You’re kilt, surely, this time, my poor boy,” said his mother.
“No, indeed, better luck than ever this time!” and he gave the lady three drops of the liquid that still remained at the bottom of the glass, notwithstanding his mad race over the potato field.
The lady began to speak, and her first words were words of thanks to Jamie.
The three inmates of the cabin had so much to say to one another that, long after cock-crow, when the fairy music had quite ceased, they were talking round the fire.
“Jamie,” said the lady, “be pleased to get me paper andpen and ink that I may write to my father and tell him what has become of me.”
She wrote, but weeks passed and she received no answer. Again and again she wrote, and still no answer.
At length she said, “You must come with me to Dublin, Jamie, to find my father.”
“I hae no money to hire a car for you,” he answered; “an’ how can you travel to Dublin on your foot?”
But she implored him so much that he consented to set out with her and walk all the way from Fannet to Dublin. It was not as easy as the fairy journey; but at last they rang the bell at the door of the house in Stephen’s Green.
“Tell my father that his daughter is here,” said she to the servant who opened the door.
The gentleman that lives here has no daughter, my girl. He had one, but she died better nor a year ago.”
“Do you not know me, Sullivan?”
“No, poor girl, I do not.”
“Let me see the gentleman. I only ask to see him.”
“Well, that’s not much to ax. We’ll see what can be done.”
In a few moments the lady’s father came to the door.
“How dare you call me your father?” cried the old gentleman angrily. “You are an impostor. I have no daughter.”
“Look in my face, father, and surely you’ll remember me.”
“My daughter is dead and buried. She died a long, long time ago.” The old gentleman’s voice changed from anger to sorrow. “You can go,” he concluded.
“Stop, dear father, till you look at this ring on my finger. Look at your name and mine engraved on it.”
“It certainly is my daughter’s ring, but I do not know how you came by it. I fear in no honest way.”
“Call my mother—shewill be sure to know me,” said the poor girl, who by this time was weeping bitterly.
“My poor wife is beginning to forget her sorrow. She seldom speaks of her daughter now. Why should I renew her grief by reminding her of her loss?”
But the young lady persevered till at last the mother was sent for.
“Mother,” she began, when the old lady came to the door, “don’tyouknow your daughter?”
“I have no daughter. My daughter died, and was buried a long, long time ago.”
“Only look in my face and surely you’ll know me.”
The old lady shook her head.
You have all forgotten me; but look at this mole on my neck. Surely, mother, you know me now?”
“Yes, yes,” said her mother, “my Gracie had a mole on her neck like that; but then I saw her in the coffin, and saw the lid shut down upon her.”
It became Jamie’s turn to speak, and he gave the history of the fairy journey, of the theft of the young lady, of the figure he had seen laid in its place, of her life with his mother in Fannet, of last Halloween, and of the three drops that had released her from her enchantments.
She took up the story when he paused and told how kind the mother and son had been to her.
The parents could not make enough of Jamie. They treated him with every distinction, and when he expressed his wish to return to Fannet, said they did not know what to do to express their gratitude.
But an awkward complication arose. The daughter would not let him go without her. “If Jamie goes, I’ll go, too,” she said. “He saved me from the fairies, and has worked for me ever since. If it had not been for him, dear father and mother, you would never have seen me again. If he goes, I’ll go, too.”
This being her resolution, the old gentleman said that Jamie should become his son-in-law. The mother was brought from Fannet in a coach-and-four, and there was a splendid wedding.
They all lived together in the grand Dublin house, and Jamie was heir to untold wealth at his father-in-law’s death.
Letitia Maclintock.
Finn lived at this time on Knockmany Hill, which faces Cullamore, that rises up, half hill, half mountain, on the opposite side.
The truth is that honest Finn’s affection for his wife was by no manner of means the whole cause of his journey home. There was at that time another giant, named Far Rua—some say he was Irish and some say he was Scotch—but whether Scotch or Irish, sorrow doubt of it but he was atarger. No other giant of the day could stand before him;and such was his strength that, when well vexed, he could give a stamp that shook the country about him. The fame and name of him went far and near, and nothing in the shape of a man, it was said, had any chance with him in a fight. Whether the story is true or not I cannot say, but the report went that by one blow of his fist he flattened a thunderbolt, and kept it in his pocket in the shape of a pancake to show to all his enemies when they were about to fight him. Undoubtedly he had given every giant in Ireland a considerable beating, barring Finn M’Coul himself; and he swore that he would never rest night or day, winter or summer, till he could serve Finn with the same sauce, if he could catch him. Finn, however, had a strong disinclination to meet a giant who could make a young earthquake or flatten a thunderbolt when he was angry, so accordingly he kept dodging about from place to place—not much to his credit as a Trojan, to be sure—whenever he happened to get the hard word that Far Rua was on the scent of him. And the long and the short of it was that he heard Far Rua was coming to the Causeway to have a trial of strength with him; and he was, naturally enough, seized in consequence with a very warm and sudden fit of affection for his wife, who was delicate in her health, poor woman, and leading, besides, a very lonely, uncomfortable life of it in his absence.
