Legends! Beasts and Monsters (5 page)

But secretly Dáire was concerned. From the moment Oscar had arrived that day, he hadn’t been quite himself. Dáire was ten years older than his friend, dark and
battle-scarred. He liked to think of himself as Oscar’s older brother. The two of them had been through many adventures together. He knew when something was wrong.

So, when he was sure nobody was looking, he went over to Oscar and sat down beside him. For a while, neither of them spoke. Dáire took out a wineskin and drank. He offered it to his
friend. Once again, Oscar shook his head.

‘What’s the matter?’ Dáire asked.

There was no answer. Dáire was about to ask the question a second time when Oscar spoke. He was gazing straight ahead of him as if trying to find something in the darkness of the night.
‘I was thinking of some of the monsters I have encountered in my life,’ he said. His voice was soft. He had the ability to sing even when he was talking. It was a great talent.
Dáire had often listened in wonderment as Oscar recited his father’s verse. ‘I was just wondering which of them was the worst.’

‘Do you mean the ugliest or the most dangerous?’

‘I don’t know what I mean.’

‘Then why are you even thinking such things? There’ll be time enough for monsters after the battle is done. Now – Cairbre Lifechair . . . there’s a monster for you. Calls
himself a king, but puts us to all this bother and throws away the life of his men just because he’s too mean to pay for a wedding!’

‘I will tell you what happened to me today, Dáire. But only you. Promise me you won’t speak to anyone else.’

‘What are you talking about, Oscar?’ Dáire raised the skin to his lips and drank heavily. Whatever happened tomorrow, he wasn’t going to leave behind any of his
wine.

‘I’m talking about the washer at the ford,’ Oscar said.

He paused. And then he began his tale.

‘As I was riding here, I had to cross a ford. I’d been following the river for some distance and the water was deep and fast-flowing. It was the only way to the other side. Well,
there was a woman sitting there. She was washing some clothes.’

‘An old hag, I’ll bet—’

‘No. She was young and quite pretty. She had fair hair like mine, only lighter. And her skin was very white. I assumed she must be married, because she was washing a man’s
clothing.’

‘Her husband’s?’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Oscar took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, my horse needed water, so I dismounted and sat with her a while. The sun was shining and I was in no great
hurry. I knew that I was only a few miles from here. For a time, neither of us spoke. The woman continued washing her clothes and I sat beside her.

‘But then she turned to me. “You’re on your way to battle!” she said.

‘I nodded. I imagined that she must have seen many soldiers going past. It would have been obvious that a battle was about to take place.

‘“Are you afraid?” she asked.

‘“I’m not afraid of anything,” I replied.

‘“Is that so?”

‘She was mocking me. I could hear it in her voice. And maybe that made me forget myself. “I have never yet come across a beast or a monster that could frighten me,” I told
her.

‘“Oh yes? And what is the worst monster you have ever met?” she asked.’

Oscar came to a halt. Dáire had listened to all this in silence. He could see that his friend was still deep in thought, so he tried to make light of it all. ‘You should have
grabbed hold of the wench and pushed her into the ford, along with all her washing,’ he said. ‘That would have put an end to her insolence.’

‘Perhaps. But there was something about her question that made me think. I have come across many monsters in my life and I have vanquished them all, starting with the ugly giant with the
deerskins.’

‘His head rolled down the hill!’ Dáire had often heard Oscar describe the incident, particularly when the two of them were drunk. It never failed to make them laugh.

More than eight feet tall, the giant had been travelling up a hill in Western Ireland, carrying two piles of deerskins under his arms. The giant had a truly hideous face, with fat, deformed
lips, swollen eyes and a nose that seemed to have been used as a punchbag.

His skin was mottled and his hair, a nasty ginger colour, hung over his forehead like a mop. His shirt was stretched tight over his massive belly and his jacket hung loose as if it had been torn
apart. The giant was going up the hill. Oscar was coming down. The path was narrow and there was mud on both sides. Inevitably, there had been an argument. Although Oscar was tiny in comparison
with the giant – for he was only fifteen when this had happened – he had refused to step out of the way.

‘You step aside, Mr Giant, unless you want to feel the edge of my sword.’

‘You step aside, rude boy, unless you want to encounter my club.’ And dropping the deerskins, the giant had produced a club so huge it could have been cut from the trunk of a
tree.

‘I’m warning you, giant—’

‘Be silent, boy . . .’

The fight had been a brief one. The giant had swung his club. Oscar had ducked, then leaped up, swinging his sword. The slope of the hill had given him extra height, and the blade had found its
target in the giant’s neck, severing his head. There was an explosion, a fountain of blood. The giant’s head had come clean off and, as Dáire had rightly said, it had rolled all
the way down the hill and into a nearby convent, where the nuns had been about to have lunch. They were still in hysterics an hour later.

‘Was that the worst monster?’ Dáire asked. All around him the
fianna
were curling up for the night, covering themselves with their heavy cloaks. A few fires were still
flickering and there were lights also, far away on the other side of the swamp, a reminder of the men, very similar to them, waiting for what the next day might bring.

‘It might have been,’ Oscar said. ‘But then again I could have chosen the wild boar at Ben Bulben.’

‘Another fine candidate.’ Dáire nodded.

This was another famous story. Oscar had been in the forests near Sligo, hunting with his grandfather, the great hero Fionn mac Cumhaill,
²
and
some of the other
fianna
. Suddenly a huge boar came crashing out of the undergrowth. It was a dreadful creature, covered in iron-grey hair, with burning eyes, a wet, upturned snout, and
tusks that curved out of its head like poisoned swords. Before anyone could do anything, it had charged at one of Fionn’s oldest friends – a man called Diarmaid – and slammed both
tusks into his stomach. Diarmaid screamed in agony and fell to his knees, blood gushing into his lap. The animal seemed to screech in triumph, wheeling round and looking for the next person to
attack.

One of the younger hunters threw a spear at the beast, but it simply snapped in half, bouncing off the boar’s back. The creature was incredibly fast. It charged a second time and suddenly
the young man was on the ground, crying out, with a broken leg. A third man threw himself at the boar, pulling out a knife. The boar wheeled round, throwing him off, then prepared to charge him
too.

There might have been more deaths and injuries that day if it hadn’t been for Oscar. He had whipped out his own knife and charged forward, placing himself between the animal and its
intended victim. The boar had no choice. Letting out another high-pitched squeal, it lowered its head and charged at Oscar, the pointed tusks aiming straight for him.

To everyone, including his grandfather, it looked as if Oscar was about to be cut in half. But at the last moment, he dived flat to the ground, disappearing between the boar’s legs. An
instant later he twisted round so that he was now underneath the monster, with its soft underbelly above him. As quick as lightning, he lashed out. His knife slit the boar from neck to groin. The
boar howled as all the insides fell out of it, covering Oscar with a tangled knot of steaming, bloody intestines. The beast took one final step and died.