented.

“These notable warriors are never with us when the call is made,” said the grim stranger.

“By my hand,” cried Fionn, “he shall be here in no great time, for I will fetch him myself.”

“Be it so,” said Cael.

“And during my absence,” Fionn continued, “I leave this as a compact, that you make friends with the Fianna here present, and that you observe all the conditions and ceremonies of friendship.”

Cael agreed to that.

“I will not hurt any of these people until you return,” he said.

Fionn then set out towards Tara of the Kings, for he thought Caelte mac Ronán would surely be there; “and if he is not there,” said the champion to himself, “then I shall find him at Cesh Corran of the Fianna.”

1
The Hill of Howth

Chapter 2

H
e had not gone a great distance from Ben Edair when he came to an intricate, gloomy wood, where the trees grew so thickly and the undergrowth was such a sprout and tangle that one could scarcely pass through it. He remembered that a path had once been hacked through the wood, and he sought for this. It was a deeply scooped, hollow way, and it ran or wriggled through the entire length of the wood.

Into this gloomy drain Fionn descended and made progress, but when he had penetrated deeply in the dank forest he heard a sound of thumping and squelching footsteps, and he saw coming towards him a horrible, evil-visaged being; a wild, monstrous, yellow-skinned, big-boned giant, dressed in nothing but an ill-made, mud-plastered, drab-coloured coat, which swaggled and clapped against the calves of his big bare legs. On his stamping feet there were great brogues of boots that were shaped like, but were bigger than, a boat, and each time he put a foot down it squashed and squirted a barrelful of mud from the sunk road.

Fionn had never seen the like of this vast person, and he stood gazing on him, lost in a stare of astonishment.

The great man saluted him.

“All alone, Fionn?” he cried. “How does it happen that not one Fenian of the Fianna is at the side of his captain?”

At this inquiry Fionn got back his wits.

“That is too long a story and it is too intricate and pressing to be told, also I have no time to spare now.”

“Yet tell it now,” the monstrous man insisted.

Fionn, thus pressed, told of the coming of Cael of the Iron, of the challenge the latter had issued, and that he, Fionn, was off to Tara of the Kings to find Caelte mac Ronán.

“I know that foreigner well,” the big man commented.

“Is he the champion he makes himself out to be?” Fionn inquired.

“He can do twice as much as he said he would do,” the monster replied.

“He won't outrun Caelte mac Ronán,” Fionn asserted.

The big man jeered.

“Say that he won't outrun a hedgehog, dear heart. This Cael will end the course by the time your Caelte begins to think of starting.”

“Then,” said Fionn, “I no longer know where to turn, or how to protect the honour of Ireland.”

“I know how to do these things,” the other man commented with a slow nod of the head.

“If you do,” Fionn pleaded, “tell it to me upon your honour.”

“I will do that,” the man replied.

“Do not look any further for the rusty-kneed, slow-trotting son of Ronán,” he continued, “but ask me to run your race, and, by this hand, I will be first at the post.”

At this the Chief began to laugh.

“My good friend, you have work enough to carry the two tons of mud that are plastered on each of your coat-tails, to say nothing of your weighty boots.”

“By my hand,” the man cried, “there is no person in Ireland but myself can win that race. I claim a chance.”

Fionn agreed then. “Be it so,” said he. “And now, tell me your name?”

“I am known as the Carl of the Drab Coat.”

“All names are names,” Fionn responded, “and that also is a name.”

They returned then to Ben Edair.

Chapter 3

W
hen they came among the host the men of Ireland gathered about the vast stranger; and there were some who hid their faces in their mantles so that they should not be seen to laugh, and there were some who rolled along the ground in merriment, and there were others who could only hold their mouths open and crook their knees and hang their arms and stare dumbfoundedly upon the stranger, as though they were utterly dazed.

Cael of the Iron came also on the scene, and he examined the stranger with close and particular attention.

“What in the name of the devil is this thing?” he asked of Fionn.

“Dear heart,” said Fionn, “this is the champion I am putting against you in the race.”

Cael of the Iron grew purple in the face, and he almost swallowed his tongue through wrath.

“Until the end of eternity,” he roared, “and until the very last moment of doom I will not move one foot in a race with this greasy, big-hoofed, ill-assembled resemblance of a beggarman.”

But at this the Carl burst into a roar of laughter, so that the eardrums of the warriors present almost burst inside of their heads.

“Be reassured, my darling, I am no beggarman, and my quality is not more gross than is the blood of the most delicate prince in this assembly. You will not evade your challenge in that way, my love, and you shall run with me or you shall run to your ship with me behind you. What length of course do you propose, dear heart?”

“I never run less than sixty miles,” Cael replied sullenly.

“It is a small run,” said the Carl, “but it will do. From this place to the Hill of the Rushes, Slieve Luachra of Munster, is exactly sixty miles. Will that suit you?”

“I don't care how it is done,” Cael answered.

“Then,” said the Carl, “we may go off to Slieve Luachra now, and in the morning we can start our race there to here.”

“Let it be done that way,” said Cael.

These two set out then for Munster, and as the sun was setting they reached Slieve Luachra and prepared to spend the night there.

Chapter 4

C
ael, my pulse,” said the Carl, “we had better build a house or a hut to pass the night in.”

“I'Il build nothing,” Cael replied, looking on the Carl with great disfavour.