The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends (18 page)

Dallán Forgaill gazed round at the pale-faced members of the court of Mongán and smiled viciously. That he had pronounced “countless curses” on Mongán was a
matter which struck terror into those who had heard him.

“I will curse this court, curse the waters of this land so that no fish shall be caught in the rivers, nor in the surrounding sea, and no fruit will be borne on the trees. The plains shall
remain barren of grain and cereals, and the country shall be shorn of living creatures. This I will do, Mongán of the Dál nAraidhe, because of the great insult you have shown
me.”

Now Breothighearn, the queen, broke in upon the ravings of the angry poet, with words like drops of honey, or the tender piping of the linnet in a hidden woodland bower.

“Stay your words, Poet of Ireland. My husband, the king, had no wish nor desire to wound you nor to vex your heart with anger. Curse us not and I will offer you a bronze cauldron filled
with gold and silver and precious jewels
–
even if I have to strip my neck and arms of these glittering baubles. They are yours. But do not punish this kingdom by your poet’s
curse.”

Mongán was regretting that he had contradicted the poet, even though he knew that he was right and the poet was wrong. However, the poet’s curse on his people
weighed heavily with him, for the people should not be blamed for his actions. So he said:

“Let me add my plea to my wife’s plea
–
do not curse us and I will add to her gift the value of seven
cumals
, each
cumal
being the value of three milch
cows, which is the honour price of a king.”

Dallán Forgaill stood and folded his arms in scorn. “Are such paltry gifts worthy of my honour?” he sneered.

“Twice seven
cumals
. . .” pleaded Mongán. And when that produced no reaction he went further: “Thrice seven
cumals
. . . or if you must, take half of my
kingdom to save me and my people from your blighting tongue.”

Dallán Forgaill remained like a graven image, apparently unmoved by the offers of compensation. “I might consider all your kingdom as compensation,” he finally conceded,
“If you will say that you concede I spoke the truth of it and you lied.”

Now, while Mongán was desperate to avert the poet’s curse, he could not go so far as to deny the truth as he knew it. The most sacred thing a king had to undertake was to tell the
truth, and the saying of the sacred oath was “the truth against the world”.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Dallán Forgaill watched the king’s features and knew what was passing in his mind and he grew even more angry at this apparent affront.

“So even now you mock me, princeling!” he cried. “You deny my knowledge. Very well. I have listened to your offers of compensation and you have offered me all your kingdom,
everything except one thing. I think that you must prize it above all things. Therefore, only offer me this and I will not curse you or your people.”

Mongán was puzzled.

“Name it and it shall be yours.”

“Your wife, Breothighearn. I shall settle for no less.”

Beothighearn gave a little scream and pushed back in her chair as she gazed on the repulsive old man.

This did not even cause Dallán Forgaill to blink. He preferred people to fear him if they did not respect him.

Mongán groaned with anguish.

Breothighearn turned and clasped her husband’s hand. “You have to accept, my husband, because if you do not, the whole kingdom will be cursed.”

The king thought furiously. Yet he could see no other way of avoiding the curse. “Very well,” he said finally.

Dallán Forgaill began to smile and move forward towards the queen.

“Yet wait!” cried Mongán. “I will agree to this but only after three days have passed. If, within those three days, I have not proved that the death place of Fothad
Airgtheach was here at Magh Linne and that he is buried there, under the green hill, then you may claim my wife and I shall accept your claim.”

The Chief Poet hesitated and then nodded, with a crafty smile. Being a vain man, he had implicit belief in his knowledge. He was prepared to wait three days.

“At this hour, three days from now, I shall come to claim your queen or to curse your kingdom,” he said smugly and he turned from the feasting hall, while the great warriors shrank
back to let him pass by.

When he had departed from the feasting hall, and those attending had left for their beds in sorrow, Breothighearn came to tears.

“Can you prove what you say, husband?” she asked between her heart-rending sobs.

Mongán was distraught. “I do not know. I tried to buy time for me to think. But do not grieve; I have a faith that help will surely come, for justice must overcome
injustice.”

