The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends (37 page)

Murdo Òg hunted the white-footed hind and finally cornered her but could not reach her. “I wish I had a great hunting dog,” he thought. “Just like the dog I saw all
those years ago.”

No sooner had he wished it than the great dog with whom he had shared meat suddenly appeared and, between them, they captured the hind. But as they did so, it opened its mouth and a black crow
sprang out and flew off.

“Ah, if only I had the help of a falcon,” thought Murdo Òg, “like the falcon I saw all those years ago.”

No sooner had he thought that, than the falcon he had shared meat with also appeared and chased the crow. As it caught her, a trout fell from her mouth into the loch and swam furiously away.

“Ah, if only I had the help of an otter,” he thought, “like the one I saw all those years ago, then it could capture the trout.”

No sooner had he thought that than the otter with whom he had shared meat appeared and was after the trout in a flash, caught it and brought it to the shore of the island where Murdo Òg
waited.

The young man took the egg from the trout’s mouth and put it on the ground, raising his foot ready to stamp on it.

At that moment, the great monster rose from the loch and pleaded with him not to damage the egg.

“Give me back my wife,” demanded Murdo Òg.

At once, Finnseang appeared on the shore by his side.

Without hesitating, Murdo Òg brought his foot down on the egg and the monster gave one shriek and collapsed dead into the waters of the loch.

Murdo Òg and Finnseang went back to Castle Campbell to the great joy of everyone. Murdo Òg had truly become a great chieftain in the land. He and Finnseang lived happily
together.

But one day, after three years had passed, when they were riding around the loch, Murdo Òg noticed a dark castle, set among the gloomy black forest, which he had never seen before.

“Who dwells there, Finnseang?” he demanded.

“Leave well alone. It is forbidden to go near it. No one has ever come back who has entered there.”

Murdo Òg said nothing and they continued on their way. But if Murdo Òg had a fault, it was a great curiosity. That evening, pretending to go out hunting, he rode back towards the
gloomy castle.

At the door of the castle sat a crone, a little old woman, who greeted him pleasantly enough.

“Who lives here?” he demanded.

“Why, someone you’ll be happy to meet, young sir,” replied the crone. “Come away inside.”

Murdo Òg climbed down off his horse and went inside.

No sooner had he entered the castle than she came up behind him and struck him on the head with a club.

He fell to the ground.

At the house of Murdo Sean, the fisherman of Inverary, the old man was looking out on his garden.

“Save us!” he cried. For he saw one of his three oak trees suddenly wither and die. “That can only mean my first-born son, Murdo Òg, is dead.”

“How can that be, father?” demanded Lachlan, who was his second-born son.

Murdo Sean pointed to the withered tree

“The sea-maid said it would be a sign. Whenever one of the trees withers, it means one of my sons has died. Since you and your brother are here, it can only mean Murdo
Òg is dead.”

“I will go in search of him and discover the truth of it,” Lachlan announced, for he was as brave as his brother.

He saddled the second-born horse of his father’s old mare and took the second-born dog of his father’s old bitch dog and he set out. Finally he came to Campbell’s castle and
found it in mourning. On telling Finnseang who he was, she told him all she knew, and about the terrible dark castle in the woods. She warned him, as did her father, Campbell, but Lachlan was as
warlike as his name and rode forth to the castle. Nothing would prevent him from going there. He had to see whether his brother was dead or not.

He came to the castle and saw the crone sitting by the gate.

“Who lives here, old woman?” he demanded

“Someone you’ll be pleased to meet with, young sir,” wheezed the old crone. “Come away in.”

Lachlan entered the gate and, no sooner had he done so, than the crone slunk up behind and fetched him a hefty blow with her cudgel. He fell to the floor.

In Murdo Sean’s garden, a second tree suddenly withered.

“Ah, ah,” cried old Murdo Sean, “I played the sea-maid a grievous trick and now she punishes me. My second-born son, Lachlan, is dead.”

“How do you know this, father?” demanded Aonghus, his third and youngest boy.

His father told him.

“Well, I must go in search of them and see for myself,” he declared, for he was as brave as his brothers.

