Patrick was chanting the service of the Lord and praising the Creator. He also placed a blessing on the Fortress of the Red Ridge where Fionn mac Cumaill had lived. His priests, seeing Cailte and his men approaching, were seized with fear and horror at the sight of these enormous men, the warriors of an earlier age, together with their great dogs.
Then Patrick, the son of Calpurn, the salmon of Heaven, the pillar of dignity and the angel on earth, he who was apostle to the Irish, arose and sprinkled holy water on these great men, for, until that day, a thousand legions of demons had been above their heads. The demons fled from them in all directions, into the hills and rock-clefts and off” to the far reaches of the country. The great men then sat down.
Tales of the Elders of Ireland: Cailte meets Patrick and the conversation begins.
*Well, my friend,’ said Patrick to Cailte, ‘what name do you bear.’ He answered, ‘I am Cailte, son of Crundchu, the son of Ronan, of the retinue of Fionn mac Cumaill.‘ The priests kept staring in astonishment at these warriors, for the tallest of the clerics came only to the waist or the shoulder-tops of these great men, who were already sitting down. ‘There is something I would ask of you, Cailte,’ said
Patrick. Cailte replied, ‘If my strength and power suffice, it will be granted. Tell me what you wish.’ Patrick answered, ‘Could you find us a well of pure water close by, so that we might baptize the peoples of Brega, Meath, and Usnagh.?’ ‘I shall indeed find one for you, noble and righteous one,’ said Cailte. He took Patrick by the hand and together they went over the ramparts of the fortress. Just nine steps from the portal they saw a lovely crystal-clear spring and were amazed at the thick growths of watercress and brooklime surrounding it. Cailte recited these lines on the appearance and qualities of the spring:
‘O spring of Tráig Dá Ban lovely your bright cress sprigs;
Since your pruning was neglected, your brooklime has multiplied.
‘Trout off your banks, wild swine in your wood recesses;
Deer on the rocks for hunting, and dappled, red-breasted fawns.
‘Mast on your trees’ branches, fish in your river estuary,
Lovely your stalks of arum, O green- wooded stream.
‘From you the Fian set out, when generous Coinchenn was
slain,
When Fionn’s Fian was slaughtered, in the morning above Maelglenn.
‘From you went Fothad of the feasting, a warrior who suffered sorrow;
He found a grave in the east, when slain at the battle of
Clárach.
‘Blai came to the head of the spring, the daughter of Derg the
eloquent;
With wailing cry and lament, after the battle of Confatte.
‘After the slaughter of dogs and men, after the wounding of
shining warriors,
Garad’s cry was heard at night beside the spring.’
‘Well,’ said Patrick, ‘have our food and provisions arrived yet?’ ‘They have indeed,’ said Bishop SechnalL* ‘Then serve us our dinner,’ said Patrick, ‘and give their share to those nine great warriors there, the last survivors of the Fian.” His bishops, priests, and psalmodists came and blessed the food so that all might have their fill of food and drink for the comfort of their souls. Then Patrick asked, ‘Was Fionn mac Cumaill, your former lord, a good man?’ Cailte, in reply, gave this short eulogy:
‘Were the dark leaves gold, that the trees discard,
And the white wave silver, Fionn would give away all.’
What has kept you warriors alive for all these years?’ asked
Patrick. Cailte replied, ‘The truth of our hearts, the strength of our arms, and the constancy of our tongues.’ ‘Tell me, dear Cailte,’ said
Patrick, ‘were there drinking-horns or goblets, or cups of crystal and shining gold in the houses in which you stayed in the old days?’
Cailte answered thus:
‘Twelve horns and three hundred, the golden horns of Fionn,
Oceans of ale they held, at the feasting of his men.’
‘If our religious life were not being disrupted, our prayers neglected, and our communion with the King of Heaven and Earth disturbed, we would enjoy conversing with you, good warrior,’ said Patrick.
Cailte recited another verse, naming the various chieftains and lords with whom they had been, and their drinking-horns:
‘I remember their names, the horns at the house of Fionn,
Echo and Grugán Gann Women’s Horn and Stately.
Best of Horns was Aillbe’s horn, vast was its bowl.
From hand to hand through the crowd, its ebbing slower than
its flood.
‘Diarmait had Little Horn, whose noble liquid went to women.
Its contents would, I swear, suffice for forty-eight.
‘The two horns of Mac Lugach, Gold-Bright and gold Odrdn.
Brimming Gold-Bright, dear to men, fair conversation’s foe.
*A drinking of great renown, when Fionn’s men met.
Echo in my hand, Diarmait with dear Muddn.
Fionn of the Fian had Grugdn their own horn for the women.
‘Forty draughts in Echo, the Women’s Horn held sixty.
Eighty draughts in Muddn and Grugdn Glan one hundred.
‘Fair- Youth was the horn Oscar brought to the feast.
He, whom many girls smiled on, was also the joy of men’s eyes.
‘Stripling, great its beauty, was Aillenn’s splendid horn.
From white-fingered Gothan’s hand, Fionn brought it to his lips.
‘At the raising of curved cups, great was the cheer of the Earl,
Given in his drinking house, by Fionn to Duban, Dubnoin’s son.
‘Fionn’s horn, the Green Man, we had with us as well,
No trifle at our drinking, ale for thirty men.
‘This was the least at our drinking, O son of Calpurn, at our house,
Man of Increase of Glas, son of Gnathal, you have not its like.
‘Sacred to men was Dobron horn of Mac Rethi, with terror,
Fionn’s men were wary, when at Cromglenn.
‘Great the bowl of Speckled Red, crystal cup of Cailte,
For it Fionn made fierce attack, at the death of Lugaid Tri Rem.
‘Fair Head, horn of Alba’s King, against whom we wildly
wandered.
The horn of the chieftain Ronan, much mead from it we drank.
Though Fionn return no more, there is no cause for raiding.
No king, however blessed, has such horns as these
‘May victory and blessing be yours, Cailte,’ said Patrick, ‘for you
have lightened both our spirits and our minds.’ ‘Tell us another of these glorious tales.’
‘I shall,’ said Cailte. ‘I shall tell you whatever story you desire.’ ‘
Tales of the Elders of Ireland: Artuir prince of the Britons steals Fionn’s dogs and Cailte names the Fianna Horses.
Did you in the Fian have horses and chariot-teams?’ asked Patrick. ‘We had many indeed,’ said Cailte, ‘one hundred and fifty colts from the same mare, and by the same stallion.’
‘Where were they acquired.’ said Patrick. ‘My friend, I will tell you the true story,’ said Cailte.
‘There was in the Fian at that time, a warrior named Artuir. He was the son of Benne Brit “of the Britons” and had a retinue of twenty-seven. Fionn had arranged a hunt on the Hill of Etar [the Hill of Howth] and it was most successful.
The hounds were set loose and Fionn himself sat at the Cairn of the Fian-Warrior, between Howth and the sea, and revelled in the sounds of the frenzied deer swiftly brought down by the hounds of the Fian.
Artuir, son of Benne of the Britons, was stationed on the coast, between the hunt and the sea, so that the deer might not escape by swimming away and, while he was out by the edge of the water, he saw three of Fionn’s hounds, Bran, Sceolaing, and Adnuall.