But the days passed. The king sent throughout his land to find bards and historians who would bring testimony to the truth of the matter. But while many would say “everyone knows
this” not one could offer specific proof. Proof rested with Mongán, for he was the one who had challenged Dallán Forgaill’s word, and so the Chief Poet did not have to
prove his contention.

On the third morning, the old poet appeared before Mongán and demanded the queen.

“Three days were agreed, until the very hour,” rebuked the king. “Come back to the court when the sun is down, beyond the hour of feasting. That is the
hour when the three days are up.”

Disgruntled and muttering threats, the old poet shuffled off.

Breothighearn was still tearful.

“Do not be sorrowful, wife. I have faith that help will surely come,” Mongán insisted.

“Three days have passed and no help has come,” his wife pointed out.

Mongán smiled and tried to put a good face on matters, but he knew that she was right. No help had come to them during the three days, and now only hours separated them from the time when
Dallán Forgaill would claim his prize.

He sat with his arms around Breothighearn in her chamber and, as the hours rushed by, her tears fell faster and faster.

Then, as the sun slid from the sky, Mongán suddenly raised his head, slightly to one side, as if listening.

“What is it?” demanded his queen.

“I hear the sound of footsteps, far, far away. I hear the tread of one who is coming to our aid. He comes from the House of Donn, purveyor of souls to the Otherworld.”

Tech Duinn, the island where the god Donn gathered souls for their journey westward to the Otherworld, lay south-west of the kingdom of Munster.

Queen Breothighearn shivered fearfully.

Yet her husband went on: “I hear his feet splashing through the waters of the Leamhain and now, with bounds, he is crossing Loch Léin, through the lands of the Uí Fidgente,
along the Suir on Moy-Fefin. His mighty stride is quickening, along the Nore, over the Barrow, the Liffey and the Boyne, across the Dee, the Tuarthesc, Carlingford Lough, the Nid and the Newry
River
–
behold, he is scattering right and left the waves of the Larne in front of Rathmore!”

The king rose up and flung out his arms dramatically. “He is here! We will go down into the feasting hall and confront Dallán Forgaill. Have no fear, my wife. All will be
well.”

The feasting hall of the royal fortress of the Dál nAraidhe
was crowded. People had come from far and wide, for all had heard the news of the poet’s curse.
There in the middle of the hall stood Dallán Forgaill, with folded arms and a sneer on his face.

Mongán led Breothighearn into the hall, the queen looking pallid from her days of tears and sorrow, and sad was her beauty as she took her seat, her head bowed.

There was a murmur of sympathy from those gathered in the hall.

“I have come to claim what is mine by right,” called the Chief Poet, moving forward. “
Mo mhallacht don lá a
. . .”

“Stay. Be not in such haste, vengeful poet,” said Mongán. “There was a condition before you cursed or took my queen.”

The old poet chuckled cynically. “The condition was that you prove me wrong. Where is your proof that Fothad Airgtheach was killed here and is buried in yonder green hill?”

“It is here,” he said quietly.

Mongán looked to the closed doors of the fortress, which were barred from the inside, it being after dark. It was the custom to shut the gates of a royal
ráth
at dusk, to
prevent lurking dangers entering. He looked at the closed doors and it was as if he were peering beyond them.

Dallán Forgaill turned and frowned, seeing only the barred doors. “Where is it?” he demanded. “Is this a trick to delay me?”

“A man is approaching from the south. He carries a headless spear-shaft in his hand. He leaps over the three ramparts which guard this fortress as easily as a bird takes flight on the
wing, he comes towards the doors . . .”

Then, before the eyes of all assembled, the great wooden bolts of the doors slid back without anyone touching them. The great doors swung inwards, as if guided by unseen hands.

Standing in the door was a tall stranger. He was taller than most men of the kingdom; his figure spoke of great strength and his muscles rippled beneath his fine clothes. He wore a dark rich
cloak, fastened by a beautifully crafted brooch. It flowed back from his shoulders. His face was young and very
handsome and his hair was fair and curled, reaching to his
shoulders. Even as Mongán had said, he carried a headless spear-shaft in one hand, with a great sword at his belt and an exquisite silver shield on his arm.

Within a few strides, he reached the centre of the hall causing, just by his presence, Dallán Forgaill to stagger away from him.

