The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends (41 page)

The magic of the Kelpie’s tear had been dissolved within her breast, once she saw the
Eich-Uisge
for what he truly was. She knew that her love was impossible
and that this world and the Otherworld could not be as one.

It was now that she truly realized the fate of all the young men she had grown up with and there was sadness upon her. For some days she sat wondering about them, for the story of how they were
carried off by the Kelpie had spread from mouth to mouth, making the grief the harder to bear among the womenfolk of the islands.

Each day she heard the Kelpie calling her, but she was no longer its slave.

Then came the day when Dianaimh decided to challenge the Kelpie and demand to know the fate of the young men. So she answered the call of the Kelpie and went down to the sea-shore, where once
they had been lovers. He stood there, in human form, as strong and handsome as ever he had been.

“I am glad you came, my love. I have been crying for you, these last few days. See, the tears lie on my cheeks. Wipe them away for me, please . . .”

Dianaimh stood with hands on hips. “I know your tricks, horse of the seas.”

His sea-green eyes were bright. “I need your love, mortal maiden. I need your love and that of no other.”

Dianaimh found her soul longed for the cool, strong magic of the handsome man-horse. “If you love me,
Eich-Uisge,
then you must give me a gift.”

“What gift would that be, Dianaimh?”

“The gift of the safe return of the chieftains’ sons.”

The Kelpie let out a long, low sigh. “You will not ask me in vain, loving Dianaimh,” he said softly. “Though you scorn me, I shall grant you this. Look for them on the eve when
this world and the Otherworld meet.”

Then suddenly a beautiful white horse stood in his place and it reared on its hind legs, as if to strike the air with its forelegs. It turned and galloped down the sandy shore and across the
waves of the ocean until it was gone towards the setting sun.

“May you find love and peace, Kelpie,” Dianaimh sighed softly after it.

Now, as we have said before, Donall, the shield-bearer, was in love with Faoinèis, who was Dianaimh’s cousin. She was by nature a vain person, and vanity had been the very name that
her father had given her. She was staying with Dianiamh at this time. She paid little heed to Donall, for she loved to flirt and dance with as many young men as pleased her. She was proud and
fickle and her attitude to young men was as a hawk to its prey for, like it, she made to ensnare them, biting deep with talons that held, and then letting go so that they fell lifeless to the earth
while she flew on her way.

Donall was much saddened by this behaviour and Dianaimh was saddened by her friend’s sorrow. Especially as she understood what sorrow in love was. She and Donall had grown up together, as
well as the fact that Donall had served her brother. She felt Donall was as much her brother as her real brother.

Now the feast of the god Samhuinn drew near. This was the great feast which marked the beginning of the New Year, the period of blackness. For it was written by the ancient ones that blackness
comes before the light, that chaos precedes order, that death comes before rebirth.

One evening, shortly before the festival of Samhuinn, Dianaimh said to Faoinèis: “Donall loves you very much.”

Faoinèis smiled smugly. “Many men love me,” she replied and she was complacent in her vanity.

“Would it not be better to answer his plea that you may be married, so that you make a good start in this new year coming?”

“Silly, there is lots of time to consider that. Meanwhile, there are men enough that take my fancy. I am in no hurry to wed. I shall wait until a great king comes wooing me, for I am too
fair to be wed to a minor king, or prince or chieftain, let alone a lowly shield-bearer such as Donall.”

On the day before the great Samhuinn Féis, the festival of the new year, which started at sunset and went through until the dawn, for the people counted their days from sunset to sunset,
Donall asked Faoinèis if she would marry him and she
dismissed him with the same laugh that she had given to her cousin Dianaimh.

“I wait for a great king to come wooing me. I could never be content to marry a lowly shield-bearer such as you.”

And the festival approached.

At sunset, the Kelpie stirred in his cold palace beneath the whirling waters of the
coire-bhreacain
, that is called today Corrievreckan, the Jura-Scarba whirlpool. He went and sat in his
high-backed coral chair and looked out on his deep domain. And there Ròn Ghlas Mòr, the Great Grey Seal, came to his side. Ròn Ghlas Mòr was the Kelpie’s closest
friend and companion through all the aeons of time, for they were both of the wild seal-folk. He knew the Kelpie’s thoughts as he knew his own and he also knew what was happening within and
between the two worlds.

