The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends (32 page)

However, Dr Samuel Johnson denounced it as “a literary fraud”.

MacPherson had claimed the work to be translations of surviving Celtic epics. Johnson claimed that no such epics ever existed and MacPherson had made up the whole thing. Even today, you will
find MacPherson denounced as a literary forger.

I feel this is unfair. When the Highland Society of Scotland set up a special committee to investigate the charges of MacPherson’s critics, and it reported back in
1805, the work was declared to represent a genuine tradition, even though MacPherson had probably not merely translated from oral tradition, rather than written sources, but embellished and retold
the stories. To fill out the plots and adapt the text is the lot of anyone engaged in retelling folktales. Indeed, what was wrong with that?

Furthermore, it might well be that MacPherson had access to some genuine Gaelic manuscripts which became lost or destroyed. Both during the Scottish Reformation and certainly after the
suppression of the various Scottish Jacobite uprisings, many manuscripts and books in Gaelic were destroyed. Edward Lhuyd (c.1660–1709), the Celtic scholar, in a research trip to Scotland in
1699 actually catalogued a library of books in Scottish Gaelic; the catalogue survived but the library was destroyed.

From the ninth century
Book of Deer
, with its Scottish Gaelic notations, and one eleventh-century poem, we have a surprising gap until we reach the Islay Charter of 1408. The Charter not
only demonstrates a sophisticated literary medium, the obvious product of a long tradition of literary endeavour, but it also proves that Scottish Gaelic was being used as a medium of legal
administration. Then we have the
Book of the Dean of Lismore
leading to the first printed Scottish Gaelic book, Bishop John Carswell’s
Form na h-Ordaigh
(1567).

There is no reason, therefore, why MacPherson’s source material could not have existed, as Dr Johnson maintained.

Nevertheless, the literary argument has continued to this day and poor MacPherson is branded with the unjustifiable label of being a forger. If he is a forger, I, too, am a forger, because I
have adapted and retold these stories just as he apparently did.

The following stories appear in many variant versions in Scotland; indeed, some of them have Irish and Manx equivalents. The story
Geal, Donn and Critheanach
is also found in Donegal,
with a shorter variant of the tale collected in Seamas MacManus’
Donegal Fairy Tales
of 1900.

Perhaps the starting place for students of these tales is the work of John Francis Campbell (1822–95), a Gaelic folklorist who was known in his native Islay as
“Iain Òg Ile”. His
Popular Tales of the West Highlands
(1860–2) and his work on Fingal (the Scottish Gaelic equivalent of Fionn Mac Cumhaill), which was published as
Leabhar na Fèinne
(1872), are the tip of the literary mountain he left. His huge collections of stories were deposited in the National Library of Scotland and in the Dewar MSS
collection in Inverary Castle. In 1940 and 1960 further collections were published from this repository, but much still remains there.

Throughout the nineteenth century, there was much done by way of collecting folktales by industrious workers in both Scottish Gaelic and in English.
Folklore of the Scottish Lochs and
Springs
by James M. MacKinlay (1893) was an important study, as well as George Henderson’s
Survival in Belief among the Celts
, Maclehose, Glasgow, 1911.

However, the most important worker in recording Celtic Scotland was William Forbes Skene (1809–1892), who emerged into the field editing what was then the oldest source of Scottish history
as
Chronicles of the Picts and Scots
(1867). In 1868 he published
Four Ancient Books of Wales
, a two-volume study of Middle Welsh poetry. He then produced his chief work, and a most
important one for Scotland – the three-volume
Celtic Scotland: A History of Ancient Alban
(1876–1880). Next to this stands another classic, which is Alexander Carmichael’s
Carmina Gadelica
(Vols I and II, 1928; Vol III, 1940; Vol IV, 1941 and Vol V, 1954). There is still unpublished Carmichael material in Edinburgh University.

It is from these sources that I have drawn on the basis of the following retellings. Sometimes, one has had to cross-reference the stories with Middle Irish texts. For example
The Shadowy
One
, a story of Scáthach of Skye, borrows from references to her in the ninth-century text
Aided Oenfir Aife
(Death of Aoife’s Only Son), given in A.G. van Hamel’s
Compert Con Culainn
, Dublin, 1933.