The stranger spoke in a voice so deep and ringing that it seemed all the candles in their holders shook and flickered throughout the hall. “There is trouble in this
ráth
,” he observed.

Mongán rose from his seat of office and took a step forward. “Indeed, you have observed correctly, stranger.”

“Tell me of it.”

“Yonder is Dallán Forgaill, the Chief Poet of Ireland. He tells me that Fothad Airgtheach was slain and buried in Dubhthair Laighean. I questioned his knowledge. The traditions of
my people say that he was slain here at Magh Linne and sleeps in the green hill outside.”

“He affronted my station,” snapped Dallán, “for which it is my right to curse him. I offered not to do so if he can prove his claim and, failing that, if he gives me his
wife. The hour is now up for him to present the proof and so he must give me his wife or accept my curse.”

The tall stranger looked long and thoughtfully at the poet. “Have you never heard the saying, O poet,
ná malluigh do dhuine eagnaí
–
which is ‘never
curse a wise man’? You tell a false history. Fothad Airgtheach was not slain in Dubhthair Laighean, nor, indeed, was he killed in Leinster, nor Munster, nor Connacht nor Meath
–
in none of the kingdoms save in Ulster did he meet his death.”

The old poet looked outraged. In spite of the way the stranger had entered the feasting hall, vanity had claimed the poet again. “Sorrow will overtake you, stranger, for now I shall
include you in my curse for the contradiction which you have placed on me.”

The stranger smiled softly. “I do not think your curse will trouble me, poet,” he said quietly.

Mongán interrupted hastily. “Proof positive is needed.”

The stranger continued to smile. “Was I not summoned for that purpose?” he asked. “I will tell you a story. I was a member of the army of Fionn Mac
Cumhaill. I was of the Fianna.”

Dallán Forgaill intervened with a laugh. “Fionn lived hundreds of years ago! What boastful story is this?”

“Hear me out!” the stranger calmly ordered. “Fionn and our army were campaigning in distant high-hilled Alba, when news reached us of how Fothad Airgtheach had killed his
brother and set himself up as High King. Fionn was angry and he led the army back to Éireann. In the valley of the River Ollarba” (which is now the River Larne in Co. Antrim)
“the Fianna and the warriors of Fothad Airgtheach engaged in battle.

“When the fight was at its fiercest and the blood was flowing on both sides, I saw Fothad Airgtheach standing at the base of a sloping hill, watching to see how the battle went. I found
the shelter of a rock and, taking a stand behind it, I aimed carefully with my spear. It passed through him and its head embedded itself into the soil.”

The stranger held out his spear, the one without a head. “This is the spear, for I was not able to dig out the head during the battle but only retrieved this handle. If you go to that
green hill outside this fortress, you will find the granite rock from whence I cast my spear and you will find the spear-head still embedded in the soil. Nearby you will find a small cairn where
Fothad Airgtheach is buried. It stands a little to the east of where the spear-head is embedded. Underneath the cairn is a stone coffin holding the remains of Fothad Airgtheach; and in it are also
his bracelets of silver and his
muintorc
, his hero’s golden necklace. And on the cairn, in Ogham script, it is written who lies there.”

“What does the inscription say, stranger?” asked Mongán, impressed.

“It is written thus: ‘Fothad Airgtheach is here, who was killed in battle by Caoilte of the Fianna’. We of the Fianna buried him, just as I have described, and it was by us
that his funeral obsequies were performed.”

At this, Dallán Forgaill let out a bark of cynical laughter.
“Do you claim, then, that you are Caoilte? Do you claim that you are hundreds of years old, for
Caoilte was the great warrior of the Fianna and kinsman to Fionn Mac Cumhaill himself? By what marvel do you claim to have survived these centuries?”

The tall warrior turned on him in sorrow. “I have not survived. Nor can any man outlive the earthly bounds. But heroes’ souls are reborn in the Otherworld, where we may sit in the
hall of heroes. I have returned from the House of Donn. Why have I returned? Because we of the Fianna ever loved the truth. From the vales of the Otherworld, we sit and watch the mountains and
valleys of Éireann as through a mist; we are glad in its joys and sorrowful in its grief. When doubt arises as to the past in which we were nurtured, our hearts ache.