“God save all here,” said Finn good-humouredly, putting his honest face into his own door.
“Musha, Finn, avick, an’ you’re welcome to your own Oonagh, you darlin’ bully.” Here followed a smack that it is said to have made the waters of the lake curl, as it were, with kindness and sympathy.
“Faith,” said Finn, “beautiful; and how are you, Oonagh—and how did you sport your figure during my absence, my bilberry?”
“Never a merrier—as bouncing a grass widow as ever there was in sweet ‘Tyrone among the bushes.’”
Finn gave a short, good-humoured cough, and laughed most heartily to show her how much he was delighted that she made herself happy in his absence.
“An’ what brought you home so soon, Finn?” said she.
Why, avourneen,” said Finn, putting in his answer in the proper way, “never the thing but the purest of love and affection for yourself. Sure, you know that’s truth, anyhow, Oonagh.”
Finn spent two or three happy days with Oonagh, and felt himself very comfortable considering the dread he had of Far Rua. This, however, grew upon him so much that his wife could not but perceive something lay on his mind which he kept altogether to himself. Let a woman alone in the meantime for ferreting or wheedling a secret out of her good man when she wishes. Finn was a proof of this.
“It’s this Far Rua,” said he, “that’s troublin’ me. When the fellow gets angry and begins to stamp he’ll shake you a whole townland, and it’s well known that he can stop a thunderbolt, for he always carries one about with him in the shape of a pancake to show to anyone that might misdoubt it.”
As he spoke he clapped his thumb in his mouth, as he always did when he wanted to prophesy or to know anything.
“He’s coming,” said Finn; “I see him below at Dungannon.”
“An’ who is it, avick?”
“Far Rua,” replied Finn, “and how to manage I don’t know. If I run away I am disgraced, and I know that sooner or later I must meet him, for my thumb tells me so.”
“When will he be here?” says she.
“To-morrow, about two o’clock,” replied Finn with a groan.
“Don’t be cast down,” said Oonagh; “depend on me, and, maybe, I’ll bring you out of this scrape better than ever you could bring yourself.”
This quieted Finn’s heart very much, for he knew that Oonagh was hand-and-glove with the fairies; and, indeed, to tell the truth, she was supposed to be a fairy herself. If she was, however, she must have been a kind-hearted one, for by all accounts she never did anything but good in the neighbourhood.
Now, it so happened that Oonagh had a sister named Granua living opposite to them, on the very top of Cullamore, which I have mentioned already, and this Granua was quite as powerful as herself. The beautiful valley that lies between the Granlisses is not more than three or four miles broad, so that of a summer evening Granua and Oonagh were able to hold many an agreeable conversation across it, from one hill-top to the other. Upon this occasion Oonagh resolved to consult her sister as to what was best to be done in the difficulty that surrounded them.
“Granua,” said she, “are you at home?”
“No,” said the other, “I’m picking bilberries at Althadhawan” (the Devil’s Glen).
“Well,” said Oonagh, “go up to the top of Cullamore, look about you, and then tell us what you see.”
“Very well,” replied Granua, after a few minutes; “I am there now.”
“What do you see?” asked the other.
“Goodness be about us!” exclaimed Granua, “I see the biggest giant that ever was known coming up from Dungannon.”
“Ay,” said Oonagh, “there’s our difficulty. That’s Far Rua, and he’s comin’ up now to leather Finn. What’s to be done?”
I’ll call to him,” she replied, “to come up to Cullamore and refresh himself, and maybe that will give you and Finn time to think of some plan to get yourselves out of the scrape. But,” she proceeded, “I’m short of butter, having in the house only half a dozen firkins, and as I’m to have a few giants and giantesses to spend the evenin’ with me I’d feel thankful, Oonagh, if you’d throw me up fifteen or sixteen tubs, or the largest miscaun you’ve got, and you’ll oblige me very much.”
“I’ll do that with a heart and a half,” replied Oonagh; “and, indeed, Granua, I feel myself under great obligations to you for your kindness in keeping him off us till we see what can be done; for what would become of us all if anything happenedtoFinn, poor man!”