In spite of his old father’s pleading, Aonghus saddled the third-born horse of his father’s old mare and took the third-born dog of his father’s old bitch dog and set forth.
Eventually he came to the castle of Campbell, where he found great mourning and lamentation. When he told them who he was, Finnseang told him what had befallen her husband and his brother: that
they had disappeared into the evil castle of gloom and had not returned.

Aonghus immediately set forth, in spite of all their pleadings for him not to chance his own life.

He reached the gates of the castle and saw the crone seated outside.

“Whose castle is this, old woman?” he demanded.

“Someone you’ll be pleased to meet with, young sir. Come away in.”

“I will do so, but you will proceed me,” said Aonghus, who was a careful boy.

The old woman turned and began to hobble forward. Then the third-born dog sprang at her, but she had her cudgel in her hand and clubbed its head so that it fell at her feet.

Aonghus drew his sword and, with one swift cut, he took off the old crone’s head. But she turned and seized it as it fell, so that it did not touch the ground. Then she stuck it back on
her head.

But before she had recovered, the third-born horse reared up and struck out with flaying hooves and one hoof kicked the cudgel from her hand. It spun through the air and landed in the hand of
Aonghus who, no sooner had he felt its magical properties, than he thrashed out with it, and hit her over the head. She fell onto the ground.

He began to search the castle and in the stables he found his brother’s two black horses and two black dogs. Not long after, he discovered his brother Lachlan lying dead in one room and
his brother Murdo Òg lying dead in another. He went to each of them and touched them with the cudgel. Whereupon they awoke, as if from a deep sleep, and were delighted to see each other once
more.

They began to explore the castle and found an old man there.

“Do not harm me, sires,” he cried.

“I recognise you,” cried Murdo Òg. “You are the old man who told me how I could kill the three-headed monster of the loch. And you must be the same who told Finnseang
how to save me from the monster.”

“I am, sir. I am.”

“Then what are you doing in this castle?”

“I am only the unwilling prisoner of its owner. I am her
servant and have had to serve her unwillingly for many a long century.”

“The crone with the cudgel?” demanded Murdo Òg.

“None other than the sea-maid,” replied the old man.

“The sea-maid?” cried the brothers, astounded.

The old man took them to where the crone lay on the floor. When they examined the corpse of the old woman, they found that she was none other than the sea-maid. This was her gloomy sea-shore
castle. Further, the old man told them that the mean giants whom Murdo Òg had killed, Athach and Famhair, had been the sea-maid’s foster sons, the two children that she had taken below
the depths to nurture instead of Murdo Òg, when his father had pretended that he had forgotten the day on which he was to be handed over.

Finally, the three-headed loch monster was the sea-maid’s special pet.

Each time she had sought to take revenge on Murdo Òg, because his father had not handed him over to her when he was a boy, Murdo Òg had been able to thwart her. Eventually she had
overcome him as well as his second brother but three, being a pure number, had bested her in the end.

There was great rejoicing at Campbell’s castle. No more rejoicing was there anywhere than between Murdo Òg and his wife Finnseang.

Lachlan and Aonghus were given high positions at the castle, becoming the foremost champions of the chief, Campbell “Crooked Mouth”. Their father, Murdo Sean, and his wife and his
animals were brought there and lived their lives in peace and prosperity.

When Campbell “Crooked Mouth” finally died, the
derbhfhine
of his family took the unusual step of acclaiming Murdo Òg as The Campbell, chieftain of the glens of Argyll,
which means “the seaboard of the Gael” –
Airer-Ghàidheal.

Beware, then, of the sea-maid, and make sure that you know the difference between a sea-maid and a mermaid, for they are dissimilar. A sea-maid may put you to the test, as she did Murdo Sean and
his sons. So beware; at least they were found worthy. But not everyone may be so lucky.

17 Conall Cròg Buidhe

T
here was once a warrior who lived on Airer Ghàidheal, “the seaboard of the Gael”, which some now call Argyll. His name was
Conall Cròg Buidhe, which means “Conall of the Large Yellow Hand”. Conall was not only a warrior of some renown, but he was known to be one of the best storytellers of the Feans,
the warrior élite of the kingdom of high-hilled Alba.

