Irish Folk Tales (17 page)

The king of Greek’s daughter had a great spite to Finn MacCumhail, and Goll, one of his great heroes, and Oscar his grandson. So she came one day and appeared like a white doe before him. And bedad he chased her with his two hounds, Bran and another, till she led them away to the bottom of the black North. She vanished from them at the edge of a lake, and while they were looking about for her, a beautiful lady appeared sitting on the bank, tearing her hair, and crying.

“What ails you, lady?” says Finn.

“My ring is dropped into the water,” says she, “and my father and mother will murder me if I go home without it.”

“I’ll get it for you,” says he, and he dived three times one after another for it. The third time he felt the chill of death on him, and when he was handing the ring to her, he was a decrepid, weak, gray-haired old man.

“Now,” says she, “maybe you’ll remember the king of Greek’s daughter, and how you killed her husband and her two sons.”

“If I did,” says he, “it was on the battlefield, fighting man to man.” She left him there as helpless as the child two days old, and went away with herself.

There was great sorrow and trouble that night at Finn’s house, and the next day all his warriors, except Oscar, set out after him. Well, they traveled and they traveled, till they were tired and hungry, and at last they entered an old fort, and what did they see but a fine table laid out, and seven stone seats around it. They were too hungry to make much ceremony, so they sat down, and ate and drank. And just as they were done, in walks the lady, and says she: “Sith ye merry, gentlemen. I hope your meal agreed with you. Finn is at the edge of that lake you see down there. If you like, you may come with me to pay him a visit.”

They gave a shout of joy, but bedad, when they offered to get up they found themselves glued to their stone seats. Oh, weren’t they miserable! And they could see poor Finn lying on a bank by the lake not able to stir hand or foot.

There they stayed in grief for a day and a night, and at last they saw Oscar following Bran that was after going a hundred miles in quest of him. Bran found Oscar lying asleep by the Lake of Killarney, and he barked so loud that the wolves, and deers, and foxes, and hares, run fifty miles away; the eagles, and kites, and hawks, flew five miles up in the sky, and the fishes jumped out on dry land.

Never a wake did Oscar wake, and then Bran bit his little finger to the bone. “Tattheration to you for an Oscar!” says poor Bran, and then he was so mad he seized him by the nose. Very few can stand to have any liberty taken with the handle of their face—no more did Oscar. He opened his eyes, and was going to make gibbets of the dog, but he put up his muzzle, and began to keen, and then trotted off, looking round at Oscar.

“Oh ho!” says he, “Finn or Goll is in danger,” and he followed him hotfoot to the North. He came up to Finn, but could hardly hear what he was striving to tell him. So Oscar put Finn’s thumb to his lips, for himself wasn’t able to stir hand or foot. “And now, Finn,” says he, “by the virtue of your thumb, tell me how I’m to get this pishrogue removed.”

“Go,” says he, in a whisper that had hardly anything between it and dead silence, “go to the fairy hill, and make the enchanter that lives there give you the drink of youth.”

When he came to the hill, the thief of a fairy man sunk down seven perches into the ground, but Oscar was not to be circumvented. He dug after him till the clay and stones made a new hill, and when they came to the solid rock he pinned him, and brought him up to the light of the sun. His face was as gray as ashes, and as shriveled as a russidan apple, and very unwilling he was to give up the cup. But he was forced to do so, and it
wasn’t long till Oscar was by Finn’s side, and spilling a little, drop by drop, down his throat. Up he sprung five yards in the air, and shouted till the rocks rung. And it wasn’t long till himself, and Oscar, and Bran were in the middle of the enchanted men. Well, they were nearly ashamed of themselves pinned to their seats, but Oscar didn’t leave them long in grief. He spilled some of the cup down by every man’s thigh, and freed he was. But, be the laws, there wasn’t hardly a drop in the cup when he came to the ounkran of a make-game, foul-mouthed, bald Conan. He could only free a part of one thigh, and at last Oscar, getting impatient, took him body and sleeves, and pulled him off the stone. What a roar he let out of him! His breeches—if it’s breeches they wore in them old times—stuck to the seat, and a trifle of Conan’s skin along with it. “Whisht!” says Oscar, “we’ll get a sheepskin sewed on you, and you’ll be as comfortable as any May-boy after it.”

Well, when all were free, they gave three shouts that were heard as far as the Isle of Man. And for a week after they got home they done nothing but eating the vengeance of goats and deers, and drinking wine, and mead, and beer that the Danes learned them to make from heath. And gentle and simple might go in and out, and eat and drink, and no one was there to say, “Who asked you to visit us?”

T
HE KING OF IRELAND’S SON

There was a king’s son in Ireland long ago, and he went out and took with him his gun and his dog. There was snow out. He killed a raven. The raven fell on the snow. He never saw anything whiter than the snow, or blacker than the raven’s skull, or redder than its share of blood, that was a-pouring out.

