The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends (10 page)

“Father, dearest father, know you that I am your daughter,
Fionnghuala, and these are your sons, now changed into swans and ruined by the hatred and evil crafts of
Aoife, our step-mother, sister to our own mother.”

Lir raised his voice in a terrible cry of grief, at which his warriors were sure that he must have lost his reason. But, having given three shouts of grief which rocked the very mountains of the
countryside, he resumed his command on sanity.

“Tell me, daughter, how I may restore you to your human form?”

“Alas, dear father, there is nothing you can do, for no one has the power to release us either in this world nor in the Otherworld. Not until nine hundred years have passed and a Prince of
Connacht marries a Princess of Mumhan.”

Lir, this time joined by his warriors, raised another three shouts of grief. And their grief was carried over all Éireann, so that the trees bent before it and the waves receded from the
shores in terror.

“We are left only with our speech and our reason,” Fionnghuala explained.

“That being so,” replied Lir, “you will come and dwell with me at my palace again and still live as if you were in human shape.”

“Alas, dear father, that cannot be so, for Aoife has condemned us to live on water and we are only allowed speech in order to make sweet music to those who wish to hear it.”

Lir and his warriors encamped that night and the children of Lir sang and made music for them and so sweetly did they sing that they all fell into a calm sleep.

In the morning Lir went to the water’s edge. “My heart is broken that I must leave you here, far from my empty hall. I now curse the first moment I saw Aoife’s smiling face,
that hid a cruelty which none could plumb the depths of. I shall know no rest, no sleep, from now on. I shall go into the never-ending night, for never more will I know a tranquil hour.”

In tears and sadness they bade farewell and Lir rode on to the Bodb Dearg’s palace.

He was greeted with respect by the Bodb Dearg and, when he met Aoife, his face was a mask to hide his feelings. Then
the Bodb Dearg said: “I was hoping that you would
come with your children, for I love them as if they were my own. But Aoife has told me that you refuse to let them come near me, lest harm befall them.”

Then Lir turned to Aoife. “Let Aoife bear witness to the truth. She has treacherously turned them into swans on Loch Dairbhreach.”

The Bodb Dearg had suspected something, especially when none of Aoife’s servants would answer his questions, but he could not believe such a terrible thing. He turned to Aoife to seek her
denial and saw the truth of Lir’s accusation written on her guilty features.

For a moment or two, the Bodb Dearg stood before Aoife with his shoulders hunched, bowed down in sorrow and anguish. He had been foster-father to Aoife and her sister Aobh and he loved them
both, just as he loved Aobh’s children as if they had been his own.

Then he raised himself and his brows were creased in anger. “Aoife, once my foster-daughter, what you have done is beyond forgiveness. As bad as the suffering of the poor children of Lir
is, your suffering will be worse.”

Aoife, terrified, dropped to her knees, her hands held out in supplication. There was fear on her face, for she knew what vengeance the gods could take. But the Bodb Dearg’s face was
filled with a terrible, tormented anger and he did not heed her protestations.

“Spare my life,” she cried.

“That I will, for the snuffing out of your soul is but to show you mercy. Answer this question, for you are bound to do so: of everything that is on the earth, or above it, or beneath it,
of everything that flies or creeps or burrows, seen or unseen, horrible in itself or in its nature, tell me what do you most fear and abhor?”

Aoife crouched with shaking limbs. “I fear Macha, Badb and Nemain, the three forms of the Mórrígán, the goddess of war, of death and slaughter, and most of all, her
blood-drinking raven form.”

“Then that is what you shall be, for as long as mortals believe in the goddess of death and battles.”

Then the Bodb Dearg struck her with his wand of office and she was immediately transformed into the hideous form of a croaking raven, with blood dripping on its beak. All the
people in the palace of the Bodb Dearg were forced to turn away and hide their eyes from the terrible, malignant form. All save the Bodb Dearg and Lir himself, who gazed on her form without any
expression at all.