Artuir, son of Benne, decided then upon a plan. He, with his twenty-seven companions, would cross over the sea and take the hounds with them to their own land. They carried this out and, together with the three hounds, crossed the expanse of the sea.
They took land at the Estuary of the Sandy Shoal, in the territory of the Britons, and went ashore. They then went off to the Mountain of Lodan, son of Lir and hunted there. The Fian, in the meantime, having ceased their hunting, made camp at the Hill of Etar, son of Étgáeth the Warrior, and began their customary tally of the hounds of Fionn’s household, so that not a hound would be left behind in a thicket or on a mountain, or in any wood or hollow of the five greatprovinces of Ireland.
Great was the number of the hounds, as the poet, Fergus Finbel ‘Wine-Mouth’, said:
‘Fionn’s hounds, as many as the branches of a tree,
A pack of three hundred, with two hundred young.’
‘Great was the number who owned them,’ said Patrick. ‘You are right about that,’ said Cailte, ‘for this was their number in the house of Fionn:
In Fionn’s house, thrice fifty chiefs of handsome bands.
Two hundred fosterhngs, three hundred servants.
‘When they counted the hounds they discovered a great loss, that of Bran, Sceolaing, and Adnuall, and this was reported to Fionn and he ordered the three companies of the Fian to search for them.
Though a search was made, the hounds were not found. A narrow basin of bright gold was then brought to Fionn. He washed his royal face and put his thumb under his Tooth of Wisdom so that the truth of the matter appeared to him.
“It was Artuir, son of the King of the Britons,” he said, “who took your hounds from you. Take nine men and go after them.” Nine were chosen, and these were their names: Diarmait, son of Donn, son of Donnchad, son of Duban, of the Érainn from Munster in the south; and GoU, son of Morna.’
‘Was Goll the son of a king,’ asked Patrick, ‘or the son of a warrior.?’ ‘The son of a king,’ answered Cailte, and recited the following lines:
‘The son of Tadg, son of Morna from the plain, son of Faelan, son of Feradach,
Son of Fiacha, son of Art from the plain, son of Muiredach, son of Eoghan.
‘A warrior skilled at magic was also in household of Fionn, Cael
Crodae Cetguinech “the Brave and Quick-Wounding”, the descendant of Nemnan. The strength of his magic was such that he never missed a cast, and any man that his hand bloodied died within nine days, if not at once, and no man he killed ever escaped from the house of Hell.
‘O Cael, do not cast your spear, its shaft against me in the trees.Each is powerless before it, his posterity tastes no food.
‘My Tooth of Wisdom spoke to me, the first day you came. He whose blood you shed, comes not again from Hell.
‘Likewise Fionn’s own son, Oisin, who never refused hospitality to anyone with a mouth for eating or legs for travelling.’ ‘This is great praise, Gailte,’ said Patrick. ‘It is true all the same,’ said Gailte, and recited the following lines:
‘Oisin never refused any man gold, silver or food,
And never asked a favour of those as great as kings.
‘There also was Oisin’s son, Oscar, the king’s son who was the greatest man in Ireland in agility and weapon-handling, and Fer doman, son of Bodb Derg “the Red”, son of the Dagda,* Fionn’s other sons, Raigne Rosclethan “the Wide-Eyed” and Caince Corcairderg “the Purple-Red”, Glas, son of Aencherd Berra, Mac Lugach and I,’ said Cailte.
‘We were, Patrick, in our own estimation, such that, from Ceylon in the east to the Gardens of the Hesperides in the western part of the world, one could not find four hundred warriors that we would not trounce in battle or in combat. A white shield on each shoulder, a helmet on each head, and two thrusting spears, with thongs of sturdy rope on their shafts, in each right hand.
‘We continued on our journey until we came to the Mountain of Lodan, son of Lir, and before long heard voices close by of men hunting on the plain. Artuir, son of Benne of the Britons, was sitting there on his hunting mound with his retinue. We attacked them at once and killed all of his men, but Oscar with his two hands seized Artuir and spared him.
We also recovered our three hounds. Then Goll, son of Morna, looked around him and saw a dappled stallion, lustrous black, with a gold-ornamented bridle. To his left he saw a spirited, chestnut mare with a bridle of bright silver, textured and refined, and a bit made of gold. Goll captured both horses and entrusted them to Oisin, who gave them in turn to Diarmait, the descendant of Duibne.
After celebrating our victory and triumph wereturned with our hounds and horses, the heads of the twenty-seven retainers, and with Artuir himself as a captive to the Hill of Howth. From there we went to meet Fionn at the Old Plain of the Flocks of Etar [Clontarf] and entered the chieftain’s tent.’ Cailte recited the following fines to Patrick:
‘We brought Artuir here to make his peace with Fionn.
He remained Fionn’s warrior till the day he died.
‘We presented the two horses, both stalfion and mare, to Fionn, and from this stock have come all of the horses of the Fian who had no horses before. The mare had eight foalings and bore eight foals on each occasion. These foals were given to the warriors and nobles of the Fian, who then built chariots.’
‘May victory be yours, Cailte, with my blessing,’ said Patrick. ‘Tell us the names of the nobles and warriors who had these horses.’ Cailte then made the following enumeration:
‘These are the horses of the Fian though at the gracious assembly
At Teltown,* with its gentle hills, other stories may be heard.
‘Wolf-Head of Eochaid, son of Lir, beloved Diarmait’s Sprighth-,
Fionnchad of the Battles’ Triumph, Dark Flame of Mac Lugach.
‘Brave Mac Lugach’s Scald Crow, Shapely, the steed of Conan,
For Bresal’s grandson, Fionn Ban, the Woman from the Isle of
Man.
‘Fearsome, Oscar’s lucky horse. Black of Leg of Duban,
Steed of Woe of Seal at Large, Wild Man, horse of Mac Sidmaill.
‘Frenchman and Agile, with bridle, for the masters of horse of the Fianna,
Scuirin had Agile, fury to chieftains. Frenchman, the steed of
Dub Drummann.
‘Golden Gelding, Silver Gelding, together the chariots ran,
They, the horses of Aillbe, daughter of the High King of Ireland.
‘Black Stream and Black Wave, warlike Aengus’ steeds,
Cailte and Oisin together, rode to each assembly.
‘The horse of Goll, son of Morna, the watchman in Moinmoy,
Through mountains and plains, swift as the winds of spring.
‘A horse whom nothing ran before, hounds, nor beasts, nor deer.
Was Wolf-Head of Fionn of the Feasts, brought from the Saxon lands.
‘The Grey of Galway, great in valour, better than any hundred
steeds.
Carried Fionn, with steady pace, into the midst of each great host.
‘A thousand men, without a lie, and two hundred and eight).
The cavalry of Fionn of Almu brilliant on each occasion.’
‘May victory be yours, Cailte, with my blessing,’ said Patrick. ‘You have lightened our spirits and our mind, even though our religious life is being disrupted and our prayers neglected.’
They were there until the following morning, when Patrick put on his robes and set out onto the lawn together with sixty priests, sixty psalmodists, and sixty holy bishops in order to spread the faith and the religious life across Ireland.
Aibelan and Solusbrethach, his two guardian angels, then came to Patrick and he asked them if it were the will of the King of Heaven and Earth that he be listening to the tales of the Fian.