He put himself under geasa and obligations of the year, that he would not eat two meals at one table, or sleep two nights in one house, until he should find a woman whose hair was as black as the raven’s head, and her skin as white as the snow, and her two cheeks as red as the blood.

There was no woman in the world like that, but one woman only, and she was in the eastern world.

The day on the morrow he set out, and money was not plenty, but he took with him twenty pounds. It was not far he went until he met a funeral, and he said that it was as good for him to go three steps with the corpse.
He had not the three steps walked until there came a man and left his writ down on the corpse for five pounds. There was a law in Ireland at that time that any man who had a debt upon another person that person’s people could not bury him, should he be dead, without paying his debts, or without the leave of the person to whom the dead man owed the debts. When the king of Ireland’s son saw the sons and daughters of the dead crying, and they without money to give the man, he said to himself: “It’s a great pity that these poor people have not the money,” and he put his hand in his pocket and paid the five pounds himself for the corpse. After that, he said he would go as far as the church to see it buried. Then there came another man, and left his writ on the body for five pounds more. “As I gave the first five pounds,” said the king of Erin’s son to himself, “it’s as good for me to give the other five, and to let the poor man go to the grave.” He paid the other five pounds. He had only ten pounds then.

Not far did he go until he met a short green man, and he asked him where was he going. He said that he was going looking for a woman in the eastern world. The short green man asked him did he want a boy, and he said he did, and asked what would be the wages he would be looking for? He said: “The first kiss of his wife if he should get her.” The king of Ireland’s son said that he must get that.

Not far did they go until they met another man and his gun in his hand, and he a-leveling it at the blackbird that was in the eastern world, that he might have it for his dinner. The short green man said to him that it was as good for him to take that man into his service if he would go on service with him. The son of the king of Ireland asked him if he would come on service with him.

“I will,” said the man, “if I get my wages.”

“And what is the wages you’ll be looking for?”

“The place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if my journey succeeds with me.”

The king of Ireland’s son went forward with the short green man and the gunner, and it was not far they went until a man met them, and his ear left to the ground, and he listening to the grass growing.

“It’s as good for you to take that man into your service,” said the short green man.

The king’s son asked the man whether he would come with him on service.

“I’ll come if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You will get that from me if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, and
the earman, went forward, and it was not far they went until they met another man, and his one foot on his shoulder, and he keeping a field of hares, without letting one hare in or out of the field. There was wonder on the king’s son, and he asked him “What was the sense of his having one foot on his shoulder like that.”

“Oh,” says he, “if I had my two feet on the ground I should be so swift that I would be out of sight.”

“Will you come on service with me?” says the king’s son.

“I’ll come if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, and the footman, went forward, and it was not far they went till they came to a man and he turning round a windmill with one nostril, and his finger left on his nose shutting the other nostril.

“Why have you your finger on your nose?” said the king of Ireland’s son.

“Oh,” says he, “if I were to blow with the two nostrils I would sweep the mill altogether out of that up into the air.”

“Will you come on hire with me?”

“I will if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

The son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, and the blowman went forward until they came to a man who was sitting on the side of the road and he a-breaking stones with one thigh, and he had no hammer or anything else. The king’s son asked him why it was he was breaking stones with his half thigh.

“Oh,” says he, “if I were to strike them with the double thigh I’d make powder of them.”

“Will you hire with me?”

“I will if I get the place of a house and garden.”

“You’ll get that if the thing I have in my head succeeds with me.”

Then they all went forward together—the son of the king of Ireland, the short green man, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man that broke stones with the side of his thigh, and they would overtake the March wind that was before them, and the March wind that was behind them would not overtake them, until the evening came and the end of the day.

The king of Ireland’s son looked from him, and he did not see any house in which he might be that night. The short green man looked from him, and he saw a house, and there was not the top of a quill outside of it, nor the bottom of a quill inside of it, but only one quill alone, which was
keeping shelter and protection on it. The king’s son said that he did not know where he should pass that night, and the short green man said that they would be in the house of the giant over there that night.

They came to the house, and the short green man drew the
coolaya-coric
—the pole of combat—and he did not leave child with woman, foal with mare, pigeen with pig, or badger in glen, that he did not turn over three times with the quantity of sound he knocked out of the
coolaya-coric
. The giant came out, and he said: “I feel the smell of the melodious lying Irishman under my little sod of country.”

“I’m no melodious lying Irishman,” said the short green man. “But my master is out there at the head of the avenue, and if he comes he will whip the head off you.” The short green man was growing big, growing big, until at last he looked as big as the castle. There came fear on the giant, and he said: “Is your master as big as you?”

“He is,” says the short green man, “and bigger.”

“Put me in hiding till morning, until your master goes,” said the giant.

Then he put the giant under lock and key, and went out to the king’s son. Then the king of Ireland’s son, the gunman, the earman, the footman, the blowman, and the man who broke stones with the side of his thigh, came into the castle, and they spent that night, a third of it a-storytelling, a third of it with Fenian tales, and a third of it in mild enjoyment of slumber and of true sleep.