The eyes of Aoife stared up from the raven head and sought mercy in their gaze, but found none. Then, with her leathery wings flapping, the blood drooling from her gaping mouth, the raven rose
upwards and, croaking hoarsely, flew away into the sky, doomed to remain so until the end of time.

Then the Bodb Dearg embraced Lir and they shared their anguish and all the Tuatha Dé Danaan, all the gods and goddesses of Éireann, went down to the shores of Loch Dairbhreach and
encamped there. And the Sons of Míle Easpain came from their courts, and even the misshapen Fomorii and the Nemedians, and all the people of the land of Éireann came. A great camp was
made at the lakeside. There the children of Lir raised their voices and sang sweet music to them and it is said that no sweeter and sadder music was ever heard in any part of this world, nor the
Otherworld.

Around the shores of the lake, the encampment became permanent and the children of Lir never wanted for company. The people remained, held by their love for the four white swans. The children of
Lir talked with the people and, during the evenings, sang their incomparable songs and, no matter what trouble beset those who heard the music, they drifted into a calm sleep and awoke refreshed
and at peace.

For three hundred years, the children of Lir rested on the waters of Loch Dairbhreach.

At the end of three hundred years, Fionnghuala said to her brothers: “The time has come when we must bid farewell to these waters and to all our friends, and to our father, Lir, for we
must travel to the stormy waters of Sruth na Maoile which gushes in its passage between Éireann and high-hilled Alba.”

So on the following morning, they spread their wings and rose, among the sadness and sorrow, and the wailing of their father.

Fionnghuala called out, as she rose: “Tears swell down our cheeks, grief in our hearts, now time dictates our departure. Sad our tears like the waters of the lake, calm
deep waters we may not tread again for it is to the black storms, the endless wrath of Moyle’s sea, there to linger in fear for the next three hundred years.”

And all the children cried: “Our paths are drawn down the twisting road of time; destiny traps us, in spite of men and gods, and no hopes may come even in our dreams; no laughter; no wish
for tomorrow, until the sorrow of our lives are ended. Though we go from here, dear father, Lir the storm-tossed, our hearts will forever remain with you.”

Then they circled once more in the sky and flew away to the north-east.

Great was the sadness on the gods and men of Ireland then. Great the sadness of the goddesses and the women, too. None were so loved as the children of Lir.

The High King summoned the Brehons, the learned lawyers and, from that day forward, according to the law, no subject of the High King, nor anyone in any of the five provinces, was ever allowed
to kill a swan. Thus states the law of the Fenéchus.

The children of Lir had now alighted on the Sruth na Maoile, which is the Sea of Moyle, called the North Channel which runs its turbulent way between Ireland and Scotland. It was a harsh stormy
sea; cold and tumultuous. They were cold and fearful, those four poor children. The sea was not like the pleasant waters of Dairbhreach. Here the violent winds drove them up and down with sleet and
snow and there was little or no food for them. No misery could be worse than the restless sea between them.

Then, one day, Fionnghuala sensed something in the air. A fierce storm was approaching. She knew it was going to be more fierce than any storm before. So she turned to her brothers.

“There is a bad tempest following and it is sure that the winds and tides will separate us. We must fix a meeting-place, so that if we are parted, we shall be sure to find one another
again.”

Fiachra agreed: “Sensible is that suggestion, my dear sister. Let us meet at Carricknarone, as we all know that rock.”

Carricknarone was a rocky outcrop in the sea.

The storm came up abruptly. A wild, wailing wind spread across the sea, whipping at the waves, and lightning flashes split the heavens, and the sea clawed at the four poor forms which huddled
together on its raging billows. Storm-tossed, wind-driven, they were hurled in the black gloom.

When dawn broke and there was an easing of the tempest, Fionnghuala found that she was alone on the waters. There was no sign of her brothers. Feeling desolate, she made her way towards
Carricknarone, the rock of the seas and, cold and anguished, she reached its rocky outcrop. There was still no sign of her brothers.

“Alas, alas,” she cried, “there is no shelter, no rest for us, and my heart is sundered in me. Gone are my loved ones in the bitter night; gone is everything but my grief, my
cold, my hunger and my fear. These now are my constant companions.”

