Chapter XII: Part 12

“Your advice may be good,” said Blaiman, and he went in. The old woman prepared his supper as well as it was ever prepared at his grandfather’s house at home, and prepared a bed for him as good as ever he had. He slept enough, and he wanted it. When day overtook him on the morrow, he rose, and washed his face and hands, and asked mercy and help from God, and if he did not he let it alone; and the old woman prepared breakfast in the best way she could, and it was not the wrong way. He went off then in good courage to the castle of the king; and there was a pole of combat in front of the castle which a man wanting combat would strike with his sword. He struck the pole a blow that was heard throughout the whole kingdom.

“Good, good!” said the king; “the like of that blow was not struck while I am in this castle.”

He put his head through a window above, and saw Blaiman outside.

Around the rear of the castle was a high wall set with iron spikes. Few were the spikes without heads on them; some heads were fresh, some with part of the flesh on them, and some were only bare skulls. It was a dreadful sight to see; and strong was the man that it would not put fright on.

“What do you want?” asked the king of Blaiman.

“Your daughter to marry, or combat.”

“’Tis combat you will get,” said the king; and the twelve champions of valor were let out at him together. It was pitiful to see him; each one of the twelve aiming a blow at him, he trying to defend himself, and he all wounded and hacked by them. When the day was growing late, he began to be angry; the noble blood swelled in his breast to be uppermost; and he rose, with the activity of his limbs, out of the joints of his bones over them, and with three sweeping blows took the twelve heads off the champions. He left the place then, deeply wounded, and went back to the old woman’s cabin; and if he did, it was a pleasure for the old woman to see him. She put him into a caldron of venom, and then into a caldron of cure. When he came out, he was perfectly healed; and the old woman said,—

“Victory and prosperity to you, my boy. I think you will do something good; for the twelve were the strongest and ablest of all the king’s forces. You have done more than any man that ever walked this way before.”

They made three parts of the night: the first part, they spent in eating and drinking; the second, in telling tales and singing ballads; the third, in rest and sound sleep.

He had a good sleep, and he needed it. Being anxious, he rose early; and as early as he rose, breakfast was ready before him, prepared by the old woman. He ate his breakfast, went to the king’s castle, and struck the pole.

“What do you want?” asked the king, thrusting his head through the window.

“Seven hundred men at my right hand, seven hundred at my left, seven hundred behind me, and as many as on the three sides out before me.”

They were sent to him four deep through four gates. He went through them as a hawk through a flock of small birds on a March day, or as a blackbird or a small boy from Iraghti Conor between two thickets. He made lanes and roads through them, and slew them all. He made then a heap of their heads, a heap of their bodies, and a heap of their weapons. Trembling fear came on the king, and Blaiman went to the old woman’s cabin.

“Victory and prosperity to you, my boy; you have all his forces stretched now, unless he comes out against you himself; and I’m full sure that he will not. He’ll give you the daughter.”

She had a good dinner before him. He had fought so well that there was neither spot nor scar on his skin; for he had not let a man of the forty-two hundred come within sword’s length of his body. He passed the night as the previous night.

Next morning after breakfast, he went to the castle, and with one blow made wood lice of the king’s pole of combat. The king went down to Blaiman, took him under the arm, and, leading him up to the high chamber where the daughter was, put her hand in his.

The king’s daughter kissed Blaiman, and embraced him, and gave him a ring with her name and surname written inside on it. This was their marriage.

Next day Blaiman, thinking that his uncles had waited long enough, and might go back to Erin, said to the king, “I will visit my uncles, and then return hither.”

His wife, an only child, was heir to the kingdom, and he was to reign with her.

“Oh,” said the king, “something else is troubling me now. There are three giants, neighbors of mine, and they are great robbers. All my forces are killed; and before one day passes the giants will be at me, and throw me out of the kingdom.”

“Well,” said Blaiman, “I will not leave you till I settle the giants; but now tell where they are to be found.”

“I will,” said the king; and he gave him all needful instruction. Blaiman went first to the house of the youngest giant, where he struck the pole of combat, and the sound was heard over all that giant’s kingdom.

“Good, good!” said the giant; “the like of that blow has never been struck on that pole of combat before,” and out he came.

“A nerve burning of the heart to you, you miserable wretch!” said the giant to Blaiman; “and great was your impudence to come to my castle at all.”

“It is not caring to give you pleasure that I am,” said Blaiman, “but to knock a tormenting satisfaction out of your ribs.”

“Is it hard, thorny wrestling that you want, or fighting with sharp gray swords in the lower and upper ribs?” asked the giant.

“I will fight with sharp gray swords,” said Blaiman.

The giant went in, and fitted on his wide, roomy vest, his strong, unbreakable helmet, his cross-worked coat-of-mail; then he took his bossy, pale-red shield and his spear. Every hair on his head and in his beard was so stiffly erect from anger and rage that a small apple or a sloe, an iron apple or a smith’s anvil, might stand on each hair of them.

