The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends (33 page)

“Dead,” exclaimed Osmiach the physician dispassionately.

Setanta’s gaze met that of Uathach, but she was not distressed. Admiration shone from her eyes.

Scáthach appeared, standing frowning at the young man. “You have slain my gatekeeper,” she said, without emotion.

“Then as I fulfilled the duties of Cullan’s hound, and guarded Cullan’s fortress, let me now be your gatekeeper for as long as I stay here.”

So it was, that for a year and a day, Setanta stayed at the martial arts academy of Scáthach and, each night, Uathach warmed his bed. And Scáthach herself taught Setanta all he
needed to know to become the greatest warrior in all Éireann, and the fame of Cúchullain, or Cullan’s hound – for as such he was better known than as Setanta –
spread far and wide.

At the end of a year and a day, Scáthach drew Setanta to her and led the way down to a large underground cavern, where none but they were allowed to enter. Inside, lit by brand torches,
was a great pool of bubbling sulphur, warm and liquid grey.

“Here we will make the final test,” Scáthach announced. “We will wrestle and it shall be the winner of three throws who shall be the greater.”

“I cannot wrestle you!” protested Setanta, for as much as he realised that she was the greatest female champion of Alba, it was against his sense of honour to wrestle a woman.

“You will wrestle as I direct, or it shall be known that you feared a challenge from me,” she said simply.

So the two of them stripped off, there and then, and took their places on either side of the sulphur pool. At the first clash, Scáthach threw Setanta. The next time they touched, Setanta,
no longer fearful to harm her, threw her. And then the third time they came together in the centre of the sulphur pool. They held each other so tightly in an embrace that neither could throw the
other. And, after an hour, Scáthach released her hold and said: “The pupil has become the master.”

Setanta then made love with her, for it is written that the apprentice must show his willingness to marry his vocation.

In return, Scáthach gave Setanta a special spear, which was called the Gae-Bolg, or belly spear. This spear was thrown by the foot. It made one small wound when it entered a man’s
body but then thirty terrible barbs opened so that it filled every limb and crevice with mortal wounds. Scáthach gave this to Setanta and taught him how to cast it.

And both Scáthach and Uathach knew that the time was now approaching when Setanta would leave Dún Scaith.

It happened about this time that Scáthach received a challenge to combat from her own sister Aoife, whose name means “radiantly beautiful”. Now she was Scáthach’s
twin sister and they had both been born of the goddess of war, the Mórrígán. Each was as proficient as the other in arms, but each claimed to be the superior of the other.
Sibling rivalry warped their relationship.

Aoife had sent Scáthach a message saying: “I hear that you have a new champion at Dún Scaith. Let us test his mettle. My champions and your champions will contest
together.”

When she read this, Scáthach was fearful for the safely of Setanta, for she knew, deep in her heart, that her sister was the greater of the two; that she was the fiercest and strongest
champion in the world. But the challenge could not be rejected, and so Scáthach prepared her warriors to go out and meet her sister Aoife.

The night before they were to set forth, Scáthach called Osmiach the physician to her, and told him to prepare a potion which would send a man to sleep for four-and-twenty hours. And
Osmiach prepared the sleeping draught, and it was administered in secret to Setanta.

The warriors of Scáthach set out to meet the warriors of Aoife.

What Scáthach overlooked was that the potion, which might have caused an ordinary man to sleep for four and twenty hours, only held Setanta in sleep for one hour.

As the armies gathered, great was Scáthach’s astonishment when Setanta’s chariot came careering up and he joined her lines, for he had followed Scáthach’s army by
the tracks of the chariots.

The champions met in combat and great deeds were wrought that day. Setanta and two sons of Scáthach fought with six of Aoife’s mightiest warriors and slew them. Several of
Scáthach’s pupils were cut down, but they did not fall
alone. As the day grew dark, both armies were still evenly matched.

Then Aoife challenged Scáthach directly to combat to resolve matters.

Setanta intervened and claimed the champion’s right to meet Aoife in place of Scáthach and such was the ethic of the situation that Scáthach could not refuse him.

“Before I go,” Setanta said, “tell me what your sister Aoife loves and values most in the world.”

