Early Irish Myths and Sagas Read online

  The raiders retreated over three ridges, then, trembling and in fear of Mace Cécht; and Gér, Gabur and Fer Rogain reaffirmed their pledges. ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of this one man,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘Your heads will leave your bodies.’ ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘Indeed, Ingcél, the destruction is yours by right,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You will suffer no loss. It will be more difficult for me, however.’ ‘No lie that,’ said Ingcél. ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

  ‘I saw an apartment with three callow youths in it,’ said Ingcél. ‘They wore silken mantles with gilded brooches; they had manes of yellow gold hair, and when they engage in combat, their manes extend to the front of the apartment. Moreover, when they raise their eyes, their hair rises until no part of it is below the lobes of their ears. As fleecy as a ram their cloaks. Five concentric circles of gold and the candle of a royal house above each youth, and there is not a man in the house who can match them for voice and words and deeds. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’

  Fer Rogain wept, so that his cloak was wet about his face, and for a third of the night not a word was to be had from him. ‘Little people,’ he said, ‘what I do is proper. Oball and Obléne and Coirpre Músc those three youths, the three sons of the king of Ériu.’ ‘Woe to us if that is the case,’ said the sons of Dond Désa. ‘Good the trio in that apartment. They have the bearing of young girls, the hearts of friars, the courage of bears and the ferocity of lions. Anyone who is in their company and in their bed will neither sleep nor eat in comfort for nine days after escaping from them. Good are the warriors of their people. Three tens will fall by them at the first onslaught, and a man for each weapon, and a man for each of them, and they will match the performance of anyone in the hostel; they will boast of victories over kings and royal heirs and plundering chieftains, and, though wounded, they will escape afterwards, and two of you will fall by them.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of those three,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

  ‘I saw an apartment with three men in it,’ said Ingcél, ‘three strange, horrible men with three heads each. Three fearsome Fomóri, without the form of human beings. The raging sea has given them features that are not easy to recognize: each head has three full rows of teeth, from ear to ear. Noble stewards of households each, and each with one hundred exploits. Their swords hew through the host about Borg Buredach in the assembly at Da Derga’s hostel. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’

  ‘Difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘I know no trio in Ériu or anywhere else like that, unless they are the trio whom Mace Cécht brought single-handedly out of the land of the Fomóri. There could not be found among the Fomóri even one man to face him, so he took the trio to Conare’s house as a guarantee that the Fomóri would not spoil milk or grain in Ériu beyond their lawful allowance, and that so long as Conare reigned. They are not pleasant to look at, indeed, with their three rows of teeth from one ear to the other. An ox with a salted pig would be a typical meal for each of them, and that meal, when eaten, would be visible down to their navels. Bones without joints the three have. I swear by the god my people swear by, when they destroy, the dead outnumber the living. Six hundred warriors will fall by them at the first onslaught, and each of them will kill with no more than a bite or a kick or a blow, for they are hostages placed against the wall lest they do any misdeed, and therefore they are not allowed to have weapons in the hostel. I swear by the god my people swear by, if they had weapons now, they would kill two thirds of us.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, for it will not be a contest against the weak,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

  ‘I saw an apartment with three men in it,’ said Ingcél, ‘three huge, dark men. They wore dark garments and heavy ankle bracelets, and each of their limbs was as thick as a man’s waist. Their heads were broad and covered with dark, curly hair, and they wore cloaks of speckled red. Dark shields they had, with curved animal clasps of gold, and five-pointed javelins and ivory-hilted swords. This is the trick they would perform with their swords: they would throw the swords up in the air, and the scabbards after, and the swords would return to the scabbards before the scabbards could strike the ground. Then they would throw the scabbards up in the air, and the swords after, and the scabbards would envelop the swords before the swords could strike the ground. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’

  ‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘Mál son of Telband and Muinremur son of Gerrgend and Birrderg son of Rúad they, three royal heirs, three valorous heroes, the three best men to stand behind weapons in Ériu. One hundred warriors will fall by them at the first onslaught, and a man for each weapon, and a man for each of them, and they will match the performance of any trio in the hostel; they will boast of victories over kings and royal heirs and plundering chieftains, and, though wounded, they will escape afterwards. On their account alone, the destruction of the hostel should not be carried out.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘Better a victory won by protecting them than a victory of wounding. Who spares them may survive; who wounds them, woe to him.’ ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

  ‘I saw a man in an ornamented apartment,’ said Ingcél, ‘and he is the handsomest of the heroes of Ériu. He had a fleecy crimson cloak about him. As bright as snow one cheek, as speckled red as foxglove the other; as blue as hyacinth one eye, as black as a beetle’s back the other. His fair, yellow hair would fill a reaping basket, and it was as fleecy as the wool of a ram. If a sackful of red nuts were emptied over his hand, not a single nut would reach the ground. In his hands, a gold-hilted sword, a blood-red shield studded with rivets of white gold and gold plates, and a long, three-ridged spear with a shaft the thickness of an outer yoke. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’

  ‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain, ‘for the men of Ériu know that child. He is Conall Cernach son of Amorgen, and just now he has fallen in with Conare, for Conare loves him above all others, and that because the two are so similar in shape and form. A good warrior Conall Cernach. The blood-red shield on his back is so studded with rivets of white gold that it is speckled, and thus the Ulaid have named it the Bricriu of Conall Cernach. I swear by what my people swear by, many a drop of red blood will splatter that shield tonight at the entrance to the hostel. There are seven entrances to the house, and Conall Cernach will meet us at each one, and he will not be absent from any; and his ridged spear will serve the drink of death to many. Three hundred will fall by him at the first onslaught, and a man for each weapon, and a man for himself, and he will match the performance of any man in the hostel; he will boast of victories over kings and royal heirs and plundering chieftains, and, though wounded, he will escape afterwards. When he encounters you in the hostel, as numerous as hailstones or blades of grass or stars in the sky will be your cloven heads and cloven skulls and heaps of entrails that he crushes after he has scattered you about the ridges.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

  ‘I saw an apartment, the most beautifully decorated one in the house, with hangings and ornaments of silver, and three men in it,’ said Ingcél. ‘The men on either Side were fair with their flaxen hair and their cloaks; they were as white as snow, and their cheeks blushed pleasingly. Between them a callow youth with the ardour and deeds of a lord and the advice of a seer. The cloak he wore was like mist on the first day of summer: its colour and appearance changed from moment to moment, and each colour was lovelier t
han the one before. Moreover, there was a wheel of gold over the front of the cloak, and it reached from his chin to his navel. His hair was the colour of refined gold. Of all the forms I have seen in the world, his is the most beautiful. At his Side, there was a gold-hilted sword; a hand’s length of it was visible, and the light reflected from that part of the sword would enable a man out in front of the house to discern a fleshworm. Sweeter the music of that sword than the sweet sound of the golden pipes that drone in the royal house.

  ‘This is what I said upon seeing him,’ Ingcél continued. ‘ “I see a lofty, noble reign, and a noisy flowering that blooms with an abundant spring tide. A furious ardour of fair forms is assembled. I see a noble, restrained king who rules by right and by consent, from partition to wall. I see the diadem of a fair prince, proper to the dignity of a ruling lord. A gleam of light his lordly countenance. I see his two shining cheeks, as white and glistening and noble-hued as snow. His two eyes are blue grey and brighter than hyacinth. Firm his brow between a hedge of black eyelashes. I see a crown encircling his head, the colour of beautiful gold over his yellow, curly hair. I see his cloak red, multihued, of excellent braided silk. I see a huge brooch, ornamented with gold, that shines with the vigour of the full moon. I see a circle of crimson gems in a bowl-like cluster. Beautiful his head between his straight, bright shoulders. I see a tunic of splendid linen, silken its sheen, refracted and many-coloured its hue. A grazing for the eyes of a multitude this man. He maintains justice among his people. He delivers from the enemy braided silk ornamented with gold from ankle to knee. I see his sword, its hilt ornamented with gold, in its scabbard of white silver; the latter, with its five concentric circles, retains its excellence. I see his bright, lime-whitened shield overhead; it scorns throngs of enemies. His spear of sparkling gold would illumine a feast, and its shaft is of ornamented gold. His right hand that wards off is the hand of a king. He raises his spear firmly, as a king would, twisting its stiffness. Three hundred perfect men about this generous king. He overtakes like the scald-crow in battle, in the sorrowful hostel.”