They answered him with one voice. ‘Dear holy cleric’ they said, ‘these old warriors tell you no more than a third of their stories, because their memories are fault. Have these stories written down on poets’ tablets in refined language, so that the hearing of them will provide entertainment for the lords and commons of later times.’
The angels then left them.
Tales of the Elders of Ireland: Patrick Baptises the Fianna
Patrick sent for Cailte, and asked him to bring along the band of warriors who were with him. These were their names: Failbe, son of Flann; Eogan Airmderg ‘of the Red Weapons’, son of the King of Ulster; Flann, son of Fergus, the King of the Cenel Conaill ‘the Kindred of Conall’; Conall Coscarach ‘the Mctorious’, son of Aengus, the King of Connaught; Scannlan, son of Ailill, the King of Ossory; Baetan, son of Garb, the King of the Corcu Duibne: Luaimnech, son of Lenn, the King of Erain of Munster; Aed Lethderg ‘the Red-Sided’, son of Eoghan, the King of North Munster; Failbe and Uancenn, the rsvo sons of the King of Dal nAraide in the north; and Fulartach, son of Fingen, the King of the Kingdoms of Brega and Meath.
‘Do you know why you have all been brought to speak with me.-‘ asked Patrick. ‘Indeed we do not,’ replied Cailte. ‘So that you might submit to the Gospel of the King of Heaven and Earth, the true and glorious God.’
Patrick, the head of baptism and faith of the men of Ireland, poured on them the waters of the baptism of Christ and Cailte put his hand to the rim of his shield and gave Patrick, in payment for his baptism and that of his companions, a block of ribbed, red, flamelike gold, weighing one hundred and fifty ounces, from the lands of Arabia. ‘This was my last gift from Fionn the Chieftain,’ said Cailte, ‘and I give it to you, Patrick, for the good of my soul, and the soul of the chief of the Fian.’
This block of gold reached from the end of Patrick’s middle finger to the top of his shoulder, and was the size of a man’s forearm both in width and in thickness. This is the gold that was later used for the canonical bells of the Adze-Head, and on psalters and missals.
Patrick then asked, ‘Tell me, dear Cailte, what was the best hunt, whether in Ireland or in Scotland, that the Fian ever took part in.’ ‘That would be the hunt on Arran said Cailte. ‘Where is that place?’ asked Patrick. ‘It is between Scotland and the land of the Picts said Cailte. ‘In the month of Trogan, or Lugnasad [ 1 August] we of the Fian used to go there with three battallions and have our fill of hunting until the cuckoo called from the treetops of Ireland.
No music can match the sweet sounds of the bird flocks rising up from the waves, and from the shores of this island. There were one hundred and fifty flocks around it, all of bright colours, deep and clear blues, greens and yellows.’ Cailte then recited the following verse:
‘Arran blessed with stags, encircled by the sea.
Island that fed hosts, where black spears turn crimson.
‘Carefree deer on its peaks, branches of tender berries.
Streams of icy water, dark oaks decked with mast.
‘Greyhounds here and beagles, blackberries, fruit of sloe,
Trees thick with blackthorns, deer spread about the oaks.
‘Rocks with purple lichen, meadows rich with grass,
A fine fortress of crags, the leaping of fawns and trout.
‘Gentle meadows and plump swine, gardens pleasant beyond
belief.
Nuts on the boughs of hazel, and longships sailing by.
‘Lovely in fair weather, trout beneath its banks.
Gulls scream from the cliff’s, Arran ever lovely.’
‘May victory be yours, dear Cailte, with my blessing,’ said Patrick. ‘We are beholden for ever to you and to your stories.’
Tales of the Elders of Ireland: Cailte tells the story of the Kings of Ireland visiting the Tuatha de.
Patrick then saw a fort and fine dwelling directly to the south. ‘Cailte, what place is that?’ he asked. ‘That’, said Cailte, ‘is the proudest place I have ever been, whether in Ireland or in Scotland.’ ‘Who lived there then?’ asked Patrick. ‘The three sons of the King of Ireland, Lugaid Menn “the Stammerer”, son of Aengus. Their names were Ruide, Fiacha, and Eochaid.’ ‘How did they acquire such a great estate?’ asked Patrick.
‘On one occasion they went to talk with their father at the Grave of the Druids to the northwest of Tara. “Where have you young men come from?” he asked. “From the Stable of the Lamentation of Women in the south,” they said, “from the house of our fosterparents.”
They were dressed in bright and handsome cloaks. Ruide, the eldest, wore a dark green cloak, Fiacha, a cloak with a fringe of marvellous wool from Tir Tairngire “the Land of Promise”, and Eochaid, a deep-blue garment with a border of pure white silver, with a gold brooch in the cloak, above his breast. “What has brought you young men here?” asked the King of Ireland.
“To ask you for land and territory,” they said. The king was silent at first, and then said, “My land and territory came not from my father, but from my own good fortune and brilliance. Win land for yourselves, for I will give you none.” They then rose up together and went to the green of the dew-covered, shimmering Bruig of the Boyne [Newgrange], and there sat down.
“What plan do you have this night.’” asked Ruide. “This is our plan,” said his brothers, “to make a fast before the Tuatha De Danann in order to acquire from them a gift of territory and patrimony, of land and enormous treasure.”
Soon after they saw a young man of pleasing and wondrous appearance approaching them. He had a brown, two-forked beard and lovely curly hair of light-yellow gold coming down over his shoulders.
His long golden hair was held by fastenings of thin gold thread, lest the stormy coastal wind blow it before his face or eyes. He had a sandal of bright silver on his foot, and his sandalled foot, where it touched the ground, did not disturb the dewdrops on the ends of the blades of grass. He greeted the sons of the King of Ireland and they responded in this way,
“Who are you, young man, and where have you come from.” “From the dew-covered, shimmering Bruig close by,” said the young man.
“What is your name?” they asked. “Bodb Derg ‘the Red’, the son of the Dagda,” he replied. “It was revealed to the Tuatha De Danann that you would come to make your fast here tonight so that you might acquire land and great wealth.
Come along with me, young warriors.” They arose together and went into the Bruig and chairs of bright crystal were placed on the floor of the sid for them. Food was also brought to them, but they did not eat it.
‘Bodb then arose with a goblet of smooth buffalo horn in his hand and said, “Let all be silent.” All the people in the mound fell silent, holding in their hands cups and horns and goblets of bright gold and silver.
Bodb asked why they would not eat any food and they answered, “Since our father, the King of Ireland, has refused us land and territory, and, since there are but two aristocracies of equal merit in Ireland, the Sons of Mil* and the Tuatha De Danann, we have come to seek out the other of the two, that is, to you.”
The Tuatha De Danann then took counsel to decide what they would do for the sons of the King of Ireland. The noblest and most exalted of this assembly was the Dagda‘s son, Midir Mongbuide “of the Yellow Hair”, who said, “Let three women be given to the young men there, for fortune, good or ill, comes from women.” Doirenn, Aife, and Aillbe, the three daughters of Midir, were given to them.
“Tell us, Bodb,” said Midir, “what wealth shall be given to these young men here.” “I shall answer,” said Bodb, “that we are one hundred and fifty king’s sons here in this mound. Let one hundred and fifty ounces of red gold be given to these young men from each son of a king, and I myself shall give them one hundred and fifty garments of many excellent hues.”