Blaiman fitted on his smooth, flowery stockings, and his two dry warm boots of the hide of a small cow, that was the first calf of another cow that never lay on any one of her sides. He fitted on his single-threaded silken girdle which three craftsmen had made, underneath his broad-pointed, sharp sword that would not leave a remnant uncut, or, if it did, what it left at the first blow it took at the second. This sword was to be unsheathed with the right hand, and sheathed with the left. He gave the first blood of battle as a terrible oath that he himself was, the choice champion of the Fenians, the feather of greatness, the slayer of a champion of bravery; a man to compel justice and right, but not give either justice or right; a man who had earned what he owned in the gap of every danger, in the path of every hardship, who was sure to get what belonged to him, or to know who detained it.

They rushed at each then like two bulls of the wilderness, or two wild echoes of the cliff; they made soft ground of the hard, and hard ground of the soft; they made low ground of high, and high ground of low. They made whirling circles of the earth, and mill-wheels of the sky; and if any one were to come from the lower to the upper world, it was to see those two that he should come. They were this way at each other to the height of the evening. Blaiman was growing hungry; and through dint of anger he rose with the activity of his limbs, and with one stroke of his sword cut off the giant’s head. There was a tree growing near. Blaiman knocked off a tough, slender branch, put one end of it in through the left ear and out through the right, then putting the head on the sword, and the sword on his shoulder, went home to the king. Coming near the castle with the giant’s head, he met a man tied in a tree whose name was Hung Up Naked.

“Victory and prosperity to you, young champion,” said the man; “you have done well hitherto; now loose me from this.”

“Are you long there?” asked Blaiman.

“I am seven years here,” answered the other.

“Many a man passed this way during that time. As no man of them loosed you, I will not loose you.”

He went home then, and threw down the head by the side of the castle. The head was so weighty that the castle shook to its deepest foundations. The king came to the hall-door, shook Blaiman’s hand, and kissed him. They spent that night as the previous night; and on the next day he went to meet the second giant, came to his house, and struck the pole of combat. The giant put out his head, and said, “You rascal, I lay a wager it was you who killed my young brother yesterday; you’ll pay for it now, for I think it is a sufficient length of life to get a glimpse of you, and I know not what manner of death I should give you.”

“It is not to offer satisfaction that I am here,” said Blaiman, “but to give you the same as your brother.”

“Is it any courage you have to fight me?” asked the giant.

“It is indeed,” said Blaiman; “’tis for that I am here.”

“What will you have?” asked the giant; “hard, thorny wrestling, or fighting with sharp gray swords?”

“I prefer hard, thorny wrestling,” said Blaiman; “as I have practised it on the lawns with noble children.”

They seized each other, and made soft places hard, and hard places soft; they drew wells of spring water through the hard, stony ground in such fashion that the place under them was a soft quagmire, in which the giant, who was weighty, was sinking. He sank to his knees. Blaiman then caught hold of him firmly, and forced him down to his hips.

“Am I to cut off your head now?” asked Blaiman.

“Do not do that,” said the giant. “Spare me, and I will give you my treasure-room, and all that I have of gold and silver.”

“I will give you your own award,” said Blaiman. “If I were in your place, and you in mine, would you let me go free?”

“I would not,” said the giant.

Blaiman drew his broad, shadowy sword made in Erin. It had edge, temper, and endurance; and with one blow he took the two heads off the giant, and carried the heads to the castle. He passed by Hung Up Naked, who asked him to loose him; but he refused. When Blaiman threw the heads down, much as the castle shook the first day, it shook more the second.

The king and his daughter were greatly rejoiced. They stifled him with kisses, drowned him with tears, and dried him with stuffs of silk and satin; they gave him the taste of every food and the odor of every drink,—Greek honey and Lochlin beer in dry, warm cups, and the taste of honey in every drop of the beer. I bailing it out, it would be a wonder if I myself was not thirsty.

They passed that night as the night before. Next morning Blaiman was very tired and weary after his two days’ fight, and the third giant’s land was far distant.

“Have you a horse of any kind for me to ride?” asked he of the king.

“Be not troubled,” said the king. “There is a stallion in my stable that has not been out for seven years, but fed on red wheat and pure spring water; if you think you can ride that horse, you may take him.”

Blaiman went to the stable. When the horse saw the stranger, he bared his teeth back to the ears, and made a drive at him to tear him asunder; but Blaiman struck the horse with his fist on the ear, and stretched him. The horse rose, but was quiet. Blaiman bridled and saddled him, then drove out that slender, low-sided, bare-shouldered, long-flanked, tame, meek-mannered steed, in which were twelve qualities combined: three of a bull, three of a woman, three of a fox, and three of a hare. Three of a bull,—a full eye, a thick neck, and a bold forehead; three of a woman,—full hips, slender waist, and a mind for a burden; three of a hare,—a swift run against a hill, a sharp turn about, and a high leap; three of a fox,—a light, treacherous, proud gait, to take in the two sides of the road by dint of study and acuteness, and to look only ahead. He now went on, and could overtake the wind that was before him; and the wind that was behind, carrying rough hailstones, could not overtake him.