“Tonight is the Samhuinn Féis,” he ventured.

“This I know,” sighed the Kelpie.

“You are still weak for the love of Dianaimh.”

“This I also know.”

“There is love in her for you, in spite of all that has passed. Yet, I fear, it was a wrong choice that you made. She is not like her cousin, Faoinèis the Vain. Faoinèis
drains the love of men and leaves them without strength. It would have been a better thing to have dropped your tears on her breast, for she would have no soul to challenge your love.”

“It would have been the love of a lifeless statue,” pointed out the Kelpie.

Then Ròn Ghlas Mòr clapped his hands and the mermaids and mermen came rushing from the depths to inquire what task was needed. They gathered round the Kelpie, seated on his coral
throne, and arranged his silken moon-gold hair, and put on him his kilt and cloak of parti-coloured greens and his gold and silver jewels.

Then the Kelpie stood up. “Tonight we will release the young men of the islands, as I have promised Dianaimh. In return, I shall bring Faoinèis back here as my mortal
serving-maid.”

Ròn Ghlas Mòr smiled thinly. “No great exchange in that, but perhaps she will learn wisdom and you will bring warmth to that cold heart of hers.”

Then the Kelpie asked the mermaids and mermen to bring him his
Falluinn na Mhuir-Bhàis
, the Cloak of Sea-Death. Also, he asked for his
Claidheamh Anam,
his soul-sword, which could cut into the hardest heart and penetrate the deepest soul without shedding one drop of blood.

Then the Kelpie sped away to the mortal world above the waves.

It was now the start of the Samhuinn Féis. Donall knew that he was soon to start his journey to the Otherworld but his heart was sick for the love of Faoinèis. Already the pipers
and fiddlers were playing and the women making their ancient
puirt-a-bheul
or mouth music. Already the dancers were skirling around the hall and the fires crackled beneath the roasting
joints of meat.

So Donall went to where Faoinèis was standing, next to the daughter of the King of Sgìtheanach. “I must leave soon; before I do so, give me one dance. This one dance alone is
all I can give you.”

Faoinèis, seeing no one more handsome in the room at that moment, turned her ready smile on Donall and pouted innocently.

“I will give you this dance, Donall, but it is bad manners, I am thinking, to quit this feasting and leave me here alone.”

They had scarcely taken the floor when the door burst open and in strode a handsome young man, looking more kingly than even the High King of Scotland, who dwelt at Sgàin. He crossed the
floor to where Donall and Faoinèis were dancing, forcing them to halt. Ignoring Donall, he bowed low to Faoinèis, who blushed prettily and returned his salutation.

“Dance with me, sweet maiden. Dance with me, for I have never seen a maid so beautiful in all the kingdoms over which I am lord.”

Straightaway, Faoinèis went into the arms of the stranger, leaving Donall with anger on his brow.

Dianaimh came hurrying to Donall’s side.

“Dearest Donall, do not be angry with her. She is but following her nature, and that nature you cannot change. And be warned . . . that foolish girl is dancing with no mortal.”

They watched Faoinèis and her companion dancing. As they danced, the handsome Kelpie was smiling down at the vain girl.

“You are so beautiful that my heart stops its beating, every time I look at you.”

Faoinèis smiled contentedly, for she was used to young men making such silly utterances. But, at least, this young man was a powerful king and she had promised that one day she would
marry such a man; and then she would have riches and power over as many men as she liked.

“Will you wed me, maid, that I might rest content?”

Now Faoinèis’ heart surged in joy at such an easy conquest, but she was not without cunning.

“How could I tell so soon what my answer would be?”

The Kelpie laughed good-naturedly. “Then I will be content to wait for an answer
–
but only until midnight, when I must start my journey back to my own kingdom.”

“At midnight? As soon as that?”

“I will meet you on the sandy sea-shore below this castle and, at the zenith of the moon, you shall give me your answer.”

Then, having completed the dance, the Kelpie bowed low, kissed her hand and withdrew.

Faoinèis was beside herself with joy at the prospect and she returned to where Donall was standing, his brow furrowed angrily, and with Dianaimh at his side.

“Still here?” she greeted him rudely. “I thought you had to leave after this dance?”

