The White Goddess (101 page)

Read The White Goddess Online

Authors: Robert Graves

Tags: #Non-Fiction, #Mythology, #Literature, #20th Century, #Britain, #Literary Studies, #Amazon.com, #Mysticism, #Retail

BOOK: The White Goddess
3.97Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Suibne had a friend, Loingseachan, who constantly went in pursuit, trying to catch and cure him. Loingseachan succeeded in this on three occasions, but Suibne always relapsed: a fury known as ‘the Hag of the Mill’, would soon tempt him to renew his frantic leaps. During a lucid interval after seven years of madness, Suibne visited Éorann, who was being forced to marry his successor the new king – and one most moving dramatic poem records their conversation:

SUIBNE
‘At
ease
you
are,
bright
Éorann,

Bound
bedward
to
your
lover;

It is not so with Suibne here –

Long has he wandered footloose

 

‘Lightly
once,
great
Éorann,

You
whispered
words
that
pleased
me.

“I
could
not
live
,” you
said,
“were
I

Parted
one
day
from
Suibne.

 

 

‘Now
it
is
clear
and
daylight
clear,

How
small
your
care
for
Suibne;

You
lie
warm
on
a
good
down
bed,

He
starves
for
cold
till
sunrise.

 

ÉORANN
‘Welcome,
my
guileless
madman,

Dearest
of
humankind!

Though
soft
I
lie,
my
body
wastes

Since
the
day
of
your
downfall.

 

 

SUIBNE
‘More
welcome
than
I,
that
prince

Who
escorts
you
to
the
banquet.

He
is
your
chosen
gallant;

Your
old
love
you
neglect.

 

ÉORANN
Though
a
prince
may
now
escort
me

To
the
carefree
banquet-hall,

I
had
liefer
sleep
in
a
tree

s
cramped
bole

With
you,
Suibne,
my
husband.
 

 

‘Could
I
choose
from
all
the
warriors

Of
Ireland
and
of
Scotland,

I
had
liefer
live,
blameless,
with
you

On
watercress
and
water.

 

 

SUIBNE
‘No
path
for
his
belovéd

Is
Suibne

s
track
of
care;

Cold
he
lies
at
Ard
Abhla,

His
lodgings
cold
are
many.
 

 

‘Far
better
to
feel
affection

For
the
prince
whose
bride
you
are,

Than
for
this
madman
all
uncouth,

Famished
and
stark-naked.

 

 

ÉORANN
‘I
grieve
for
you,
toiling
madman,

So
filthy
and
downcast;

I
grieve
that
your
skin
is
weather
worn,

Torn
by
spines
and
brambles…

 

 

‘O
that
we
were
together,

And
my
body
feathered
too;

In
light
and
darkness
would
I
wander

With
you,
for
evermore!

 

 

SUIBNE
‘One
night
I
spent
in
cheerful
Mourne,

One
night
in
Bann
’s
sweet
estuary.

I
have
roved
this
land
from
end
to
end….

 

The tale continues:

‘Hardly had Suibne spoken these words when the army came marching into the camp from all directions. He sped away in wild flight, as he had often done before; and presently, when he had perched on a high, ivy-clad branch, the Hag of the Mill settled close beside him. Suibne then made this poem, describing the trees and
herbs of Ireland:

Bushy
oak,
leafy
oak,

You
tower
above
all
trees.

O
hazel,
little
branching
one,

Coffer
for
sweet
nuts!

 

You
are
not
cruel,
O
alder.

Delightfully
you
gleam,

You
neither
rend
nor
prickle

In
the
gap
you
occupy.

 

Blackthorn,
little
thorny
one,

Dark
provider
of
sloes.

Watercress,
little
green-topped
one,

From
the
stream
where
blackbirds
drink.

 

O
apple-tree,
true
to
your
kind,

You
are
much
shaken
by
men;

O
rowan,
cluster-berried
one,

Beautiful
is
your
blossom!

 

O
briar,
arching
over,

You
never
play
me
fair;

Ever
again
you
tear
me,

Drinking
your
fill
of
blood.

 

Yew-tree,
yew-tree,
true
to
your
kind,

In
churchyards
you
are
found;

O
ivy,
growing
ivy-like,

You
are
found
in
the
dark
wood.

 

O
holly,
tree
of
shelter,

Bulwark
against
the
winds;

O
ash-tree,
very
baleful
one,

Haft
for
the
warrior’s
spear.

 

O
birch-tree,
smooth
and
blessed,

Melodious
and
proud,

Delightful
every
tangled
branch

At
the
top
of
your
crown….

 
 

Yet misery piled upon misery, until one day, when Suibne was about to pluck watercress from a stream at Ros Cornain, the wife of the monastery bailiff chased him away and plucked it all for herself, which sent him into utter despair:

Gloomy
is
this
life,

In
lack
of
a
soft
bed,

To
know
the
numbing
frost,

And
rough
wind-driven
snow.

 

Cold
wind,
icy
wind,

Faint
shadow
of
a
feeble
sun,

Shelter
of
a
single
tree

On
the
top
of
a flat
hill.

 

Enduring
the
rain-storm,

Stepping
along
deer-paths,

Slouching
through
greensward

On
a
day
of
grey
frost.

 

A
belling
of
stags

That
echoes
through
the
wood,

A
climb
to
the
deer-pass,

The
roar
of
spumy
seas….

 

Stretched
on
a
watery
bed

By
the
banks
of
Loch
Erne,

I
consider
early
rising

When
the
day
shall
dawn.

 
 

Other books

Playing with Fire by Sandra Heath
Splinters of Light by Rachael Herron
Life is Sweet by Elizabeth Bass
The Heart Is Strange by Berryman, John
Baton Rouge Bingo by Herren, Greg
Immortality Is the Suck by Riley, A. M.
Two Weeks with the Queen by Morris Gleitzman