Blaiman never stopped nor stayed till he arrived at the giant’s castle; and this giant had three heads. He dismounted, and struck the pole a blow that was heard throughout the kingdom. The giant looked out, and said, “Oh, you villain! I’ll wager it was you that killed my two brothers. I think it sufficient life to see you; and I don’t know yet what manner of death will I put on you.”

“It is not to give satisfaction to you that I am here, you vile worm!” said Blaiman. “Ugly is the smile of your laugh; and it must be that your crying will be uglier still.”

“Is it hard, thorny wrestling that you want, or fighting with sharp gray swords?” asked the giant.

“I will fight with sharp gray swords,” said Blaiman.

They rushed at each other then like two bulls of the wilderness. Toward the end of the afternoon, the heavier blows were falling on Blaiman. Just then a robin came on a bush in front of him, and said, “Oh, Blaiman, son of Apple, from Erin, far away are you from the women who would lay you out and weep over you! There would be no one to care for you unless I were to put two green leaves on your eyes to protect them from the crows of the air. Stand between the sun and the giant, and remember where men draw blood from sheep in Erin.”

Blaiman followed the advice of the robin. The two combatants kept at each other; but the giant was blinded by the sun, for he had to bend himself often to look at his foe. One time, when he stretched forward, his helmet was lifted a little, Blaiman got a glimpse of his neck, near the ear. That instant he stabbed him. The giant was bleeding till he lost the last of his blood. Then Blaiman cut the three heads off him, and carried them home on the pommel of his saddle. When he was passing, Hung Up Naked begged for release; but Blaiman refused and went on. Hung Up Naked praised him for his deeds, and continued to praise. On second thought, Blaiman turned back, and began to release Hung Up Naked; but if he did, as fast as he loosened one bond, two squeezed on himself, in such fashion that when he had Hung Up Naked unbound, he was himself doubly bound; he had the binding of five men hard and tough on his body. Hung Up Naked was free now; he mounted Blaiman’s steed, and rode to the king’s castle. He threw down the giant’s heads, and never stopped nor stayed till he went to where the king’s daughter was, put a finger under her girdle, bore her out of the castle, and rode away swiftly.

Blaiman remained bound for two days to the tree. The king’s swine-herd came the way, and saw Blaiman bound in the tree. “Ah, my boy,” said he, “you are bound there, and Hung Up Naked is freed by you; and if you had passed him as you did twice before, you need not be where you are now.”

“It cannot be helped,” said Blaiman; “I must suffer.”

“Oh, then,” said the swine-herd, “it is a pity to have you there and me here; I will never leave you till I free you.”

Up went the swine-herd, and began to loosen Blaiman; and it happened to him as to Blaiman himself: the bonds that had been on Blaiman were now on the swine-herd.

“I have heard always that strength is more powerful than magic,” said Blaiman. He went at the tree, and pulled it up by the roots; then, taking his sword, he made small pieces of the tree, and freed the swine-herd.

Blaiman and the swine-herd then went to the castle. They found the king sitting by the table, with his head on his hand, and a stream of tears flowing from his eyes to the table, and from the table to the floor.

“What is your trouble?” asked Blaiman.

“Hung Up Naked came, and said that it was himself who killed the giant; and he took my daughter.”

When he found that his wife was taken, and that he knew not where to look for her, Blaiman was raging.

“Stay here to-night,” said the king.

Next morning the king brought a table-cloth, and said, “You may often need food, and not know where to find it. Wherever you spread this, what food you require will be on it.”

Although Blaiman, because of his troubles, had no care for anything, he took the cloth with him. He was travelling all day, and at nightfall came to a break in the mountain, a sheltered spot, and he saw remains of a fire.

“I will go no farther to-night,” said he. After a time he pulled out the table-cloth, and food for a king or a champion appeared on it quickly. He was not long eating, when a little hound from the break in the mountain came toward him, and stood at some distance, being afraid to come near.

“Oh,” said the hound, “have you crumbs or burned bread-crusts that you would give me to take to my children, now dying of hunger? For three days I have not been able to hunt food for them.”

“I have, of course,” said Blaiman. “Come, eat enough of what you like best, and carry away what you can.”

“You have my dear love forever,” said the hound. “You are not like the thief that was here three nights ago. When I asked him for help, he threw a log of wood at me, and broke my shoulder-blade; and I have not been able to find food for my little children since that night. Doleful and sad was the lady who was with him; she ate no bite and drank no sup the whole night, but was shedding tears. If ever you are in hardship, and need my assistance, call for the Little Hound of Tranamee, and you will have me to help you.”

“Stay with me,” said Blaiman, “a part of the night; I am lonely, and you may take with you what food you can carry.”

The hound remained till he thought it time to go home; Blaiman gave him what he could carry, and he was thankful.

