The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends (34 page)

So a great battle was fought on that strand. The Tighearna Dubh fought with tremendous strength and ferocity.

It happened that the Tighearna Dubh finally came face to face with Goll, who was Fingal’s best warrior, and they closed on each other with sword and shield. Never had high-hilled Alba seen
such a ferocious combat. Sharp and cunning was the swordplay. Blood stained the sands and it was a mixture of the blood of the Tighearna Dubh and the blood of Goll. It was nearly sundown when the
combat
ceased and then it was because the Tighearna Dubh, growing fatigued, dropped his sword-point a little and gave Goll the chance to make a lightning thrust. The Tighearna
Dubh fell dead on the shore.

No mightier a warrior had ever been overcome in the history of the Feans. When the Dark Lord fell, there was a hush in the air, the whispering waters of the seas fell silent and the wind died
away.

The Princess of the Fomorii turned to all the Feans with her sad smile and thanked each of them.

“I can now return to the land of the Fomorii,” she said, “and return without fear, thanks to the bravery and skill of the Feans. But promise me one thing, before I go: that if
ever I need the help of any of you again, you will come freely and quickly to my aid.”

The Feans all promised and none more ardently than Fingal himself.

A year and a day went by. It transpired that the Feans were once more crossing the Eas-Ruaidh, the Red Cataract, when they saw a boat approaching with one person rowing it.

Oscar shaded his eyes.

“Perhaps it is the Princess of the Fomorii?” he suggested hopefully, for he still wished to prove his valour before such a beautiful maiden.

Fingal shook his head. “There is but a young man in the boat.”

The boat drew swiftly alongside and the young man hailed Fingal without climbing out.

“Who are you?” demanded the leader of the Feans, peering down over the rail.

“I am a messenger from the land of the Fomorii, those who dwell under the waves.”

“What is your message?”

“Muirgen, my Princess, is dying.”

Now there was great sorrowing among the Feans when they heard this news and they immediately set up the
golghàire
, the loud lamentation which is the tradition for the reception of
bad news. But Fingal silenced them with an upraised hand.

“This is a sad message you bring,” he said, addressing the young man. “Is she so ill?”

“She is and ready to die. But she sent me to bid you to remember your promise to help her in time of difficulty.”

“If there is anything we can do,” Fingal assured him, “then it shall be done.”

“You have a healer among the Feans, whose name is Diarmuid Lighiche. Ask him to come with me, so that he may give of his healing to my Princess.”

Now Diarmuid Lighiche was the handsomest of all the Feans, for his father had been none other than the love god Aongus the Ever Young. Aongus had conferred on Diarmuid Lighiche all the knowledge
that he had for the curing of sickness and the healing of wounds. Only Dian Cécht himself, the great god of healing, knew more than Diarmuid Lighiche.

Diarmuid Lighiche was already moving to the young man’s boat, even before Fingal had turned to him. He entered the boat and it sped off towards the sea-cave which is the entrance to the
land of the Fomorii, the dwellers under the waves. On the way, they passed by an island of mosses and Diarmuid knew these to be healing herbs and so, as they passed, he reached a hand out of the
boat to pick them.

He spied patches of
mòinteach
, or red sphagnum, the peat or bog moss. He plucked some of it and moved on and saw another patch where he took some more and then he saw a third clump
and took another handful.

The boatman took Diarmuid straight to the palace of the Princess of the Fomorii. It was a golden castle beneath the waves, filled with courtiers who were all hushed and silent with grief. Among
them was the old King of the Fomorii and his queen. And the queen seized Diarmuid by the hand and led him without a word to her daughter’s bedside.

Muirgen lay on the bed, still like a corpse, with her eyes closed.

Diarmuid knelt by the bed and touched her forehead. So strong was the power of his healing that her eyes flickered open and she recognised him as one of the Feans and smiled her sad smile.

“I behold you with joy, Diarmuid Lighiche. Your touch is a
strength to me, but not strength enough to cure my illness. I am dying.”

“I know your sickness,” Diarmuid assured her. “I knew it the moment I touched your forehead and thereby recognized it. I have brought you three portions of red moss. I must mix
them with three drops of healing water and you shall drink them. They will heal you, for they are the life-giving drops of your heart.”