“They shall also have a gift from me,” said Aed, son of Aed na nAmsach “of the mercenaries”. He was a young man of the Tuatha De Danann from the Hill of Ardmoll, now called Rathlin, far off on the sea.
“I shall give them a drinking horn and a vat,” he said, “and if the vat be filled with clear spring water, it will be changed into an excellent and potent mead. If brackish salt water be put in the horn, it will immediately become wine.”
“They shall have a gift from me,” said Lir of the Sid of Fionnachad, “one hundred and fifty swords, and a like number of tall, riveted spears.” “And a gift from me,” said Aengus Oc “the Young”, son of the Dagda, “a fortress and stronghold and great royal estate, enclosed by long and high palisades, with bright luminous sunrooms and great, lofty buildings, wherever they desire between the Fort of Cobthach and Tara.”
“I shall also give them a gift,” said Aine, the daughter of Modarn, “my cook, who is forbidden by a gets to refuse anyone food, for whatever she distributes comes back to her.”
“My gift”, said Bodb Derg, “is my good musician, whose name is Fer Tuinne, son of Trogan. Though warriors do battle, or women endure childbirth, or soldiers slash at each other, his beguiling music puts them all to sleep. Though he be a musician for the fortress he is as well for the people of the surrounding region.”
The sons of the King of Ireland remained in the sid for three days and three nights.
‘Aengus also told them to take three apple-trees with them from the Wood of Omna, one in bloom, one with falling blossoms, and one with ripe fruit. The three then set off for the fortress that had been prepared for them and stayed there for one hundred and fifty years, until destruction visited them. Because of their kinship and their alliance, they then returned to the Tuatha De Danann and remained there ever after.
This is the origin of the fortress that you asked about, dear Patrick,’ said Cailte. He then recited the following verse:*
‘Three waves came from Ruide’s high fortress,
Waves of youths and horses and greyhounds of Lugaid’s sons.
‘Three sounds for the kings, blessed with great fortune.
Sounds of harps and dulcimers, and the chanting of Fer Tuinne.
‘Three cries one could hear, at no time lacking.
The cry of sheep on the grass, and cries of cows and horses.
‘Yet other cries were heard from Daig’s broad-loined swine.
From his host on the green cries of mirth and of mead.
‘Three fruit-laden branches, the familiar sequence.
Buds, full blooms, fruit ripe for picking.
‘The three sons of Lugaid, great their achievement,
Ruide, broad Lugaid’s son, Eochaid, and brave Fiacha.
‘I shall tell you of Eochaid, whose foot never fled.
No night without music, no day without ale.
‘I shall tell you of Fiacha, first in the onslaught,
The gentlest in speech, the fiercest in war.
‘I shall tell you of Ruide, to whom three waves came.
No man was ever refused, none ever implored.
‘Thirty kings and thirty nobles, thirty champions for a king.
This was the great host’s number, thirty times three hundred.’
‘May victory be yours, Cailte, with my blessing,’ said Patrick, ‘for you have lightened our spirits and our minds.’
Tales of the Elders of Ireland: the destruction of Becan and Patrick meets Fulartach, son of Fergus.
It was not long after that that they saw a young man of handsome appearance approaching them from the south. He was wearing a purple cloak with a gold brooch, and had a yellow silk shirt next to his skin. He was carrying an armful of yellow-headed nuts and beautiful golden apples which he put on the ground in front of Patrick.
‘Where do these come from, young man.?’ asked Patrick. ‘From the flourishing Wood of a River-Branch,’ he said. ‘What is your name.?’ asked Patrick. ‘I am Fulartach, son of Fergus,’ he said.
‘What is your inheritance.?’ asked Patrick. ‘The kingship of Brega and Meath, and of the Deisi of Tara descends upon me,’ the young man said, ‘but I am now a plunderer and marauder.’
‘Whom do you plunder?’ asked Patrick. ‘My own brother, Becan, son of Fergus.’ ‘May you receive your inheritance shortly,’ said Patrick. ‘Set the time, holy cleric,’ said the young man. ‘Within the year,’ said Patrick, ‘but where do these nuts come from?’
‘I know where he has brought them from,’ said Cailte. ‘They come from the Forest of the Son of Tren [New Ross], called the Wood of a River-Branch. This was the hunting park owned by Mac Lugach the Strong and Keenly Destructive, a trusted warrior of Fionn mac Cumaill.‘
‘My dear soul,’ said Patrick, ‘a good man of my company and my chaplain, Cessan, the son of the King of Scotland, dwells there.’
‘The Fian hunted there as well,’ said Cailte. ‘Whenever they found a shortage of game in Ireland or Scotland, there was plenty of hunting for three days and three nights at the Forest of the Son of Tren.’
Cailte then recited the following poem:
‘The famous Grove of Cessan,* beloved by Mac Lugach,
Dear Wood of the son of Tren, after Patrick came.
‘Though now the psalms are sung in turn, in the grove of Cessan of the priests, I have seen the flowering glade filled with stout red deer.
‘Though there are sermons by the lake, it was not then an empty wood.
Feast of apples, fish in the stream, tribute of the garlicky grove. ‘As the warrior foretold, clerics in Cessan’s grove.
“Sacred to holy angels,” said open-handed Fionn.
‘Often with hunting-dogs, we chased the proud, young deer,
Our warriors and our hounds, hunted the pleasant grove.
‘Sixty were the queens, following in my wake,
In truth I was a rogue, and yet I pleased them all.’
‘What time of day is it now?’ asked Patrick. ‘It is now close to
evening,’ said Benen. ‘Has our dinner not yet arrived?’ asked Patrick. ‘Not yet,’ said Benen.
‘My dear, holy Patrick,’ said Fulartach, son of Fergus, ‘I shall tell you of a place where you might get dinner and refreshment tonight.’ ‘What place is that?’ asked Patrick. ‘At the house of my brother Becan, among the Kingdoms of Brega and Meath.’
Priests then went off to Becan’s house and Benen asked him for lodging for Patrick. Becan had eight score milch-herds, and yet he refused them an evening meal. Benen and the clerics then returned and told their tale to Patrick.
Patrick said, ‘Let not one of his livestock or of his household survive until tomorrow.’* This indeed happened, just as Patrick said:
‘Becan, may his herd be small.
As long as the sun shall cross the sky, poor be the heirs of Becan.’
At that very moment the earth swallowed up Becan, together with his household and his goods, both animals and people.
‘I shall provide hospitality for you tonight, holy cleric,’ said Fulartach, son of Fergus. ‘I have had up to now twenty-nine cows to support my warriors while plundering and pillaging.’
‘You shall have the kingship tomorrow at the middle of the day,’ said Patrick, ‘and your race after you, unless you turn against the Church.’ In this way Becan was buried and Patrick gave the kingship to Fulartach. This story is called ‘The Destruction of Becan’.
Tales of the Elders of Ireland: the conception of Mac Lugach and the story of Fionn’s brothers.