  ‘The young lad was sleeping, then, his feet in the lap of the one man and his head in the lap of the other,’ Ingcél continued. ‘He awoke from his sleep, then, and recited this poem: “The cry of Ossar. Ossar the hound. A shout of youths going up from the marsh of Tule Gossi. A cold wind across a dangerous blade. A night for destroying a king. It is heard again, the cry of Ossar, Ossar the hound. Battle is declared. The end of a people. The destruction of a hostel. Saddened fiana. Wounded men. A fearful wind. The carrying off of spears. Pain against unfair odds. The fall of a house. Temuir desolate. Unknown heirs. Weeping over Conare. Destruction of corn. A shout. A cry. The destruction of the king of Ériu. Chariots whirling about. Hardship for the king of Temuir.’ The third time he said:7 “The cry of Ossar. Ossar the hound. A combat of heroes. Youths in slaughter. Slaughter will be done. Champions will be destroyed. Men will bend. Warriors will be despoiled. A bellowing encounter. Shouts raised. Concern shown. An abundance of spectres. A prostrate host. The overthrowing of enemies. A combat of men on the Dothra. Hardship for the king of Temuir. Men cut down in youth.” Explain that, Fer Rogain – who recited that poem?’

  ‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘Indeed, it is not a moon without a king. The most splendid and distinguished and handsome and powerful king who has ever come into the world that one – the kindest and gentlest and most humble as well. Conare Mar son of Eterscélae is his name, and he is the high king of Ériu. There is no flaw in him, not as to form or shape or clothing, or size or arrangement or proportion, or eye or hair or whiteness, or wisdom or pleasingness or eloquence, or weapons or equipment or attire, or splendour or abundance or dignity, or bearing or prowess or ancestry. Great the youth of this man, who seems simple and sleepy until he undertakes a feat of arms; but if his ardour and fury are aroused while the fiana of Ériu and Albu are about him in his house, then there will be no destruction of the hostel. Six hundred will fall by him before he reaches his weapons, and once he has obtained his weapons, six hundred more will fall at the first onslaught. I swear by the god my people swear by, if his drink is not taken from him, he will reach men from Tond Chlidnai to Tond Essa Rúaid, even though he is alone in the house. There are nine entrances to the house, and at each entrance one hundred heroes will fall, and when everyone has stopped fighting, it is then that he will be performing feats of arms. If he encounters you outside the hostel, as numerous as hailstones or blades of grass or stars in the sky will be your cloven heads and cloven skulls and heaps of entrails that he crushes after he has scattered you about the ridges. But I do not believe that he will succeed in leaving the house. Dear to him are the two men in his apartment, his two foster-brothers, Driss and Sníthe. Three fifties of heroes will fall by each man at the entrance to the hostel, and no farther than a foot away, on this Side and that, will they fall.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of those two men and the prince who is between them, the high king of Ériu, Conare Már son of Eterscélae,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘It would be grievous to extinguish that reign.’ ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘Indeed, Ingcél, the destruction is yours by right,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You will come to no harm. It will be harder on me, however.’ ‘No lie that,’ said Ingcél. ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

  ‘I saw twelve men gathered round the apartment in a circle,’ said Ingcél, ‘and they had silver swords. Fair yellow manes they had, and bright tunics, and all were equal in form and shape and appearance. All had ivory-hilted swords in their hands, and they did not put them down unless they were holding horsewhips as they gathered round the apartment. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’

  ‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘The guards of the king of Temuir they: the three Londs of Life, the three Arts of Áth Clíath, the three Bodars of Buaignige and the three Trénfers of Cuilne. I swear by the god my people swear by, when they destroy, the dead outnumber the living. Twelve hundred will fall by them at the first onslaught, and a man for each weapon, and a man for each of them, and they will match the performance of any band in the hostel; they will boast of victories over kings and royal heirs and plundering chieftains, and, though wounded, they will escape afterwards.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of those twelve,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

  ‘I saw a red-freckled lad in a crimson cloak,’ said Ingcél, ‘and he was weeping in the house. Wherever the thirty hundred men were, each of them would take the lad to his breast. He was sitting on a bright silver chair in the middle of the house and sobbing, and the household were sorrowful from listening to him. The lad had three colours of hair: green, yellow crimson and pure gold. I do not know whether each hair is multihued or whether he has three different hairs. But I do know that there is something he fears tonight. I saw three fifties of lads in silver chairs round him, and those red-freckled lads had fifteen reeds in their hands, with a thorn spike at the top of each reed. We were fifteen men, and our fifteen right eyes were being blinded by him, and one of the seven pupils in my eye was being blinded by him. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’

  ‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain, and he wept until tears of blood poured forth. ‘Wretched that one, for he has been named by the men of Ériu against the men of Albu as a champion of hospitality and shape and form and horsemanship. It is grievous. He is a pig that falls before acorns. The making of a king, he is the best ever to come into Ériu. The infant son of Conare, Lé Fer Flaith is his name, and he is seven years old. I think it not unlikely that he is foredoomed, and that by reason of the various hues of his hair. The three fifties of lads round him are his special household.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of this one lad,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said
Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

  ‘I saw six men before the same apartment,’ said Ingcél. ‘Fair yellow manes they had, and green cloaks, and tin brooches for the cloaks. All were mounted like Conall Cernach. Each man could put his cloak round the other as quickly as a mill wheel; the eye could scarcely follow it. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’

  ‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘The six servers of the king of Temuir they: Úan, Bróen, Banda, Delt, Drúcht and Dathen. That trick does not interfere with their serving, and neither does their intelligence. They are the chieftains of the youth in the hostel. Three champions, equally matched, will fall by them, and they will match the performance of any six men in the hostel, and they will escape afterwards, for they are of the Síde. They are the best servers in Ériu.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of those six,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will-come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

  ‘I saw a strapping fellow before the same apartment in the centre of the house,’ said Ingcél. ‘A shameful haircut he had, and every hair on his head was as white as a mountain bog. Gold earrings on his ears, and a cloak of many colours about him; nine swords in his hands, and nine silver shields and nine apples of gold. He threw up the swords and shields and apples, and only one remained in his hand, but none fell to the ground, and their movement was like that of bees going past one another on a beautiful day. When I saw him, he was at his most splendid; but as I looked, everything fell to the floor, and a great clatter arose about him. The ruler said to the trickster, then, “We have known each other since I was a lad, and never before has that trick failed you.” “Alas, alas, fair popa Conare,” the trickster replied, “it was proper that this should happen, for a keen, baleful eye is staring at me. A man with three pupils is watching the passing of three companies, and his watching is nothing at all for him. Baleful that. A battle will be fought; it will be remembered until the day of Judgement, and there will be evil at the entrance to the hostel.” After that, he took his swords in hand, and his silver shields and his apples of gold, and everything fell on the floor again, and there was a great clatter. He put everything away, then, and abandoned his feat and said “Fer Calliu, rise now, do not permit the slaughter of your pig. Find out who is at the entrance to the house doing injury to the men of the hostel.” “Fer Cúailge, Fer Lé, Fer Gar, Fer Rogel and Fer Rogain are there,” said Fer Calliu. “They have announced a deed that was not expected, Conare’s forgiveness by the five sons of Dond Désa, his five beloved foster-brothers.” Explain that, Fer Rogain – who recited that poem?’