She climbed onto the rock and peered round.

“Alas, alas, my brothers are lost in the wild tempest. Death itself would be a small mercy. Is there no pity in this world for me? Will I never see my brothers that are now dearer to me
than all the human race?

“Alas, alas, no shelter for me, nor rest. Have we not suffered agony enough, nor cruelty enough, or does the depths of long anguish continue forever?”

She was so sunk into despair that she wished to die and took one last look at the grey skies before she decided to succumb to death. But in that grey darkness she saw a white speck. She peered
again and there, bedraggled but flying bravely, was a tiny wind-tossed swan, making its valiant way towards the rock.

It was Conn.

With a cry of joyous recognition, she rose up towards him, urging him on. She helped poor Conn, now more dead than alive, onto the rock. Then came Fiachra, limping feebly through the shallows,
and it took a mighty effort of
Fionnghuala and Conn to bring him to safety. They huddled with only the warmth of their wings to revive themselves.

Yet still Fionnghuala was sad.

“If only Aodh was here, then all would be well with us.”

As if at her words, they saw Aodh coming towards them. He rode the waves proud, and he was well and radiant and his feathers dry. He came ashore and told them that he had found a welcome in a
great cave on the shores of high-hilled Alba and was thus able to shelter from the fury of the storm. And he came and gave his siblings his warmth and comfort.

“Oh,” cried Fionnghuala, “wonderful is it to be in life and together again. But we have three hundred years on this salt sea of Moyle and must be prepared for many such storms
as this.”

So it was. Alas, so it was.

For many long years, they endured on the storm-tossed sea of Moyle, first sheltering here and then there, while great winds and howling tempests tried to separate them. Though never again did it
ever succeed in doing so, as it had done in that first great storm. For now they knew the cave in high-hilled Alba, they fled to it for safety at the coming of the storms.

So it came about one day that they were swimming close to the shores of Éireann, by the mouth of the River Bann and, looking towards the shore, they saw a great procession riding from the
south. There were chiefs and lords and attendants and warriors who were clad in the splendour of their cloaks. They rode on white horses. Bright lights glinted on their armour, their shields and
weapons.

“Who can they be?” wondered Fiachra.

“A party of warriors, perhaps?” suggested Conn.

“Warriors off to fight some great war?” hazarded Aodh.

“Let us swim closer, that we might find out the meaning of this great cavalcade,” suggested Fionnghuala.

Now when the party of warriors saw the swans swimming towards the shore, they turned and went down to meet them. At their head were the two sons of the Bodb Dearg. They greeted the swans with
cries of joy and happiness for, they said, they had been searching for the children of Lir for many
years, travelling along the coasts of the Sea of Moyle. They assured them
that they brought the love of all the Tuatha Dé Danaan to the outcasts. Most of all, they brought the love of their father Lir and of the Bodb Dearg.

The children of Lir immediately asked about the health of their father, Lir, and after him, of the Bodb Dearg.

“They are both well,” said the sons of the Bodb Dearg, “and the hosts of the Dé Danaan are celebrating the feast of Gobhainn the smith-god, at your father’s own
sídh
. Their happiness would be complete if you could share in those festivities. It has been so long since you left the shores of Loch Dairbhreach that they sent us in search of news
of you.”

The eyes of the children clouded when they heard this.

“Suffering and torment have been our lot since we have left Loch Dairbhreach. No tongue can utter what we have been through. But we will give you a song which you must remember and take
back to our father and to your father and you must sing it to the hosts of the Dé Danaan.”

Then the children of Lir raised their voices and sung their sad lament.

The sons of the Bodb Dearg repeated the sad song and bade farewell to the children of Lir. The four swans returned to the icy waters of the Sea of Moyle and drifted away from
the shore.

When they had vanished, the two sons of the Bodb Dearg shed a tear and turned their men, who also wept in their grief, towards their homes. They finally reached Lir’s
sídh
and all the Dé Danaan gathered there to hear their news, including the Bodb Dearg. The sons of the Bodb Dearg sang the sad song of the children of Lir.