Blaiman stayed there till daybreak, spread his cloth again, and ate what he wanted. He was in very good courage from the tidings concerning his wife. He journeyed swiftly all day, thinking he would reach the castle of Hung Up Naked in the evening; but it was still far away.

He came in the evening to a place like that in which he had been the night previous, and thought to himself, I will stay here to-night. He spread his cloth, and had food for a king or a champion. He was not long eating, when there came opposite him out a hawk, and asked, “Have you crumbs or burned crusts to give me for my little children?”

“Oh,” said Blaiman, “come and eat your fill, and take away what you are able to carry.”

The hawk ate his fill. “My love to you forever,” said the hawk; “this is not how I was treated by the thief who was here three nights ago. When I asked him for food, he flung a log of wood at me, and almost broke my wing.”

“Give me your company a part of the night; I am lonely,” said Blaiman.

The hawk remained with him, and later on added, “The lady who went with the thief was doleful and careworn; she ate nothing, but shed tears all the time.” When going, and Blaiman had given him all the food he could carry, the hawk said, “If ever you need my assistance, you have only to call for the Hawk of Cold Cliff, and I will be with you.”

The hawk went away, very thankful; and Blaiman was glad that he had tidings again of his wife. Not much of next day overtook him asleep. He rose, ate his breakfast, and hastened forward. He was in such courage that he passed a mountain at a leap, a valley at a step, and a broad untilled field at a hop. He journeyed all day till he came to a break in the mountain; there he stopped, and was not long eating from his cloth, when an otter came down through the glen, stood before him, and asked, “Will you give me crumbs or burned crusts for my little children?”

Blaiman gave him plenty to eat, and all he could carry home. “My love to you forever,” said the otter. “When you need aid, call on the Otter of Frothy Pool, and I will be with you. You are not like the thief who was here three nights ago, having your wife with him. She was melting all night with tears, and neither ate nor drank. You will reach the castle of Hung Up Naked to-morrow at midday. It whirls around like a millstone, continually, and no one can enter but himself; for the castle is enchanted.”

The otter went home. Blaiman reached the castle at midday, and knew the place well, from the words of the otter. He stood looking at the castle; and when the window at which his wife was sitting came before him, she saw him, and, opening the window, made a sign with her hand, and told him to go. She thought that no one could get the upper hand of Hung Up Naked; for the report had gone through the world that no man could kill him.

“I will not go,” said Blaiman. “I will not leave you where you are; and now keep the window open.”

He stepped back some paces, and went in with one bound through the window, when it came around the second time.

While Hung Up Naked was tied to the tree, the tributes of his kingdom remained uncollected; and when he had the woman he wanted safe in his castle, he went to collect the tributes. She had laid an injunction on him to leave her in freedom for a day and a year. She knew when he would be returning; and when that time was near she hid Blaiman.

“Good, good!” cried Hung Up Naked, when he came. “I smell on this little sod of truth that a man from Erin is here.”

“How could a man from Erin be here?” asked Blaiman’s wife. “The only person from Erin in this place is a robin. I threw a fork at him. There is a drop of blood on the fork now; that is what you smell on the little sod.”

“That may be,” said Hung Up Naked.

Blaiman and the wife were planning to destroy Hung Up Naked; but no one had knowledge how to kill him. At last they made a plan to come at the knowledge.

“It is a wonder,” said the woman to Hung Up Naked, “that a great man like yourself should go travelling alone; my father always takes guards with him.”

“I need no guards; no one can kill me.”

“How is that?”

“Oh, my life is in that block of wood there.”

“If it is there, ’tis in a strange place; and it is little trouble you take for it. You should put it in some secure spot in the castle.”

“The place is good enough,” said he.

When Hung Up Naked went off next day, the wife told Blaiman all she had heard.

“His life is not there,” answered Blaiman; “try him again to-night.”

She searched the whole castle, and what silk or satin or jewels she found, she dressed with them the block of wood. When Hung Up Naked came home in the evening, and saw the block so richly decked, he laughed heartily.

“Why do you laugh?” asked the woman.

“Out of pity for you. It is not there that my life is at all.”

On hearing these words, she fainted, was stiff and cold for some time, till he began to fear she was dead.

“What is the matter?” asked Hung Up Naked.

“I did not think you would make sport of me. You know that I love you, and why did you deceive me?”

Hung Up Naked was wonderfully glad. He took her to the window, and, pointing to a large tree growing opposite, asked, “Do you see that tree?”

“I do.”

“Do you see that axe under my bed-post?” He showed the axe. “I cannot be killed till a champion with one blow of that axe splits the tree from the top to the roots of it. Out of the tree a ram will rush forth, and nothing on earth can come up with the ram but the Hound of Tranamee. If the ram is caught, he will drop a duck; the duck will fly out on the sea, and nothing on earth can catch that duck but the Hawk of Cold Cliff. If the duck is caught, she will drop an egg into the sea, and nothing on earth can find that egg but the Otter of Frothy Pool. If the egg is found, the champion must strike with one cast of it this dark spot here under my left breast, and strike me through the heart. If the tree were touched, I should feel it, wherever I might be.”