I would, however, like to pay a tribute to my friend as well as colleague, the late Seumas Mac a’ Ghobhainn (1930–87),
the historian and author, whose work on
behalf of the Scottish Gaelic language, its culture and history is well known. Seumas and I went on one highly interesting trip through Scotland in 1970 and it was then that I began to make some
notes on the Scottish variations of Gaelic legend and folklore. Seumas often advised me on my material. His guiding hand is sadly missed. He had an uncanny ability to make the stories leap out of
the printed sources into a modern reality.
A chuid de fhlaitheannas dha!

14 The Shadowy One

“A
young boy is approaching the gate, Scáthach,” announced Cochar Croibhe, the gatekeeper of Dún Scaith, whose great
fortifications rose on the Island of Shadows in Alba, an island which today is still called the Island of Scáthach or Skye.

“A boy?” Scáthach was a tall woman, of pleasing figure and long fiery red hair. A closer look at her form showed her well-toned muscles. The easiness of her gait belied a body
so well trained that, in a moment the great sword, which hung from her slender waist, would be in her hand – and that sword was not for ornament. Indeed, Scáthach was acclaimed one of
the greatest warriors in all the world. No one had ever bested her in combat, which was why all the warriors who had ambition to be champions were sent to her academy, where she taught them the
martial arts. Her school was famous in every land.

Cochar Croibhe, the gatekeeper, was himself a warrior of no mean abilities, for such he had to be in order to guard the gates of Dún Scaith. He shrugged.

“A boy,” he confirmed, “but accoutred as a warrior.”

“Does he come alone?”

“He is quite alone, Scáthach.”

“A talented boy, then,” mused Scáthach, “for such he would have to be, to reach this place by himself.”

Cochar Croibhe conceded the fact after some thought. After all, Scáthach’s military academy lay on the Island of Shadows; to reach it, one had to pass through black forests
and desert plains. There was the Plain of Ill-Luck, for example, which could not be crossed without sinking into bottomless bogs, for it was one great quagmire. There was the Perilous
Glen, which was filled with countless ravenous beasts.

It was with curiosity that Scáthach mounted the battlements of her fortress to view the approach of the boy. She decided that Cochar Croibhe did not lie, but the youth was more than a
mere boy. He was short, muscular and handsome, and he carried his weapons as a veteran used to arms.

“He may have crossed the Plain of Ill-Luck and the Perilous Glen,” sneered Cochar Croibhe, at her side, “but he still has to cross the Bridge of Leaps.”

Now Scáthach’s island, the Island of Shadows, was separated from the mainland by a deep gorge through which tempestuous, boiling seas flooded. And the sea was filled with ravenous
creatures of the sea. The only way across was by a high bridge, which led to the gate of her fortress.

The point of this bridge was that it had been constructed by a god in a time before time. When one man stepped upon one end of this bridge, the middle would rise up and throw him off, and if he
leapt into the centre, then it would do likewise, so that he might be flung into the forge to the waiting creatures of the deep. Only Scáthach knew the secret of the safe crossing, and only
when her pupils had graduated from her academy and sworn a sacred oath of friendship did she reveal the secret to them.

As Scáthach watched, the youth trotted up to the end of the bridge. She smiled and turned to Cochar Croibhe. “We will wait to see if he can overcome this obstacle, to assess his
worthiness.”

They waited. The youth came and examined the bridge and then, to their surprise, he sat down on the far shore and built a fire, where he rested.

“He cannot cross,” chuckled Cochar Croibhe. “He waits for us to go out and show him the way.”

Scáthach shook her head. “Not so. I think he does but rest from his long journey here; when his strength is recovered, he will attempt the crossing.”

Sure enough, when the grey mists of evening were approaching, the youth suddenly stood up. He walked back a distance and made a run at the bridge. As soon as his foot
touched the end of it, it rose up and flung him backwards. He landed without dignity on his back on the ground. Cochar Croibhe laughed sourly.

“He is not finished yet,” smiled Scáthach. “Look.”

The youth tried once more, and again he was flung off the bridge but thankfully not into the foaming waters below. A third time he tried, and with the same result. Then the youth stood for a
while in thought. They saw him walk back a distance and run for the bridge.

“My best sword as a wager that he will be thrown into the sea this time,” cried Cochar Croibhe eagerly.

“Done! My best shield will answer your wager,” cried Scáthach in reply.

