The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends (11 page)

Lir was so overcome with anguish that he was unable to utter his grief and sat like a stone statue.

The Bodb Dearg put forth a hand to comfort him.

“Our power cannot help them, but they are still in life. It is good to know that one day this power will be broken and they will be free of their suffering.”

For three long centuries the children of Lir suffered upon the terrible Sruth na Maoile. It seemed a time without end. But at last the time came when Fionnghuala called her brothers
together.

“It is time to leave this place and fly to the west. Now we must go to Iorras Domhnann.”

They took wing with trepidation, for it had been promised that their suffering off Iorras Domhnann would be even greater and yet none of them could imagine a greater suffering than what they had
endured for the last three hundred years on the cold sea of the east, battered by the storm-sent winds and raging seas.

Across the kingdom of Ulaidh they flew, across the lochs and mountains, across the lands of the Cenel Conaill and the great bay which separated the Cenel mBogaine from the kingdom of Connachta,
until they alighted in the seas off Iorras Domhnann, the “head of the world” which is now called Erris, Co. Mayo, for there was no point farther west that could be reached. This was
where the known world ended, with the great western ocean and across it, far, far to the west was the Otherworld, the haven of lost souls, Hy Breasal. The waters were not as cold as Sruth na
Maoile, but the storms were stronger, the waves harsher and the pounding on the rocky coastline was more dangerous.

Their suffering continued.

Now it happened that there was a young farmer and fisherman named Aífraic of Béal na Mhuirthead, which is now called Belmullet, and one day, while he was cultivating his land, he
heard singing from the seas. Looking seaward, he saw the four swans dancing on the waves and singing their sad songs. He was entranced, for he had the soul of a poet, for the prefix to his name,
Aí
, means “poetic inspiration” and
“learning”. Thereafter, every day he went to the shore and sat listening to the songs of the children of
Lir.

Now the day came when, having made himself known to the children, he found that they were able to converse with him. Each day he talked with them and they gradually told their story to him. He
came to love each one of them and they came to love him, for he was a gentle and learned soul. Because he was a poet and storyteller he, in turn, began to tell their story to his neighbours at the
evening gatherings. Although Aífraic refused to let anyone meet the four swans, for fear some harm might befall them, his tale began to spread throughout the kingdom of Connacht. We might
add that, were it not for the tales of Aífraic, we might never have known the sad tale of the children of Lir.

That the children suffered still, let there be no doubt. The seas of the western ocean are not kind. So cold are they that, at times, the seas from Iorras Domhnann and around Béal na
Mhuirthead froze with black ice and snow came down like a white sheet.

According to Aífraic, no other nights in the nine centuries of torment were so pitiless than the winter nights off Iorras Domhnann. Fionnghuala’s three brothers confessed that they
were not far away from commencing their journey to the Otherworld. Death was approaching them and, in spite of Fionnghuala’s lamentations, the icy fingers of Donn, lord of death, were
reaching out to transport their souls westward.

Then, in the depths of her misery, Fionnghuala felt a strange, warming feeling within her. She could not understand it. She stopped her wailing and allowed her mind to experience the strange,
comforting feeling that enveloped her; it was consoling, soothing to her very soul. Words formed in her mind and the words were the great song of Amairgen the Druid. In spite of the howling wind
and the crashing of the white-foamed seas on the rocks, she raised her voice and began to sing the words.

When Fionnghuala stopped singing the ancient chant, she found that her three brothers were also singing with her.

“I do not understand this, brothers,” she said, “yet I feel that there is some power here with us which is beyond my understanding. It is great and awe-inspiring. It is the
Truth and we must abide with the Truth against the World. For we will abide, no matter our fate. We will always be, no matter our shape, no matter where we are, in this world or the next. Our spark
of thought, once ignited, can never be extinguished.”

And in spite of the cold, the storm and the agony of their torment, their souls were renewed and hope was reborn within them.

So they remained there off Iorras Domhnann for the allotted three centuries.

The day came when Fionnghuala called her three brothers and told them:

“The appointed hour has come. We can now leave this place and fly to our father at Sídh Fionnachaidh in the warm
interior of Éireann. Lir and the children
of Danu, the Mother Goddess, will rejoice to see us.”

With gladness in their hearts, the four swans rose from the waters of the icy sea, and, circling over Iorras Domhnann, where Aífraic had once lived – for being merely a mortal, he
had long grown old and died, as had his children and his children’s children – they set off eastward to the palace of the mighty Lir.

A great sadness waited for them.

There was no sign of Sídh Fionnachaidh. Desolation was there in its place. Nothing stirred there, save the wind across the hill and the rustle of the overgrown grasses. There was no sign
of the children of Danu, no sign of the old gods and goddesses of Éireann. True, it was, that the descendants of the sons of Míle Easpain, the first mortals in Éireann, still
lived on. But they had long ago rejected the ancient gods and goddesses, though some had vague memories of them which were greatly distorted.

But gods and goddesses exist only as long as memory and respect for them remain.

The mortals had driven the Ever-Living Ones underground into the hills and, eventually, those immortals dwelling in the hills, the
sídhe
, were relegated, in people’s minds,
to mere fairy folk. Even the names of the greatest of the gods were forgotten. Lugh Lamhfada, the sun god and god of all arts and crafts, who was the father of the hero Cúchulainn by a
mortal woman, had gone. The mortals now remembered the great god only as a little fairy craftsman whom they called Lugh-chromain, “little stooping Lugh”, which would later be
mispronounced as “leprechaun”.