He went away next morning. Blaiman took the axe, and with one blow split the tree from top to roots; out rushed the ram. Blaiman rushed after him through the fields. Blaiman hunted the ram till he was dropping from weariness. Only then did he think of the hound, and cry, “Where are you now, Little Hound of Tranamee?”

“I am here,” said the hound; “but I could not come till you called me.”

The hound seized the ram in one moment; but, if he did, out sprang a duck, and away she flew over the sea. Blaiman called for the Hawk of Cold Cliff. The hawk caught the duck; the duck dropped an egg. He called the Otter of Frothy Pool; the otter brought the egg in his mouth. Blaiman took the egg, and ran to the castle, which was whirling no longer; the enchantment left the place when the tree was split. He opened the door, and stood inside, but was not long there when he saw Hung Up Naked coming in haste. When the tree was split, he felt it, and hurried home. When nearing the castle, his breast open and bare, and he sweating and sweltering, Blaiman aimed at the black spot, and killed Hung Up Naked.

They were all very glad then. The hawk, hound, and otter were delighted; they were three sons of the king of that kingdom which Hung Up Naked had seized; they received their own forms again, and all rejoiced.

Blaiman did not stay long. He left the three brothers in their own castle and kingdom. “If ever you need my assistance,” said Blaiman to the brothers, “send for me at my father-in-law’s.” On his return, he spent a night at each place where he had stopped in going.

When the king saw his daughter and Blaiman, he almost dropped dead from joy. They all spent some days very happily. Blaiman now thought of his uncles; and for three days servants were drawing every choice thing to his vessel. His wife went also to the ship. When all was ready, Blaiman remembered a present that he had set aside for his mother, and hurried back to the castle, leaving his wife on the ship with his uncles. The uncles sailed at once for Erin. When Blaiman came back with the present, he found neither wife, ship, nor uncles before him. He ran away like one mad, would not return to his father-in-law, but went wild in the woods, and began to live like the beasts of the wilderness. One time he came out on an edge of the forest, which was on a headland running into the sea, and saw a vessel near land; he was coming that time to his senses, and signalled. The captain saw him, and said, “That must be a wild beast of some kind; hair is growing all over his body. Will some of you go to see what is there? If a man, bring him on board.”

Five men rowed to land, and hailed Blaiman. He answered, “I am from Erin, and I am perishing here from hunger and cold.” They took him on board. The captain treated him kindly, had his hair cut, and gave him good clothing. Where should the captain be sailing to but the very same port of his grandfather’s kingdom from which Blaiman had sailed. There was a high tide when the ship neared, and they never stopped till she was in at the quay. Blaiman went on shore, walked to the chief street, and stood with his back to a house. Soon he saw men and horses carrying and drawing many kinds of provisions, and all going one way.

“Why are these people all going one way?” inquired Blaiman of a man in the crowd.

“You must be a stranger,” answered the man, “since you do not know that they are going to the castle. The king’s elder son will be married this evening. The bride is the only daughter of the King of the kingdom of the White Strand; they brought her to this place twelve months ago.”

“I am a stranger,” said Blaiman, “and have only come now from sea.”

“All are invited to the wedding, high and low, rich and poor.”

“I will go as well as another,” said Blaiman; and he went toward the castle. He met a sturdy old beggar in a long gray coat. “Will you sell me the coat?” inquired Blaiman.

“Take your joke to some other man,” answered the beggar.

“I am not joking,” said Blaiman. “I’ll buy your coat.”

The beggar asked more for the coat than he thought would be given by any one.

“Here is your money,” said Blaiman.

The beggar gave up the coat, and started to go in another direction.

“Come back here,” said Blaiman. “I will do you more good, and I need your company.”

They went toward the castle together. There was a broad space in front of the kitchen filled with poor people, for the greater part beggars, and these were all fighting for places. When Blaiman came, he commanded the crowd to be quiet, and threatened. He soon controlled all, and was himself neither eating nor drinking, but seeing justice done those who were eating and drinking. The servants, astonished that the great, threatening beggar was neither eating nor drinking, gave a great cup of wine to him. He took a good draught of the wine, but left still a fair share in the cup. In this he dropped the ring that he got from his wife in her own father’s castle, and said to a servant, “Put this cup in the hand of the bride, and say, ‘’Tis the big beggar that sends back this much of his wine, and asks you to drink to your own health.’”

She was astonished, and, taking the cup to the window, saw a ring at the bottom. She took the ring, knew it, and ran out wild with delight through the people. All thought ’twas enchantment the beggar had used; but she embraced him and kissed him. The servants surrounded the beggar to seize him. The king’s daughter ordered them off, and brought him into the castle; and Blaiman locked the doors. The bride then put a girdle around the queen’s waist, and this was a girdle of truth. If any one having it on did not tell the truth, the girdle would shrink and tighten, and squeeze the life out of that person.

“Tell me now,” said the bride, “who your elder son’s father is.”

“Who is he,” said the queen, “but the king?”