“Alas!” the princess exclaimed. “Dying though I am, I am under a
toirmeasg
, a sacred prohibition, that I cannot drink anything except from the Cup of Healing which
belongs to the King of the Magh Ionguntas, the Plain of Wonder. Therefore, my friend, I cannot drink the healing potion.”

Now Diarmuid, as knowledgeable as he was, had never heard of this Cup of Healing.

“A wise Druid has told me,” continued the Princess Muirgen, “that if ever I have to drink of the three drops of the red moss of life, I can only do so from this Cup and from
the Healing Water it contains. Yet it is known that no man can ever gain the Cup of Healing from the King of the Plain of Wonder. I am therefore resigned to my fate, Diarmuid. I must
die.”

Diarmuid Lighiche stood up; his face was filled with stern determination. “There is no man nor power in the world above or below or even in the Otherworld that will prevent me finding and
taking that Cup. Tell me where I may find this Plain of Wonder, so that the sooner I may set out and the sooner I may return to you.”

Princess Muirgen sighed gently. “The Plain of Wonder is not far distant, Diarmuid. If you travel westward, when you come to a great river of silver, you will find Magh Ionguntus on the
other side. But, I fear, Diarmuid, you will never be able to cross the river, for that is impossible.”

Diarmuid Lighiche then made some healing spells which would ensure that the Princess of the Fomorii lived until he was able to return. The King and Queen of the Fomorii were anxious at his
going, but bade him a safe journey and speedy return. The courtiers were filled with hope and did their best to help him, but he had to make the journey alone.

He began to travel westward and eventually he came to a great river of silver. It was mighty and wide and Diarmuid looked up and down the shore, trying to find a ford by
which he might cross. But there was no ford, no bridge nor any other means of crossing the turbulent stretch of silver water.

Diarmuid sat on a rock and put his head in his hands and tried to fathom some means of crossing. “Alas, the Princess spoke the truth. I am not able to cross over.”

“Diarmuid, you are right. You are in a mighty pickle.”

He looked up at the sound of a musical voice, and found a little man, clad entirely in brown, standing regarding him with a wry smile.

“That’s the truth of it,” assented Diarmuid, not finding it strange that the little man knew his name.

“What would you give as a reward to anyone who could help you?”

“I would give whatever one wanted, in order that I might save the life of the Princess Muirgen.”

“In that case, I will help you,” offered the little man in brown.

“What is it that you want in return?”

“Only your goodwill.”

“That you may have and gladly,” replied Diarmuid, rather amazed at the easiness of the condition.

“Then I shall carry you across the river.”

Diarmuid smiled wryly. The little man was scarce a foot tall and Diarmuid was over six feet tall.

“That you cannot. You are too small.”

“That I can,” assured the little man. And he made Diarmuid climb on his back and Diarmuid, amazed, found it broad and roomy. Then the little man walked across the river, treading
swiftly as if it were nothing but hard ground. And so they crossed the river and they passed by a curious island. Its centre appeared to be hidden by a dark mist.

“What is the name of that island?” Diarmuid asked.

“That is Inis Bàis, the Island of Death, where there is a well of healing water. But none may land on there without courting death.”

They reached the opposite bank.

“This is the Plain of Wonder,” the little man announced.

“It seems wrong that you have brought me here and asked for no reward,” observed Diarmuid.

“I have. I asked for your goodwill,” replied his companion. “You are on your way to the palace of King Iain, in order to obtain his Cup of Healing.”

“That is true.”

“Then may you obtain it.”

The little brown man turned back to the river and was gone.

Diarmuid continued on westward and found that, although there was no sun shining on the land, it was always bright. Finally, he came to a great castle of silver with crystal spires and roofs.
The doors were closed and locked.

Diarmuid halted outside and called out: “I am Diarmuid Lighiche! Open the door and let me in.”

“It is forbidden!” came a voice.

“Who forbids it?” demanded Diarmuid.

“Myself it is. I am the guardian of the gate.”

“Come forth, and I will fight you for the right to enter.”