Patrick then asked of Cailte, ‘How many brothers did Fionn have.?’ ‘He had two brothers,’ said Cailte, ‘Fithal and Cithramach Feinnid “the Champion”.’* Cailte then recited these lines:
‘Obscure were our scholars in this, to tell of Cumall’s three sons, Fionn and Cithramach the Strong, Fithal whom the poets loved.’
‘Who were the parents of Mac Lugach, whom I asked about last night.?’ asked Patrick. ‘It would be a problem for another man,’ said Cailte, ‘but not for me. He was the son of Fionn’s son, Daire Derg “the Red”,’ said Cailte, ‘and of Fionn’s daughter Lugach, who was herself of doubtful legitimacy.
However the women all swore that she was Fionn’s own daughter. Her own brother slept with her after drinking ale at Tara in Luachair [Taurmore], and begot a son, Mac Lugach, on her. Great struggles and pains came upon her after nine months of pregnancy and she gave birth to an infant boy.
On the evening she bore the child Fionn came to Taurmore to see her. He came with three cohorts of the Fian and with Daire Derg, the father of the child. They were told of the birth and Fionn then said, “It is blessing that it was a boy. Had she given birth to a girl by her own brother, it would have been evil.”
All said, “May you have victory, chieftain, and blessing. The name you have given him, Gaine ‘Blessing’ is a fortunate one.”
As the poet said:
‘Blessing, fierce Mac Lugach’s name, his father, Daire of great renown.
Wolf of the Field, Mac Rethi’s name, Briuin, Dairethe’s son.
Tinn then took the boy to his bosom and put him in the lap of his wife, MongFionn, daughter of Duban, who had reared eight hundred shield-bearers for the Fian. She looked after the boy until he was twelve, and then gave him a full set of arms and martial attire.
He then set off for the Rock of Dog-Droppings on top of the Mount of Smol, son of Edleacar, now called Slieve Bloom, where Fionn and the Fian then were, and came before the chief of the Fian. Fionn gave him a warm welcome and the boy made his suretyship and service with Fionn, and gave Fionn his hand on it.
He was with the Fian for a year and in that time caused them great distress. When this youth was present, nine men of the Fian were hard put to kill a single boar or a deer, because of his mistreatment of their hounds and their servants.
The Fian then went towards the Forest of the Fian-Warrior on the shore of rippling waters of the Lakes of Killarney in the south. When their three battalions had arrived there they complained of Mac Lugach to Fionn.
The three battalions of the Fian said to him, “You must make your choice, to have us or just Mac Lugach.” Mac Lugach was then brought to talk with Fionn, and Fionn asked him, “My dear Mac Lugach, what evil have you done that all the Fian dislike you.” “I give you my word,” he answered, “I do not know what the cause might be unless they are displeased by my agility and skill with weapons.”
The chief of the Fian then gave counsel to Mac Lugach, and it was good counsel, for Fionn possessed three virtues. One of those virtues was that whoever was given counsel by Fionn would have
every success. The counsel that Fionn gave to Mac Lugach remained with him until death. Fionn then recited the following poem:
“O Mac Lugach, impetuous one, if you wish to be in vassalage;
Be peaceable in a great man’s household, be hardy in the
wilderness.
“Do not beat your hound without cause, nor libel your wife
without proof;
Avoid the fool in battle, though he be frenzied, Mac Lugach.
“Do not mock the holy man, nor be involved in quarrels;
Keep well away from these two, the witch and the evil man.
“Two thirds of your courtesy to women and the household
servants,
Be kind to poets, makers of art, and to the common soldiery.
“Do not take the best seat away from friends and advisers;
Avoid false and crooked oaths, do not welcome everybody.
“Do not boast overmuch, nor offer what you cannot rightly give;
For grand words are shameful, if nothing result.
“Do not forsake your overlord for as long as you live;
For gold, silver, or wealth, do not betray your guarantor.
“Avoid blustering complaint to a lord about his household;
A good man has no business hbeUing retainers to their lord.
“Keep from constant gossip and lies, and from impetuous speech;
Though you be generous, deride none in public.
“Do not frequent ale-houses, nor be unkind to an old man;
Listen to words of good counsel, have no truck with the rabble.
“Be a listener in the forest, a watcher on the plain;
For you do not know — this matters — if your enemy lies in wait for you.
“Do not be mean with provisions, or be a miser’s friend;
Do not impose yourself on a lord, do not speak ill of great men.
“Have your armour and weapons ready for the outbreak of sudden battle;
Do not be mean with your wealth, be constant in your courtliness, Mac Lugach.”‘
‘May you have victory and blessing,’ said Patrick, ‘for this is a fine tale that you have told us. Where is Broccan, our scribe.^’ ‘Here, holy cleric,’ said Broccan. ‘Get your book, your inkhorn and pen and copy out this story.’ Broccan did so at once.
Then Patrick asked of Cailte, ‘Were there musicians with the Fianna ‘Of course,’ said Cailte, ‘the very musician who was the finest in Ireland and in Scotland.’
‘What was his name?’ asked Patrick. ‘Cnu Deroil “the Little”,’* said Cailte. ‘Where did you find him.?’ asked Patrick. ‘Between the Mounds of Cliu [Galtee Mountains] and the Sid of the Fair Women [Slievenamon] in the south,’ said Cailte. ‘What did he look like.?’ asked Patrick. ‘He himself was four hand-widths of Fionn in height, and the instrument that he played was three hands long, and the jealousy of the musicians of the Tuatha De Danann had driven him from the sid.
Tales of the Elders of Ireland: The wooing of Blathnaid at the house of Donn.
‘One day Fionn went west to Slievenamon for hunting and sport, and sat there on an earthen mound. The chieftain looked about and saw on the grass nearby a tiny man, with long, light-blond hair coming down to his bottom, playing wonderful music on his harp.
When he saw Fionn he came over to him and gave him his hand. Fionn was the first person he had seen since leaving the sid. He sat bersveen Fionn’s two white thighs and played his harp for a long time, until the Fianna came. After their arrival they also listened to this beguiling music.
“Surely, Fionn,” said the men of the Fianna “that man over there is one of the three best discoveries that you have ever made.” Cnu Deroil remained with Fionn until he died.’
Cailte then recited this poem:
‘The dwarf that Fionn discovered, so fine was his memory;
That all he heard from west to east, was instantly retained.
‘Cnu Deroil the fellow’s name, famous in all Ireland;
Clever musician, dear child, “Nutlet” httle Cnii
*I will tell you all the tale, how Fionn found the dwarf;
A lucky child was found there, the unique son of Lugh mac
Eithlenn.
‘We were in Fionn’s company, between Galtee and Shevenamon:
When we heard exquisite music, all around us in the grass.
‘There we sat and listened, to the perfect melody;
We were lulled by the music, so tremulous yet so glorious.
‘Fionn mac Cumall of Almu, the king, then asked of him,
“Whence have vou come, mv Httle one, who plavs the harp so
well.=” “From Slievenamon I came, where ale and mead is drunk;
For this I come to you, in truth, to be w ith you for a while.”
“Wealth and treasures shall you have, fine gold and retainers;
Since this meeting pleases me, you will be my friend.”
*He gave Fionn his hand on that, and we were all dehghted;
We carried him aw ay with us, our sweet little foundling.
‘Four hands in height he was, three hands his dear sweet harp;
Swelling, yet smooth and gentle, the harp’s melodious sound.