The girdle grew tighter and tighter till the queen screamed, “The coachman.”

“Who is the second son’s father?”

“The butler.”

“Who is your daughter’s father?”

“The king.”

“I knew,” said the bride, “that there was no kingly blood in the veins of the two, from the way that they treated my husband.” She told them all present how the two had taken her away, and left her husband behind. When Blaiman’s mother saw her son, she dropped almost dead from delight.

The king now commanded his subjects to bring poles and branches and all dry wood, and put down a great fire. The heads and heels of the queen’s two sons were tied together, and they were flung in and burned to ashes.

Blaiman remained awhile with his grandfather, and then took his wife back to her father’s kingdom, where they lived many years.

FIN MACCOOL AND THE DAUGHTER OF THE KING OF THE WHITE NATION.

One day Fin MacCool and the Fenians of Erin set out on a hunt from the Castle of Rahonain, and never stopped till they came near Brandon Creek, and started a hornless deer in a field called Parcnagri.

Over hills and through valleys they chased the deer till they came to Aun na Vian (the river of the Fenians). The deer sprang from one side of this river toward the other, but before reaching the bank was taken on a spear by Dyeermud.

When the hunt was over, Fin and the Fenians went back to the place where the deer had been started at Parcnagri, for they always returned to the spot where they roused the first game, and there they feasted.

The feast was nearly ready when Fin saw a boat sailing in toward the harbor of Ard na Conye (Smerwick Harbor), and no one on board but a woman.

“’Tis a wonder to me,” said Fin, “that one woman should manage a boat under sail on the sea. I have a great wish to know who that woman is.”

“’Tis not long I would be in bringing you tidings,” said Dyeermud.

Fin laughed; for Dyeermud was fond of the women. “I would not refuse you permission to go, but that I myself will go, and be here before our feast is ready.”

Fin went down from Parcnagri, and stood at the strand of Ard na Conye. Though great was his speed, the woman was there before him, and her boat anchored safely four miles from shore.

Fin saluted the woman with friendly greeting; and she returned the salute in like manner.

“Will you tell me, kind man, where I am now?” asked the woman.

“In the harbor of Ard na Conye.”

“Thanks to you for that answer,” said the woman. “Can you tell where is Fin MacCool’s dwelling-place?”

“Wherever Fin MacCool’s dwelling-place is, I am that man myself.”

“Thanks to you a second time,” said the woman; “and would you play a game of chess for a sentence?”

“I would,” replied Fin, “if I had my own board and chessmen.”

“I will give you as good as your own,” said the woman.

“I have never refused, and never asked another to play,” said Fin. “I will play with you.”

They sat down, and Fin won the first game.

“What is your sentence, Fin MacCool?” asked the woman.

“I put you under bonds of heavy enchantment,” said Fin, “not to eat twice at the one table, nor to sleep two nights in the one bed, till you bring a white steed with red bridle and saddle to me, and the same to each man of the Fenians of Erin.”

“You are very severe, O Fin,” said the woman. “I beg you to soften the sentence.”

“No,” answered Fin, “you must give what is asked; I will not soften the sentence.”

“Look behind,” said the woman.

Fin turned, and saw a white steed for himself, and the like for each man of the Fenians of Erin, all with red bridles and saddles.

“Play a second game, now,” said the woman.

They played, and she won.

“Hasten, kind woman,” said Fin, “and tell me the sentence.”

“Too soon for you to hear it,” said she.

“The sooner I hear it, the better,” said Fin.

“I put you, O Fin, under bonds of heavy enchantment to be my husband till a shovel puts seven of its fulls of earth on your head.”

“Soften the sentence, good woman,” said Fin; “for this cannot be.”

“The gad may tighten on my throat if I do,” said the woman; “for you did not soften your sentence on me.”

“Do you stop here,” said Fin to the woman, “till I give my men the steeds, tell them how I am, and return. But where are the steeds?”

“If I was bound by sentence to bring you the steeds, I was not bound to keep them.”

Fin went his way to Parcnagri, where the Fenians were waiting, and though dinner was ready, no man tasted it from that day to this.

Fin posted his men on watch at various harbors, left Dyeermud on Beann Dyeermud (Dyeermud’s peak), just above the harbor of Ard na Conye, and went to the woman. She took his hand; they sprang together, and came down in the woman’s boat, which was four miles from land.

The woman weighed anchor, raised sails, and never stopped ploughing the weighty sea till she came to the White Nation in the Eastern World, where her father was king. She entered the harbor, cast anchor, and landed.

“When you were at home,” said the woman to Fin, “you were Chief of the Fenians of Erin, and held in great honor; I will not that men in this kingdom belittle you, and I am the king’s only daughter. From the place where we are standing to my father’s castle there is a narrow and a short path. I’ll hasten forward on that. There is another way, a broad and long one; do you choose that. I fear that for you there will not be suitable seat and a place in the castle, unless I am there to prepare it before you.”