After nine centuries of suffering, the poor children of Lir found that the mortals had finally destroyed the gods. The Tuatha Dé Danaan were all dead. Even more devastating was the fact
that it was only their step-mother Aoife, in the guise of the evil demon the Mórrígán, goddess of death and battles, that people still kept alive, for they continued to take
pleasure in war and bloodshed.

Horror overcame the four swans as they perched by that desolate Sídh Fionnachaidh.

They sang a sad lament.

“Whither have gone the stately palaces of our father? Weeds and nettles grow in place of the noble pillars and frescoed walls. Silence fills the desolate hill, not even the whisper of
their voices remain. Where are the gods and their goddesses, where the heroes and the noble kings? Not even as mould do they lie in their graves. There is nothing left.”

So they paid their sad tribute to a world that had disappeared and left them behind.

There was now no home left for them.

Fionnghuala called her brothers together.

“Little hope for us here. But the curse remains until a Prince from Connacht shall marry a Princess from Munster. So let us fly back to Connacht, to the only home we knew, which was at
Iorras Domhnann. Let us go back there, in more sheltered waters, and await that day which Aoife foretold would come.”

So they rose up into the air and flew back to the west and circled over Iorras Domhnann. But it wasn’t to that spot they went, for Fionnghuala espied a pleasant little island and it was
called Inis Gluaire, which is now Inishglory off Annagh Head. On this island was a sheltered lake, not large at all, but enough to give them shelter and food and keep them safe from the mortals who
had rejected their father and the others of the Tuatha Dé Danaan.

To their surprise, they found one mortal living in a tiny cell of a hut on the island, and soon they grew to know him well. He was a kind and gentle holy man. They called him Mo
Cháemmóg, which is an endearing form of Cháemmóg, which means “beloved person”.

The holy hermit would listen to their singing and was in great wonder of it, for he had never heard such sweet music. Each day, he would listen to their song and knew that song was the eternal
truth.

One day, the holy hermit came to them and said:

“Beloved children, you may come ashore with me, for the day has come when your enchantment shall be ended.”

Having heard the story of Aoife’s curse, Cháemmóg learnt that the king of Connacht, Laidgnén Mac Colmán, desired a
wife. The woman he had
chosen was a princess from Mumhan, Deichtine, daughter of King Fíngen of the Eóganachta of Cashel. History records their names, for Laidgnén ruled Connacht in the year
AD
649 until his death in
AD
655, while Fíngen of Cashel is recorded as dying in
AD
629. It was Deichtine’s
brother, Máenach, who ruled Munster from his seat at Cashel when the marriage proposal was made. The Princess Deichtine had agreed to the marriage on one condition. This condition was that
Laidgnén give her, as a wedding gift, the four singing swans dwelling in his kingdom whom she had heard so much about.

Indeed, the story of the children of Lir had long been known at the court of Connacht, from the stories that Aífraic once told. Now Laidgnén was worried when he heard this demand
from Deichtine, for he knew that the children of Lir were no ordinary birds to be given as presents to appease the vain glory of any man or woman. However, the terms of the marriage contract were
made plain to him by the emissary of the Princess Deichtine.

When the King of Connacht heard that Dechtine positively refused to marry unless the gift be made, he reluctantly accepted and said that if she came to his court, the birds would be waiting for
her. At the same time, he sent messengers to Cháemmóg on Inis Gluaire and told him to send him the four swans.

The holy man refused and great was the anger of the King of Connacht. Not just his word to Dechtine was broken but his very pride was hurt. He turned his anger from Dechtine, who had made the
impossible demand, to Cháemmóg. So he gathered his royal bodyguard, the Gamhanrhide, and set off for Inis Gluaire.

Cháemmóg met him on the shore quite calmly.

“You have insulted your king, holy one!” shouted Laidgnén. “You have refused to give up the swans so that I may present them to Dechtine of Mumhan and make her my
bride.”

“There is no insult, for what you ask is not in my power. I have no power to give you these poor creatures, any more than you have power to take them from me.”

The king, bold in his anger, laughed harshly and signalled to one of his servants.

“No power? I will show you the power of the King of Connacht.”

And he had a silver chain placed around the necks of each swan. Then, taking the ends of the chains in his hand, he began to draw them towards the boat.

Far away on the great Rock of Cashel, where the palace of the Eóganacht kings of Cashel dwelt, Dechtine had been talking with her brother, King Máenach, who was a wise man. He had
heard of the story of the children of Lir and Máenach said to her: “A bad thing, is this, sister. This is no ordinary gift that you demand from the King of Connacht to appease your
curiosity. In this, you mock the powers of the Otherworld.”

Now Dechtine was, withal, a kindly and gracious lady, although given to the vanity that sometimes besets a person in so exalted a position. In that moment, she realised that what she had asked
for was unjust. So, she agreed with her brother and sent forth a messenger to the palace of the King of Connacht, telling him that she would marry him even without the gift of the four swans.
Further, she made haste to follow the messenger with all her entourage, ready for the marriage ceremony.

That was happening at the very moment when King Laidgnén was trying to drag the four children of Lir to his boat to return to the mainland.

As that happened, each of the swans began to lose their white downy coats. Slowly, before the eyes of all those gathered there, the four swans grew into human shape and stood under the light of
that summer’s day. But instead of returning to what they had once been – four bright, young children, the pride and love of their father, the great god Lir – they stood with the
accumulation of the years of their exile. Yet there was dignity in those years, for they were, after all, the children of Lir, the children of a god of the Tuatha Dé Danaan.

When King Laidgnén saw this, his eyes filled with terror, and he fell on his knees before the aged Fionnghuala.

“Forgive me, lady. My mind was filled with vanity and avariciousness, for I wanted nothing more than Dechtine to be my wife.”