With the fourth leap, the youth landed on the centre of the bridge. In a fraction of a second, it started to rise but the youth had made a further leap and was safely across and at the gates of
Dún Scaith, demanding entrance.

“Let us go down and admit this young man, for his courage and vigour has won him a place in this academy, whatever his name and station.”

Grumbling at the loss of his best sword, Cochar Croibhe went and brought the youth in and escorted him into the presence of Scáthach.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“I am named Setanta, and I am from the kingdom of Ulaidh.”

Scáthach’s eyes widened as she gazed on the handsome, muscular youth. “I have heard that a youth named Setanta, coming late to a feast at the fortress of Cullan, was
confronted by a ferocious hound, which Cullan, thinking his guests were all in the fortress, had loosed to guard the place. This hound was so strong that Cullan had no fear of attack, save only if
an entire army marched on his fortress. The story I heard was that when this youth was attacked by the hound, he killed it. And while the warriors of Ulaidh were amazed by the feat, Cullan was
sorrowful that his faithful hound had
died for the safety of his house. The youth Setanta then offered to guard Cullan’s house until such time as a hound whelp had been
trained to take its sire’s place. So Setanta became Cullan’s hound – Cúchullain.”

“I am that Setanta, the hound of Cullan,” replied the youth solemnly.

“Then you are thrice welcome, Cúchullain.”

Cochar Croibhe glowered in the background, for jealousy was in his soul.

It happened that Scáthach had a beautiful daughter and her name was Uathach, which means “spectre”. It was Uathach’s duty to serve at the table when the students of her
mother’s academy were having their evening meal. One evening, therefore, when Uathach was serving meat, she came to the young man Setanta. She held out the dish of meat to him and he took
it.

Their eyes met and, through their eyes, their souls found attraction.

In this moment, Setanta forgot his strength and, in taking the dish of meat from the girl’s hands, his hand closed upon hers and her finger broke in his grasp.

Uathach let out a scream of anguish.

Setanta dropped to his knees before her and asked for her forgiveness. This the girl, in spite of her pain, willingly gave.

But Cochar Croibhe, the jealous doorkeeper, who had already cause to dislike the young man, came running into the feasting hall in answer to the girl’s cry. Now it was known that Cochar
Croibhe coveted Uathach, and his amorous suit had twice been rejected by her, in spite of the fact that he was acclaimed the bravest champion at Dún Scaith . . . with the exception of
Scáthach, of course.

Straightaway he challenged Setanta to single combat, as reparation for the injury.

Uathach protested that she had already forgiven the young man, but Cochar Croibhe grew insulting and spoke of a boy hiding behind the apron of a girl.

Setanta stood quietly, for he was not one to lose his temper without just cause.

Osmiach, the physician, having heard Uathach’s scream,
came into the feasting hall and set the girl’s finger and applied pain-killing poultices.

All the while Cochar Croibhe, in spite of Uathach’s protests, taunted young Setanta. Finally, he pointed out that everyone knew that Setanta had no father, for was it not common knowledge
that his mother, Dectera, had vanished one day from the court of Conchobhar Mac Nessa and then reappeared with the boy child, which she named Setanta?

Now this was true, for Dectera had been beloved of none other than the great god Lugh Lámhfada, and the child was Lugh’s gift to Ulaidh. But Setanta could not bear to hear his
mother so insulted.

“Choose your weapons,” he finally snapped at Cochar Croibhe, who was a master of all weapons, but was incomparable with the spear or javelin.

“Javelin and buckler!”

And with that the two went out into the courtyard of Dún Scaith.

Scáthach had the power to stop the fight but she did not. “We shall see,” mused Scáthach to herself, watching from a window. “If Setanta bests Cochar Croibhe in
combat, then it will mean that I am right to have accepted him, for he will become the greatest champion of Ulaidh.”

And the combat commenced.

Cochar Croibhe came running forward, buckler before him, javelin held high.

Setanta merely stood there, watching his coming with a frown. He did not even raise his buckler to defend himself. Yet his muscles tightened on his javelin and moved it back into position. Then
Cochar Croibhe halted in his run, halted a split second, dropped his buckler and held back his arm for the throw. At that point, Setanta loosed his own javelin. So fast and so swiftly did it cleave
the air that it transfixed Cochar Croibhe before he had time to cast his own spear. Spear and buckler dropped from his grasp and he sank on his knees, staring in horrified surprise. Then he
collapsed on his side.