Fin went the long way, and the woman took the short path. It was many a day since the woman had seen her own father. For twenty-one years she had travelled the world, learning witchcraft and every enchantment. She hurried, and was soon at the door of the castle. Great was the welcome before her, and loud was the joy of her father. Servants came running, one after another, with food, and one thing better than the other.

“Father,” said she, “I will taste neither food nor drink till you tell me the one thing to please your mind most.”

“My child,” said the king, “you have but small chance of coming at that. The one thing on earth to delight my mind most is the head of Fin MacCool of Erin. If there was a poor man of my name, he would not be myself if I had that head.”

“Many a year do I know your desire, my father; and it was not for me to come back after twenty-one years without bringing Fin’s head. You have it now, without losing one drop of your blood or a single night’s rest. Fin is coming hither over the broad road; and do you put men out over against him with music to meet him, and when he comes between your two storehouses, let the men dash him against one corner and the other, and give every reason worse than another to bring him to death.”

The king obeyed his daughter, and sent out guards and musicians.

Fin, going over the broad road, saw men coming with music, and said to himself, “Great is my joy, or may be my sorrow, for I fear that my life will be ended in trouble.”

The men received Fin with shouts, and, running up, pushed him from side to side till he was bruised and bleeding; then they brought him into the castle.

Glad was the king, and far was the laugh heard that he let out of himself at sight of Fin MacCool.

The king gave command then to bind the captive, putting seven knots of cord on every joint of his body, to throw him into a deep vault, and give him one ounce of black bread with a pint of cold water each day.

Fin was put in the vault, and a very old little woman brought his daily allowance of food.

On his eighth day in prison, Fin said to the old little woman, “Go now to the king, and say that I have a petition. I ask not my head, as I would not get it; but say that my right arm is rotting. I ask to be free in the garden for one hour; let him send with me men, if he chooses.”

The old woman told the request; and the king said, “I will grant that with willingness; for it will not take his head from me.”

Thirty armed men were sent, and Fin was set free in the garden. While walking, he asked the chief of the thirty, “Have you musical instruments?”

“We have not,” said the chief; “we forgot them. If they were here, we would give music; for I pity you, Fin MacCool.”

“When I was at home,” said Fin, “having the care and charge over men, we had music; and, if it please you, I will play some of the music of Erin.”

“I would be more than glad if you would do that,” said the chief.

The Fenians of Erin had a horn called the borabu; and when one of them went wandering he took the borabu with him, as Fin had done this time. It was the only instrument on which he could play. Fin blew the horn, and the sound of it came to Beann Dyeermud from the Eastern World. Dyeermud himself was in deep sleep at the moment; but the sound entered his right ear and came out through the left. The spring that he made then took him across seven ridges of land before he was firm on his feet. Dyeermud, wiping his eyes, said, “Great is the trouble that is on you, Fin; for the sound of the borabu has never yet entered my right ear unless you were in peril.”

Then, going at a spring to Cuas a Wudig, he found the remains of an old currachan, and, drawing out a chisel, knife, and axe, made a fine boat of the old one. With one kick of his right foot, he sent the boat seven leagues from land, and, following with a bound, dropped into it. He hoisted sails, not knowing whither to go, north, south, east, or west, but held on his way, and ploughed the mighty ocean before him, till, as good luck would have it, he reached the same harbor to which the woman had come with Fin MacCool.

Dyeermud saw the boat which had brought them, and said, laughing heartily, “I have tidings of Fin; he’s in this kingdom in some place, for this is the boat that brought him from Erin.”

Dyeermud cast anchor, and, landing, drew his sword; and a man seeing his look at that moment would have wished to be twenty miles distant. On he went, walking, till he had passed through a broad tract of country. On the high-road, he saw men, women, and children all going one way, and none any other. High and low, they were hurrying and hastening; the man behind outstripping the man in front.

Dyeermud sat on a ditch to rest, and soon a wayfarer halted in front of him. “Where are these people all hastening?” asked Dyeermud.

“From what country or place are you,” asked the man, “not to know whither all these people are going?”

“Surely I am not of this place or your country,” said Dyeermud; “and I care not to know whither you or these people are going, since you cannot give a civil answer to an honest question.”

“Be patient, good man,” said the wayfarer “From what country or place are you?”

“From Erin,” said Dyeermud.

“I suppose, then, you have known Fin MacCool, or have heard of him?”

“I have, indeed,” said Dyeermud.

“If you take my advice,” said the wayfaring man, “you’ll go out on the same road by which you came in, or else not acknowledge Fin MacCool of Erin, for that man will be hanged this day before the king’s castle; the gallows is ready and built for him. When the life is gone out of him, his head will be struck off, and left as a plaything to please the king’s mind forever. The body is to be dragged between four wild horses; and the same will be done to you, if you acknowledge Fin MacCool of Erin.”

“I thank you for your answer,” said Dyeermud; “and only because I don’t like to lay a weighty hand on you, you would never again give advice like that to a man of the Fenians of Erin. But show me the way to the castle.”