Scáthach frowned. “Why, she loves her two horses, her chariot and her charioteer, in that order.”

So Setanta drove out into the battlefield to meet Aoife.

At first, he was amazed that Aoife was so like Scáthach, but her beauty seemed more radiant than Scáthach’s and she handled her weapons with greater dexterity. It was truly
said that she was the greater warrior of the two. They clashed together, Setanta and Aoife. They fought in single combat and tried every champion’s feat they knew. Blow to blow, shield to
shield, eye to eye.

Then skill was with Aoife. She aimed such a blow that the sword of Setanta shattered at the hilt. She raised her sword for the final strike.

Setanta cried out: “Look! Your horses and chariot have fallen from the cliff into the gorge!”

Aoife hesitated and glanced round fearfully.

At once, Setanta rushed forward, seized her around the waist and flung her to the ground. Before she could recover, there was a knife at her throat and Setanta was demanding her surrender.
Angrily, she realized that she had no option but to plead for her life and Setanta granted it, on condition that she made a lasting peace with her sister Scáthach and gave Scáthach
hostages for the fulfilment of the pledge.

“You are the first person who has bested me in combat,” Aoife ruefully admitted, staring at the handsome youth. “Albeit, it was by a trick.”

“Victory is victory, however it was achieved,” replied Setanta calmly.

“There is wisdom on your tongue,” agreed Aoife. “Come
and join me at my fortress, that we may get better acquainted.”

To this invitation, Setanta agreed.

Scáthach and her daughter Uathach watched his departure with Aoife in sadness but in resignation of his destiny. He would become Aoife’s lover and she would bear his son, Connla,
whom the gods would force him to kill. In sadness, he would stride forth to become the defender of Ulaidh, his name praised in the mouths of all men; charioteers and warriors, kings and sages would
recount his deeds and he would win the love of many. He would be Cúchullain. And whenever the name of Cúchullain was spoken, the name of his famous tutor would also drop from the
tongue – Scáthach, the Shadowy One, ruler of Dún Scaith on the Isle of Skye.

15 Princess of the Fomorii

L
ong ago, in high-hilled Alba, there dwelt a band of mighty warriors called the Feans. Their chieftain was Fingal. No other warriors could stand
against them, for they were the greatest champions in all the five kingdoms of Alba.

One day, returning from a quest to help the King of the Western Isles, their ship was forced to pass over the Eas-Ruaidh, the Red Cataract, but its waters were suddenly stilled. No wind blew and
the surface of the sea became as clear as crystal, without the remotest ripple. The sun shone down brightly and, leaning over the railing of their ship, they could see the salmon beneath the waves,
resting before their journey into the great rivers of the mainland.

As the warriors peered about, wondering why their ship had suddenly been becalmed, a further curious thing happened.

The land of the Fomorii was revealed to them. Now the Fomorii were the dwellers under the sea, and their country was suddenly seen through the crystal of the sea as if through a piece of glass
– like a window. It was a fair country of deep green forests, bright flowers and silver streams. The rocks were of gold and the sands were of silver. Precious jewels were the pebbles of its
shores.

In the deathly hush, the Feans looked down, enraptured but unsure of what this vision could mean.

Then one of them called softly, pointing to a boat which seemed to float up from the land beneath the waves and
approach them. The boat was rowed by a woman of breathtaking
beauty, who handled the oars with great dexterity, so that not even a ripple showed where she dipped them into the water. The boat approached and came alongside the warship of the Feans.

The lovely vision of womanhood stepped out and the Feans could now see that there was a deep sadness on her lovely features.

“Greetings to you, men of the Feans,” she intoned sweetly.

Fingal, their chieftain, rose from his seat and came towards her, pausing to salute her, for it seemed to him that she was no ordinary woman who could row her boat from the land beneath the
waves into this world.

“You are welcome, fair lady,” he said. “Speak your name and tell us what country you come from and what it is that you seek among us, the Feans of high-hilled Alba.”

“Thank you, Fingal the Fair,” replied the young woman. “I am Muirgen, the daughter of the King of the Fomorii, the Dwellers Under the Sea. I have searched for you and the Feans
for many months.”