‘The Fian^s five musicians were brought to him together;
To learn that fairy sound, tunefully from Cnu
‘These were the son of Senach, Senach himself, and two Daigres;
There was also Cuan, all studied diligently.
‘But Fionn still had one problem, his little man had no wife;
The brave lad had no liking for the big stout women.
‘Then Fionn, the great lord, said, he would give silver and gold,
To him who would find in Ireland, a woman of Cnu’s size.
‘Then Sci, Eoghan’s son, spoke up, a lion-spirited man;
“I will tell you the fortunate news, a place where his match may
“I thank you! now bestir yourself, O son of Eoghan of Munster.” But tell us, for this interests us, the place to which you refer.”
“Go to Munster’s House of Donn, O Fionn, of valour and victory;
There you will find your wish, a woman whose name is Blathnait.”
‘Then we journeyed swiftly, with the brave lord of the Fianna
To seek the girl in the House of Donn, our spirits high in the
quest.
‘Blathnait we found in the sid and carried her clean away;
They slept together in the hall, Blathnait and Cnu the Little.
‘Each of us gave an ounce of gold, one for each of the Fianna
As dowry for the faultless woman, who was married to the dwarf
‘Four hands in height he was, three hands his dear sweet harp;
The wife was taller than the man, dear the white-handed couple.
‘Her stitching was the finest on earth, perfect work in silver and gold;
His great attainment was this, music for the hosts of the world.
‘There was not a queen of the Fianna a chieftain or lord of good nsense;
Who did not love and reward the highly gifted couple.
‘When a heavy storm would blow, catching the Fiana in straits;
Fionn sheltered in his cloak Blathnait and the little man.
‘When good was in store for the Fian, cleverly Blathnait revealed it;
And when evil approached, the dwarf did not conceal it.
‘There was no music on earth, that the heart might a desire.
But, at the feast, sounded mean, compared to little Cnu’s.
‘Three the best findings of the generous lord Fionn;
The great hounds Bran and Sceolaing, fair Blathnait and her
dwarf.
Not long after that they saw seven young men approaching them, all of great size. ‘Where do you young men come from?’ asked Patrick. And who might you be.”
‘We have come, holy Patrick, to escort you to the King of the two provinces of Munster, to Eoghan Lethderg “the Red-Sided”, son of Aengus.’
‘We shall go to him,’ said Patrick, ‘for it is fitting that we accept services in the place where they are offered.’ ‘What shall I and my nine warriors do.” asked Cailte. ‘You are welcome to spend a month, a season, or a year with me,’ said Patrick.
Then Patrick set off, and on the way he went by the Wood of a River-Branch and the Ridge of Clay [Drumcree], now called the Church of the Oak [Kildare], across the river-pool at Durrow, across the ever-green River Barrow, and over the Causeway) of Liag, daughter of Cuarnatan, where, at the Bloody Onset, Liag died by the hand of Conall.
Onto the Old Plain of Roiche, the daughter of Dian, son of Diliu, now called the Red Plain of Roiche [Morett], and into the Old Plain of Salmon, now called the Plain of Laisse, across the salmon-filled Nore, and to Aghaboe, and onto the Road of Dala, son of Umor, to the Wood of the Hero, now called the fair Wood of Cre [Roscrea], to the left of the Puddle of the Cows of Lodan, son of Lir, now called the Plain of a Great Oak [Crannagh], and to the Pits of Cndmchatll [Corroge], and back to the Holly-Tree of the Descendants of Ciianach [CuUen], the place where Cuillenn, son of Morna, died at the hand of Fionn.
On to the Leap of the Fian-Warrior, and to the Assembly of Bé Cuile, the wife of Nechtan, now called the Rich Assembly of the Old Stronghold, and across the Rain-Short Ford, now called the Great Ford Ballymoe], to the Top of the Eyelid of the Mountain of Cain [Feefin Mountain] to the south, and to the Mound of the Fian, now called the Height of Saint Patrick [ArdpatrickJ, where the King of the two provinces of Munster, Eoghan Lethderg, son of Aengus, waited, surrounded by the nobles of Munster.
A tent was then erected for Patrick, and the king came with the nobles of his household, and put his head in Patrick’s lap and did homage to him. Patrick stayed there for a week, raising the dead and curing sickness and disease and ailments of every kind. When Patrick was given what he considered to be just, Eoghan Lethderg went off to Rosach of the Kings [Rossa], his own stronghold, and the nobles of Munster returned to their own fortresses and manors.
Tales of the Elders of Ireland: The wooing of Crede of the golden hair and the tragic death of Cael.
My dear Cailte,’ said Patrick, ‘why is the hill on which we stand called Fair Hill.?’ ‘I shall tell you the truth,’ said Cailte, ‘It was from here that we went, in our three battalions, to fight the Battle of the Fair Shore [Ventry].
Our javelins had been brought to us, and magic rings put on their shafts, when Fionn looked about the hill and said, “This is a lovely hill.” “And what better name”, said his men, “could it have than Fair Hill.?” ‘ Cailte then recited the following verse:
‘O high and pleasant hill, where once the Fianna came;
Renowned and spacious campsite, filled with fine young men.
‘This was our portion, on the height of the green;
Shiny whitethorn berries, nuts from the headland’s hazels.
‘Thorny shoots of bramble, fine sprigs of gentian;
Every May Day we feasted on shoots and tips of cress.
‘Birds from the sheltering oaks, were roasted by the Fian,
Spotted martens from Berramain, small nests from the heights.
‘The swift salmon of Linnmuine, eels of the noble Shannon,
The woodcocks of Fidrind, otters from the glades of the Deel.
‘The fish of the salty sea, from the coasts of Ban try and Beare,
Sea-nymph from ghstening Fdide^ dulse from Clere’s shores.
‘Swimming the flowing Loinges, was Mac Lugach’s constant sport.
When our company, great in numbers, came on the slope of this hill.
‘Together with Oisin the splendid, in a coracle on the green sea,
In peril we sat suspended, between the waves and hills.
‘We set off from there to fight the battle of Ventry, and along the way we met with a warrior of Fionn’s retinue, Cael Crodae Cetguinech “the Brave and Quick- Wounding”, the descendant of Nemnan.
“Cael, where have you come from?” asked Fionn. “From the dew covered Bruig in the north,” said Cael. “What were you doing there?” asked Fionn. “Speaking with my foster-mother, Muirenn, the daughter of Dearg.” “For what reason?” asked Fionn. “Because of my lover from the sid and my bride, and a dream that came to me.”
“I shall tell you this of her,” said Fionn. “She is Crede, the daughter of Cairbre Cnesban ‘of the White Skin’, a king of the uplands of Kerry.” “Do you not know, Cael,” said Fionn, “that she is the most deceiving woman in Ireland, for there are few good treasures in Ireland or in Scotland that she has not spirited away to her palace.”
“And do you not know what demand she has placed on each suitor?” asked Cael. “I do,” said Fionn, “that if he have sufficient skill in poetry he must compose poems for her, describing her cups and horns and goblets, her vessels and dishes, and her great palaces.” Cael answered, “I have the poem ready. It was given to me by my own foster-mother, Muirenn, the daughter of Dearg.”