“If you were on the top of that mountain,” said the wayfarer, pointing northward, “you would see the king’s castle.”

Dyeermud went on in strong haste, and from the mountain-top saw the king’s castle. On the green field in front of it so many people had gathered to see Fin MacCool’s death, that if a pin were to drop from the middle of the sky it could not fall without striking the head of man, woman, or child. When Dyeermud came down to the field, it was useless to ask for room or for passage, since each wished himself to be nearest the place of Fin’s death. Dyeermud drew his sword; and as a mower goes through the grass of a meadow on a harvest day, or a hawk through a flock of starlings on a chilly March morning, so did Dyeermud cut his way through the crowd till he came to the gallows. He turned then toward the castle, struck the pole of combat, and far was the sound of his blow heard. The king put his head through the window.

“Who struck that blow?” asked the king. “He must be an enemy!”

“You could not expect a friend to do the like of that,” replied Dyeermud. “I struck the blow.”

“Who are you?” cried the king.

“My name when in Erin is Dyeermud.”

“What brought you hither?” asked the king.

“I came,” replied Dyeermud, “to succor my chief, Fin MacCool.”

The king let a laugh out of him, and asked, “Have any more men come besides you?”

“When you finish with me, you may be looking for others,” said Dyeermud.

“What do you want to-day?” asked the king.

“I want to see Fin MacCool, or to fight for him.”

“Fight you may,” said the king; “but see him you will not.”

“Well,” said Dyeermud, “it is too early in the evening for me to rest without having the blood of enemies on my sword, so send out against me seven hundred of your best-armed men on my right hand, seven hundred on my left, seven hundred behind me, and twenty one hundred before my eyesight.”

Fin’s death was delayed; and the men that he asked for put out against Dyeermud. Coming sunset, he had the last head cut from the last body, and, going through his day’s work, made heaps of the bodies, and piles of the heads.

“Will you give me shelter from the night air?” asked Dyeermud, then turning to the castle.

“I will, and welcome,” said the king, pointing to a long house at a distance.

Dyeermud went to the long house, and to his wonder saw there a troop of wild small men without faith, but no food, fire, or bed. These men were the agents of the king, who put to death all people who went against his law. Though a small race of people, they were strong through their numbers.

When Dyeermud entered, they rose, and began to fill every cranny and crack they could find in the building.

“Why are you doing that?” inquired Dyeermud.

“For fear that you might escape; for it’s our duty to eat you.”

Dyeermud then seized by the ankles the one who gave him this answer, and flailed the others with this man, till he wore him down to the two shin-bones; all the others were killed saving one, who was chief. The small chief untouched by Dyeermud fell on his knees, and cried out, “Spare my head! O Dyeermud, there is not a place where you will put one foot, in which I will not put my two feet, nor a place on which you’ll put one hand, in which I will not put my two hands; and I can be a good servant to you.”

“No man ever asked his head of me with peace, but I gave it to him,” said Dyeermud.

Sitting down then, Dyeermud asked, “Have you any food?”

“I have not,” said the small chief. “We have nothing to eat but men sent here from one time to another. If you go to the king’s bakery, you may find loaves of bread.”

Dyeermud went to the baker, and asked, “Will you give me two loaves of bread?”

“Hardened ruffian,” said the baker, “how dare you come to this place for bread, or any other thing, you who killed so many of our friends and near neighbors? Go out of this, or I’ll burn you in the oven.”

“I am thankful,” said Dyeermud; “but before you can do to me what you threaten, I will do the same to you.”

With that he opened the oven-door, threw in the baker, and burned him to death. Then he caught up as much bread as he could carry, and went to the long house; but, being used to good food, could not eat bread alone, and asked the small chief, “Where can I find drink and meat to go with the bread?”

“There is a slaughter-house behind us, not far from here,” said the chief, “and the head butcher might give you a piece to roast or boil.”

Dyeermud went then to the butcher. “Will you give me meat for supper?” asked he.

“You scoundrel from Erin, if you don’t leave this place I’ll cut off your head on the block here, and separate it from the body.”

“Never have I met better people to oblige a stranger; but before you can do to me what you promise, I will do the like to you.”

So Dyeermud caught the butcher, stretched him across the block, and with the butcher’s own cleaver struck the head off him.

Turning around, Dyeermud saw two fine stalled bullocks dressed for the king’s table. Taking one under each arm, he brought them to the long house, and cut them up with his sword; then the small chief cooked nicely what was needed. The two ate a hearty supper.

Next morning Dyeermud rose up refreshed, and went to the castle, where he struck the pole of combat.

“What is your wish?” asked the king.

“To see Fin MacCool, or get battle.”

“How many men do you wish for?”

“One thousand of your best armed men on my right hand, as many on my left, as many behind me, and twice three thousand in front of my eyesight.”

The champions were sent out to Dyeermud. They went at him, and he at them; they were that way all day, and when the sun was setting there was not a man of the nine thousand that had his head on him.

In the evening he made piles of the bodies and heaps of the heads.