“That I do,” replied Donall seriously. “But I have remained to save you from a fate no mortal can endure.”

Faoinèis laughed heartily. “How dramatic you sound, Donall. Can it be that you are jealous of that handsome king?”

“Handsome king?” snapped Donall. “He is the evil spirit who has taken the souls of our companions
–
he is none other than the Kelpie!”

Now Faoinèis sneered at the young man. “Jealousy was written on your brow, little shield-bearer, but to come forth with such lies is beyond belief. Still, many a young man would
lie, to have me smile on them. That I know.”

“He tells you the truth, Faoinèis,” interrupted Dianaimh. “That is indeed the Kelpie, and well I know it.”

“You are like peas in a pod, both liars,” sneered the girl. “You shall not spoil my happiness with such ridiculous stories. Here is the king that I one day knew I would
marry.” She turned and flounced off.

At the full of the moon Faoinèis went down by the seashore and there stood the proud, handsome king.

“I knew that you would come.”

“I have given your plea some thought, my lord and, though there be many who desire me for a wife, I shall accept your offer.”

The handsome king disconcerted her by laughing. “I knew you would accept.”

Then he drew her towards him. From his pocket he took a ring of strange coral and placed it on her finger. “Now you are mine forever.”

His words sounded like a bell tolling a death-knell, causing her to give an involuntary shiver. But the uncomfortable sensation lasted only a moment, for she was a very vain girl. He took her
hand and suddenly she found herself on the back of a broad cold white horse, and from this horse came the sound of the Kelpie’s laughter, sounding like the icy waters of a winter stream
gushing over the stones.

She could not recover breath before the horse was dancing away across the dark waves of the ocean. All around her, she could hear strange sounds, as if all animal creation had joined together in
a death dirge. She clung on for dear life and soon they were above the angry, boiling Corrievreckan. Straight into it plunged the Kelpie, with Faoinèis screaming on his back. Her cries were
eventually lost in the sound of the briny whirling depths and drowned in the torrent of the primeval seas.

At that moment Donall had joined Dall, the Blind One, as he stood on the castle walls overlooking the seas. Around the Blind One stood the ring of silent kings and chieftains of all the islands,
who had lost sons to the Kelpie. Dall raised his voice in a chanting wail. Then he stopped still and bowed his head.

“My magic is done. Come forth, you sons of chieftains, come forth from the sea! I command it.”

The Kelpie had returned to his coral throne and gazed in amusement at Ròn Ghlas Mòr. “It is done and time to keep my word to Dianaimh.”

“Shall I release the human souls?”

“You shall,” agreed the Kelpie, for his word was sacred.

The Corrievreckan began to whirl; the waves thundered shoreward, pounding the rocky coasts; and sea birds shrieked and flew for cover. Thunder and lightning rent the dark skies. Then a wave
greater than all the rest suddenly spewed itself on the shore below the great castle of the King of Sgìtheanach and there, sprawled on the shore, were the sons of the kings and chieftains of
the islands, safe and sound.

Watching below, for the Otherworld has means of seeing what transpires in this world, the Kelpie laughed, a genuine deep laugh. “Dall will now go down in tradition as a great
magician.”

Ròn Ghlas Mòr smiled in agreement. “He had little enough knowledge to save the chieftains’ sons.”

“Indeed he did. Let the credit be his. We of the Otherworld do not break our word.”

“And Dianaimh was . . .”

“Was mine and now is lost to me, but out of the love that once we shared, my word was made absolute.”

It happened as the Kelpie foretold. Dall, the Blind One, was fêted at the courts of all the chieftains; the King of Sgìtheanach gave him a fine castle at Dùn Bheagain and
enough money to keep him happy all his days. As for Donall, as he had refused to give in when lesser men might have done so, he could no longer be simply a shield-bearer to the son of the King of
Sgìtheanach. So the king made him Lord of Rathar-sair and showered gifts on him, as did the other chieftains.

After a while, when he was out walking with Dianaimh, Donall turned and suggested they marry. There was no passion, no lustful desire between them, but they realised that they cared for each
other so much that nurturing, cherishing, comforting and sustaining was more important than anything else. So Dianaimh and Donall were married
and there was great rejoicing
throughout all the western islands.