Conall had three sons, who had just reached the age of choice. But they were unruly lads and needed more discipline than Conall had ever given them for Conall, it may be said, was often away at
sea or engaged in wars. So his sons were sometimes lacking in sobriety and were impetuous of spirit: too fond of feasting and drinking.

It happened that, one day, Conall’s three sons, after one particular feasting where the wine had circled much too freely, met with the three sons of the King of Fótla, in whose
kingdom Airer Ghàidheal lay, and a joking remark led to an argument, and the argument led to a fight, and the fight led to the King of Fótla’s eldest son being stretched on the
ground, dead.

Conall Cròg Buidhe was summoned to the king’s fortress at Dun Cheailleann and the king was bitter in his anger. But the King of Fótla was a wise man and a just one. He
finally said:

“I do not wish vengeance on you, nor on your sons, for the death of my fine, brave lad. Vengeance does not profit anyone. So I will set the terms for the compensation which you must give
me for my loss.”

Conall bowed his head in submission, for compensation was the basis of the law system under which all men lived. “I will pay whatever fine you place on me, my
King.”

“Then hear this. I will not pursue vengeance nor demand the souls of your three boys, if you will go to the land of the King of Lochlann and bring me back his famous brown
horse.”

The
Each Donn,
or Brown Horse, of the King of Lochlann was without peer and it had never lost a race. But the King of Lochlann was much attached to it. So, Conall reasoned, it would be no
easy task, for he doubted it could be taken, except by war.

“Difficult is this request which you demand, my King,” admitted Conall. “But you are fair and, rather than bring shame and dishonour on my house, I am prepared to lose my own
life and the life of my three sturdy boys in the pursuit of this matter.”

“That is well spoken,” agreed the King. “For that, you may take your three sons with you to help you. But if you or they do not return with the horse and remain alive
thereafter, my vengeance shall seek you out, no matter what corner of the world you attempt to hide in.”

“That is understood,” Conall said.

He returned home with his contrite sons to say farewell to his wife. She was very perturbed when she heard the demands the King of Fótla had made.

“Better to have accepted punishment than accept this quest, my lord,” she told him. “It means that I will never see you again in this world.”

Conall was much troubled, for he knew that the task was arduous.

The next morning, he and his sons fitted out their warship and set sail for Lochlann, the land of fjords and lochs to the north-east. The ship ploughed the grey leaping waves, whose foam-edged
lips threatened to engulf them. At no time did Conall shorten his sail, so that his course was straight and true through the formidable sea towards the shore of Lochlann. His sons sat remorseful in
the stern while Conall, without a word, stood in the bow, resigned to whatever fate the gods would bring.

Ashore in Lochlann, Conall asked a passer-by to direct them to the fortress of the king and point out where he might find the
tigh-òsda
, the tavern. At this
tavern, Conall asked the innkeeper if he had any rooms, for he and his sons needed rest that night. They were the only guests.

Over wine that evening, Conall grew confidential with the innkeeper who, being curious – as innkeepers are about their guests – wondered what they were doing in Lochlann.

Conall told him that he and his sons had fallen out with the King of Fòtla and, indeed, one of his sons had killed the king’s son. Nothing would please the King of Fòtla more
than if he and his sons would bring back the fabulous
Each Donn,
the brown horse of the King of Lochlann.

“Perhaps you could tell me where I might find the
Each Donn
and whether I might purchase him from the King of Lochlann? You would be well paid for such a service.”

The innkeeper roared with laughter. “Though I am sorry for the trouble that you find yourself in, stranger, you have come here to seek a thing impossible. The King of Lochlann will never
sell his brown horse, and the only way it will be taken from him is by stealth. I will pretend that I have not heard what you said . . . provided I am compensated for my deafness.”

In annoyance, Conall had to pay the man three pieces of gold in order that he did not go to the King of Lochlann and tell him.

Conall went out the next morning and he fell in with the King of Lochlann’s miller. Now it turned out that the miller was a greedy man and, after Conall and he had talked a while, Conall
said: “For five pieces of gold, I would put to you a proposition. Every day you and your servants take sacks of bran to the King of Lochlann’s stable for the feeding of his
horses.”