‘We neglected the battle to make this expedition, and went off over hillsides and rocks and heights to the Lake of Hosts in the west of Ireland. We arrived at the door of the sid and sang the chant of the Fianna striking the staffs of our tall, new, gold-socketed javelins.
Then gentle, young, yellow-haired girls appeared on the roofs of the sunrooms. Crede came to talk with us, together with one hundred and fifty women, and the chief of the Fian said to her, “We have come to choose and to woo you,” he said. The woman asked who it was who wished to court her. “Cael Cgrodae Getguinech, the descendant of Nemnan, and the son of Grimthann, the King of Leinster in the east.”
“We have heard tales of him,” said Crede, “but have not seen him. Does he have my poem ready for me?” “I do indeed,” said Gael, and came forward and recited this poem:
“Travel I must on Friday, as a true and welcome guest.
The long way to Crede’s house, on the mountain’s north-east
slope.
“Fate brings me there, to Crede at Anu’s Breasts,
There to be well tested, four days, and four again.
“Her pleasant house is crowded, with women, men, and boys,
Druids and musicians, a guardian of doors and ale.
“A stable-boy with manners, a carver of great skill,
All of them directed, by Crede of golden hair.
“A pleasant Hfe for me, on yielding beds of down,
And, if it pleases Crede, pleasant the journey as well.
“A bowl filled with juice of berries, for darkening her shawl,
Crystal vessels for brewing, a fine jug and goblets for wine.
“Here in her chalk-coloured palace, are rushes and beds filled with down.
Deep-blue, silken garments, horns of reddish gold.
“Her bower by the Lake of Hosts, of silver and yellow gold,
A thatched roof made of feathers, dark purple and brown.
“Two doorposts of green you see, in a gate without a flaw,
With a crossbeam, I have heard, of silver unalloyed.
“Crede’s chair on your left hand, a constant delight to the eye,
With a covering of Alpine gold, placed at the foot of her bed.
“The bed brightly arrayed, stood beyond the chair.
Made in the east by Turbe,* of precious stones and gold.
“A second bed on you right hand, flawless in silver and gold,
And a canopy fair as a flower, held by rods of bronze.
“The people who dwell in her house, happy the day they were
born.
Their clothes are not worn or faded, fair and curly their hair.
“Though covered with wounds and bleeding, a man would be put to sleep.
By the sounds of the wondrous birds singing, from the sun-filled bowers above.
“If I find favour with Crede, for whom the cuckoo sings,
Many the lays I would provide, if for this she pays the fee.
“If Cairbre’s daughter be content, let her cause me no delay.
But let her tell me here and now, ‘Your coming brought me
joy.’ “One hundred paces is Crede’s house, measured on each side,
And her portals, high and grand, twenty paces wide.
“The thatching of her roof, bird feathers, yellow and blue.
Of carbuncle and glass, the space close by the well.
“About each bed four pillars, of well-wrought silver and gold,
Topped with a ball of crystal, a pleasure to the eye.
“A vat of red enamel, a source of pleasing malt.
Shaded by an apple-tree, replete with heavy fruit.
“Whenever Crede’s horn is filled, with mead from this fine vat,
Four of the apples, all at once, fall into her cup.
“The men just counted, begin dispensing ale.
And with the ale an apple, they give to each of four.
“She who possesses all of this, from ebb-tide to the flood,
Crede of the three-peaked hills, unrivalled in the land.
“This poem is no artful treasure, nor compliment done to form.
Just my song for comely Crede, that my journey earn her love.”
‘The couple passed that night in a well-appointed bed and we of the Fian were there for seven days, drinking and amusing ourselves, with no shortage of ale or food, though Fionn was troubled by the presence of the foreigners at Ventry.
Crede gave each one of us a valuable cloak and we took leave of one another. “Have the woman come with us,” said Fionn, “so that we may learn which of us may get good or evil from this journey.”
Crede brought great numbers of cattle with her to attend to the people who were sick and wounded. We fought the battle of Ventry for seventeen days, and throughout this time Crede supplied us all with fresh milk, and she looked after the sick and wounded of the Fian.
Just as this woman surpassed the women of the Fian in bestowing wealth and treasure, so did her husband, in this battle, outdo the three companies of the Fian in valour and prowess. On the last day of the battle a tragedy occurred; Cael was drowned, chasing his opponent into the sea. Other poor wild creatures of the same age as Cael died grieving for him. After he had drowned he was washed ashore.
His wife and the nobles of the Fian found him and carried him to the southern shore, the one south of Ventry, called the Shore of Cael and the Grave of Cael to the present day. Crede came and lay down beside him with great mourning and lamentation.
“Why should I not die here,” she said, “mourning for my husband, when wild creatures recklessly die in sorrow?” She then recited the following poem:
“A roar rises from the great flood of Reenverc.
The youth from Two Hound Lake has drowned, the waves along
the shore lament.
“The crane’s clear song from the marsh of Druimm nDd Thren,
She who cannot save her young from the jaws of the two-coloured fox.
“Sad as well is the cry of the thrush on Druimm Cain,
And no less sad the strains of the blackbird of Leittir Ldeig.
“Sorrowful the sound of the stag on Druimm nDd Lets,
A mighty lament for the death of the doe of Druimm Silenn.
“I grieve for the warrior’s death, for the one who lay with me,
The son of the woman of Daire Dd Doss. A cross above his head.
“I grieve for the death of Gael, now lifeless by my side.
The tide flows over his pale side, its beauty still aff’ects me.
“Sad is the cry of the wave, striking against the shore.
I weep that the noble youth ever encountered the sea.
“Sad is the sound of the wave against the northern shore.
Encircling the glistening rocks, lamenting the death of Gael.
“Sad is the crash of the wave against the southern coast,
And I, whose time has come, am now destroyed by grief
“SweUing is the song of the wave of Druimm nDd Leis.
My treasure is no more since I heard its roaring boast.
“Since the son of Grimthann died, no love remains for me.
Many a chieftain he killed. His shield in battle screamed.”
‘Crede then lay down beside Cael and died of sorrow. They were buried together in a single grave,’ said Cailte, ‘and it was I who raised the stone above their grave, still called the Grave of Cael and Crede.’
‘May you have victory, Cailte, and blessing,’ said Patrick. ‘The story you have told is a good one. Where is Broccan, our scribe.” ‘Here,’ said Broccan. ‘Then write down everything that Cailte recited.’ And he did.
Not long afterwards they saw a great and well-armed host of men coming towards them, surrounded by a wall of dark-purple shields; the many tall, gold-socketed spears on their shoulders looked like a sacred grove. They entered Patrick’s tent and their lord put his head in Patrick’s lap and all did homage to him.
Tales of the Elders of Ireland: The adventure of Bran son of Dearg.
‘Who are you, young man?’ asked Patrick. ‘I am Bran, son of Dearg,’ the young man answered, ‘the son of a king of Munster.’ ‘And why have you come here.?’ asked Patrick. ‘I wish to learn the lore of the Fian, holy cleric. I have heard that a warrior of Fionn’s retinue is with you, and I wish to learn from him the chanting of the Fian.
‘Do you hear that, my dear Cailte?’ asked Patrick. ‘I do,’ he said. ‘Well now, Bran,’ said Cailte, ‘what is your method of hunting?’ ‘We surround a hill or a mound or a high, level wood with our hounds, our servants and warriors, and spend the whole day chasing the game. At times we kill some game, but at other times it gets away.’