“You bear an appropriate name, Princess of the Fomorii,” replied Fingal, for Muirgen meant “born of the sea”. “Now tell us why it is that you have searched for us,
and what it is that you require from us.”

“I have come to seek your help, and I am much in need of it. I am pursued by enemies.”

Fingal at once clapped his hand to his sword and his eyes darted this way and that, as if seeking the enemies she alluded to. “Fear not of enemies, Princess. You are among warriors who
fear no enemy. Tell us, who is it who dares to pursue you?”

“The Tighearna Dubh is he that pursues me. The Dark Lord, who is the son of the Tighearna Bàn of the Sciatha Ruaidh. He desires to seize my father’s kingdom and, not being
able to do so by force, he means to make me his bride. My father, however, is now old and has no male heir and so has weakened in his resolve. He says that the Tighearna Dubh is as good as any
other prince and that I must wed him. I have defied him, as I have defied the Tighearna Dubh. Great is
your prowess, Fingal. I have taken an oath that none but you shall take
me back to my palace under the waves and drive the Dark Lord from it.”

Oscar, the grandson of Fingal, who was a great warrior and very handsome, came forward. “Princess, even if Fingal was not here, I and all the Feans would protect you from this Dark Lord.
He will not dare to seize you.”

As he spoke, a dark shadow suddenly fell across their ship, causing the entire seascape to be shrouded in darkness, as if it were suddenly night. The Feans peered upward, seeking an explanation,
for they had not noticed any storm-clouds gathering. Indeed, the shadow was not caused by clouds, but by a mighty warrior astride a great blue-grey stallion with a white mane and tail, which
pranced across the sky snorting with white foam on its nostrils and from its muzzle. On the warrior’s head was a flashing silver helmet, on his left arm was a large silver shield and in his
right hand was a mighty sword, whose steel surface flashed like lightning.

Faster than the mountain torrent sped his mighty horse as it came swiftly towards the ship of the Feans. Now the tranquil seas broke and the waves rose underneath the galloping hooves. The
breath of the beast caused the seas to churn, as if before the gusts of an uncontrollable tempest. In fact, the waves drove the great ship of the Feans shorewards, the little boat of the Princess
of the Fomorii along with it, bobbing like corks in a tub. The Feans used all their seamanship but the ship sped straight for a sandy shore and was beached. Whereupon Fingal gave the word, and his
warriors leapt ashore with shield and swords at the ready to confront this mighty warrior.

Down came the great horse and its rider, halting in a spray of sand. The warrior leapt from the horse and came striding up the sandy beach to the battle lines of the Feans.

“Is this the Tighearna Dubh of whom you spoke, Princess?” demanded Fingal.

“It is none other,” the Princess assured him, her voice faint. “Protect me, for his power is great.”

Oscar, the youthful hero, stirred by the passionate cry of the girl, strode forward, shield and sword ready.

The Tighearna Dubh scorned to fight with him. “Move aside,
balach
,” he roared, deliberately insulting Oscar by calling him “boy”. His very
voice made the earth quake.

However, this address made Oscar angry and he yelled back.

“Defend yourself from this ‘boy’,
laosboc!
” He used the most insulting term he could think of, being a “gelded he-goat”.

The Tighearna Dubh laughed so that the mountains shook and landslides roared from their tops. But he ignored Oscar. He looked straight at the Princess of the Fomorii.

“I have come for you, not to fight with boys.”

Enraged, Oscar seized his spear and cast it at the strange warrior. It did not touch his body but it split the ridge of the shield right in its centre.

Still the Tighearna Dubh did not respond, dismissing Oscar as a “petulant
balach
”. At this, Oscar became angrier and cast his second spear at the warrior’s mighty steed.
It went right through the horse’s heart and it fell dead. Ossian, who was the bard of the Feans, immediately composed a song about this mighty deed and some say that it still may be heard,
sung in the remote places and islands of Scotland, where the language of the children of the Gael has not yet been entirely cast out by the language of the Gall.

The Tighearna Dubh was finally moved to anger by the loss of his prize horse, and he beat on his mighty shield with his sword and challenged the Feans to send fifty men of them against him and
he would overcome them all. If they did not accept his challenge, then they were all weaklings who should still be supping their mother’s milk.