The gate swung open and a tall warrior came forth with drawn sword. The warrior was clad from head to foot in blood-red. Now Diarmuid was not simply a healer. As a member of the Feans, he was
also a mighty champion, and he clashed with the guardian of the gate; sparks flew from their meeting weapons. It was but a short contest before the guardian lay stretched dead on the ground.

Then King Iain himself came to the gate, to discover the reason for the noise of combat.

“Who are you, and why have you slain my Red Lord?” he demanded. “He was the most skilled of my champions.”

“I am Diarmuid Lighiche,” replied the young man. “I slew him because he would not let me in.”

“You are welcome here, son of Aongus the Ever Young,” said King Iain with respect. “But there is sorrow on me that you have had to slay my guardian of the gate.”

Diarmuid smiled as a ruse came to his mind. “I am a healer. I hear you possess a Cup of Healing. Why not allow me to give the warrior a drink from it? Surely he will be brought forth
alive.”

King Iain thought for a moment, then nodded, turned and clapped his hands. Servants appeared. “Bring forth the Cup of Healing,” he ordered.

So the cup was brought forth and the king handed it to Diarmuid saying: “There is no virtue in this Cup, unless it is in the hands of a healer.”

Diarmuid touched the slain warrior’s lips with it and poured three drops of water into the man’s mouth. The guardian of the gate sat up and blinked. Then he rose to his feet, with
his wounds entirely healed.

“How may we repay you?” asked King Iain.

“I came to get this Cup to heal the dying Princess of the Fomorii. I can take it by gratitude or by force.”

“Take it with my gratitude then, Diarmuid. I give you the cup freely. But little good it will now do you. You have given the guardian of the gate the three precious healing drops that were
in it. It contains no more and is now useless.”

Diarmuid was annoyed that he had not considered this matter.

“Nevertheless,” he insisted, “I shall take the cup with me.”

“I will send you a boat so that you may return across the silver river,” King Iain offered.

“I stand in no need of a boat,” replied Diarmuid, in anger that he had been so foolish. He felt pride crush his reason.

King Iain laughed kindly. “Then may you soon return.” For he did not believe that anyone could cross the silver river without his boat.

Diarmuid bade the king and his gatekeeper farewell and returned back across the bright plain of Magh Ionguntus. He finally arrived at the edge of the river and once again started to look for a
ford. Then he sat down and his thoughts were gloomy. He had obtained the Cup but spent the precious liquid. Now his pride had caused him to reject the king’s offer and he could not find a
ford over the river.

“Now I shall have to return in shame to King Iain, and even if I cross, this Cup is of little use to the Princess Muirgen.”

“You are in a pickle again, Diarmuid,” said the musical voice of the little man. He was standing looking at Diarmuid, with his head to one side.

“It is true enough,” agreed Diarmuid gloomily.

“Did you get the Cup of Healing?”

“Yes, but the three drops of liquid are gone and now I cannot cross the river. I am twice defeated.”

“Once defeated . . . perhaps,” said the little brown man. “I can carry you back.”

“Then so be it. But what do you wish of me?”

“Just your goodwill.”

Then the little man hoisted Diarmuid on his broad back and began to walk across the silver river but this time, as they neared the Island of Death, surrounded by its grim, dark mist, the little
man went towards it.

“Where are you taking me?” cried Diarmuid, slightly alarmed.

“Do you desire to heal the Princess of the Fomorii?”

“I do.”

“Then you must fill your Cup of Healing with three drops of water. I have already told you where.”

Diarmuid frowned, not understanding.

The little man was quite impatient.

“You must fill it at the Well of Healing on the Island of Death. That is why I am carrying you to the island. However, heed this warning; you must not get off my back nor set foot on the
shore, or else you will never be able to leave that island. Have no fear. I shall take you to the well and kneel there while you dip your Cup into it, and thus you may carry off enough water to
give the three drops to the Princess.”

Now Diarmuid was delighted when he heard what the little brown man had to say. So it was that he was able to obtain a cup of healing water in this manner and the little brown man carried him to
the opposite bank and place him safely in the Land of the Fomorii.

“You have a happy heart in you now, Diarmuid,” observed the little brown man.