On hearing this Cailte, in the presence of Patrick, wept tearfully and sorrowfully until both his shirt and his chest were wet. Then Patrick and Cailte and all who were with them went up to the Ballyhowra Mountains. This was the appearance of the place to which they came.
A mountain surrounded by three valleys and a lake. The Lake of Cows was the name of the lake and Osmetal the name of the mountain. To the west of the lake was the Hill of the Satire, where Conan Mael ‘the Shorn’, son of Morna lived, and to the east the hill named Findinis, where Fergus Finbel, son of Fionn, and Ferdoman, son of Bodb Derg had once been, with the hunting hounds of Fionn.
‘The Hill of Maine’, said Cailte, ‘was the name of the hill in the north where a noble youth of Fionn’s retinue lived, who held the sovereignty of the Half of Cúarán [Dublin*]. A treacherous stag dwelt there, called Liath na tri nBenn “the Grey One of the Three Points”.
For twenty-seven years he eluded the Fian^ both the men and their hounds, until a warrior of the Fian killed him. I was that warrior, and I do not say it in boast.’
After that Cailte set out and placed his men to the east and west, and to the north and south of the lake. Patrick sat down in his chair, and that place on the Ballyhowra Mountains has since been called the Seat of Patrick [Ardpatrick].
Cailte loudly raised his cries of hunting and game and slaughter, and three war-cries of anger came from him, so that there was no game at large in the vicinity or near to him, in the field or on the moor, or on the high ground or in the woods that did not go dashing in a great frenzy. To refresh themselves after their exertions they went into the mighty Lake of Cows before the eves of the men nearbv. The men were struck with horror and terror and fright at all the thrashing about and at the great roar from the stags and the red, nimble does and the heavy-sided boars who had almost perished from their running and their lack of breath.
The host encircled the lake and not one of the hunted animals escaped alive. They divided up the hunt and it totalled eight hundred animals.
‘A tenth of the hunt should be given to us,’ said Benen. But Bran, son of Derg, was unwilling to divide his share with anyone. The son of the King of Munster was then struck down by abdominal pain.
Put your hand on the pain,’ said Bran to Patrick. ‘By my word,’ said Cailte, ‘until you pay his fee he will not.’ ‘What fee.’ asked Bran. ‘Since the sickness is in your belly’ said Cailte, ‘you must give the belly of every cow and every pig and every sheep to Patrick and to the Holy Church henceforth.’ ‘I shall do that,’ said Bran, ‘and my son after me.’ From that time on this custom prevailed among the men of Ireland. Patrick put his hand upon the stomach of Bran, son of Derg, and he was cured at once.
Tales of the Elders of Ireland: the Fianna flee in fear of the Tuatha de danann and the jealousy of the wives of the Fir Maige.
‘We must now depart,’ said Cailte. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Patrick. ‘I remember the time, holy Patrick, when a host or an army did not dare to encamp on these three hills from fear of the Tuatha De Danann’
Cailte then recited the following poem:
‘I recall three hills, without age or decay.
Three-pointed Liath ran, through all the region.
‘I recall three churches, mighty strongholds,
No bell rang within, a druid’s spell without.
‘I am that same Cailte, chief of the shining Fian.
We never hurried, crossing this valley.
‘Warlike Fionn, in those days, never could abide
The bellow of a wanton stag, above his sprawling camp.
‘I and Flann, son of Failbe, many from Leinster we bloodied,
And many, by my faith, are the battles I recall.’
‘May you have victory and blessing,’ said Patrick, ‘for you have
lightened our minds and spirits.’ The host then departed carrying their spoils with them up to the camp of the Fian on the Ballyhowra Mountains. Looking at the mountain to his left, Cailte saw a stronghold and a fine town.
‘By my faith,’ he said, ‘we never knew of a stronghold in that place. Let us go there.’ Cailte and his men went off to the stronghold and were surprised to find no host or army there, but only nine female slaves and three male slaves.
They came to a secluded bower in the town and found there two women in weeping and lamention. One of them wore a fringed purple cloak with a silver brooch, and had an ornament of yellow gold on her forehead; the other wore a mantle of deep green with a gold brooch fastened above her breast.
The men were welcomed and well received by the women, and their travelling clothes were taken from them. Cailte asked the women, ‘What is the stronghold in which we find ourselves.’ The women answered, ‘This is the stronghold of Lochan and Eogan, the two sons of the King of the Fir Maige “the Men of the Plain” [Fermoy].’
‘Why are you sad and grieving?’ asked Cailte. ‘We have good cause and reason,’ they said. ‘We are married to these two brothers, and we ourselves are sisters, but our husbands have gone off tonight to get themselves other women. We can only stay in this stronghold until our husbands return with their new wives.’
Cailte then cast a glance into the far end of the hall and saw a huge stone which had belonged to one of Fionn’s trusted warriors, Senach, son of Maelcro, of the old retinue of Fionn mac Cumaill. This is the significance of the stone, that all of the wages which Fionn had given Senach, one hundred and fifty ounces of gold, one hundred and fifty ounces of silver, one hundred and fifty ounces of gold alloy and one hundred and fifty of cloth of gold, had been buried under this stone.
Cailte then said to the women, ‘What reward will you give me if I come to your aid and assistance, and bring your husbands back to you?’ ‘If we had anywhere a reward which pleased you,’ they said, ‘we would give it to you.’ ‘You have indeed,’ said Cailte, ‘the great stone at the very end of the hall.’
‘Woe to you for saying this!’ they said. ‘It took a great host of the region to place it where it is, and it was a great feat to do it, though you think you may be able to deal with it on your own.’
‘It is I who am deceived,’ said Cailte, ‘if I am unable to do it.’ ‘Then have it with our blessing,’ said the women. He went away from this place and filled his right hand with fine, magic herbs, that he knew were used by the queens and noble ladies of the Fian.
He gave these herbs to the two women, who bathed with them. This caused their husbands to love them, and they forsook the women they had brought back with them. The stone was given to Cailte and he recited the following poem:
‘O stone of the Pass at Athy many our meetings there.
The treasures of Senach, son of Maelcro, were found here, no
mistake.
‘Here are herbs for you, not without their charm.
There are not found in the whole world, women more pleasing to men.
‘I shall tell you of it, my prophecy is true.
All who know me know this, dear to me this stone.’
Cailte remained there for the night and was well cared for and entertained. Early the next morning he pulled the stone from the earth. Then they went back to Fair Hill, now called Ardpatrick, where Patrick was staying, and Patrick asked, ‘Cailte, where were you last night.’ Cailte told him the tale from beginning to end.
Not long after this they saw seven men coming towards them. ‘Where do you come from, lads.’ asked Patrick. ‘From the province of Connaught in the north,’ they said. ‘Why have you come?’ asked Patrick. ‘Holy cleric, we have come to you from the nobles of Connaught, that we, both our women and our men, may be brought to your Gospel.’ Patrick said, ‘The Church must spread its seed.’
Dooley, Ann, and Harry Roe, trans. 1999. Tales of the Elders of Ireland (Acallam na Senórach). pp. 5-32.