She accordingly got the largest miscaun of butter she had—which might be about the weight of a couple of dozen millstones, so that you can easily judge of its size—and calling up her sister, “Granua,” says she, “are you ready?I’m going to throw you up a miscaun, so be prepared to catch it.”
“I will,” said the other. “A good throw, now, and take care it does not fall short.”
Oonagh threw it, but in consequence of her anxiety about Finn and Far Rua she forgot to say the charm that was to send it up, so that instead of reaching Cullamore, as she expected, it fell about half-way between the two hills at the edge of the Broad Bog, near Augher.
My curse upon you!” she exclaimed, “you’ve disgraced me. I now change you into a grey stone. Lie there as a testimony of what has happened, and may evil betide the first living man that will ever attempt to move or injure you!”
And, sure enough, there it lies to this day, with the mark of the four fingers and thumb imprinted on it, exactly as it came out of her hand.
“Never mind,” said Granua, “I must only do the best I can with Far Rua. If all fail, I’ll give him a cast of heather broth, or a panada of oak bark. But, above all things, think of some plan to get Finn out of the scrape he’s in, or he’s a lost man. You know you used to be sharp and ready-witted; and my own opinion is, Oonagh, that it will go hard with you, or you’ll outdo Far Rua yet.”
She then made a high smoke on the top of the hill, after which she put her finger in her mouth and gave three whistles, and by that Far Rua knew that he was invited to the top of Cullamore—for this was the way that the Irish long ago gave a sign to all strangers and travellers to letthem know they are welcome to come and take share of whatever was going.
In the meantime Finn was very melancholy, and did not know what to do, or how to act at all. Far Rua was an ugly customer, no doubt, to meet with; and, moreover, the idea of the confounded “cake” aforesaid flattened the very heart within him. What chance could he have, strong and brave as he was, with a man who could, when put in a passion, walk the country into earthquakes and knock thunderbolts into pancakes? The thing was impossible, and Finn knew not on what hand to turn him. Right or left, backward or forward, where to go he could form no guess whatever.
Oonagh,” said he, “can you do anything for me? Where’s all your invention? Am I to be skivered like a rabbit before your eyes and to have my name disgraced for ever in the sight of all my tribe, and me the best man among them? How am I to fight this man-mountain—this huge cross between an earthquake and a thunderbolt—with a pancake in his pocket that was once——?”
“Be aisy, Finn,” replied Oonagh. “Troth, I’m ashamed of you. Keep your toe in your pump, will you? Talking of pancakes, maybe we’ll give him as good as any he brings with him—thunderbolts or otherwise. If I don’t treat him to as smart feeding as he’s got this many a day, don’t trust Oonagh again. Leave him to me, and do just as I bid you.”
This relieved Finn very much, for, after all, he had great confidence in his wife, knowing, as he did, that she had got him out of many a quandary before. The present, however, was the greatest of all; but, still, he began to get courageand to eat his victuals as usual. Oonagh then drew the nine woollen threads of different colours, which she always did to find out the best way of succeeding in anything of importance she went about. She then plaited them into three plaits, with three colours in each, putting one on her right arm, one round her heart, and the third round her right ankle, for then she knew that nothing could fail her that she undertook.
Having everything now prepared, she sent round to the neighbours and borrowed one-and-twenty iron griddles, which she took and kneaded into the hearts of one-and-twenty cakes of bread, and these she baked on the fire in the usual way, setting them aside in the cupboard according as they were done. She then put down a large pot of new milk, which she made into curds and whey, and gave Finn due instructions how to use the curds when Far Rua should come. Having done all this, she sat down quite contented waiting for his arrival on the next day about two o’clock, that being the hour at which he was expected—for Finn knew as much by the sucking of his thumb. Now, this was a curious property that Finn’s thumb had; but notwithstanding all the wisdom and logic he used to suck out of it, it could never have stood to him here were it not for the wit of his wife. In this very thing, moreover, he was very much resembled by his great foe, Far Rua; for it was well known that the huge strength that he possessed all lay in the middle finger of his right hand, and that if he happened by any chance to lose it, he was no more, notwithstanding his bulk, than a common man.
At length the next day he was seen coming across the valley, and Oonagh knew that it was time to commence operations. She immediately made the cradle, and desired Finn to lie down in it and cover himself up with the clothes.
“You must pass for your own child,” said she, “so just lie there snug and say nothing, but be guided by me.” This, to be sure, was wormwood to Finn—I mean going into the cradle in such a cowardly manner—but he knew Oonagh very well; and finding that he had nothing else for it, with a very rueful face he gathered himself into it and lay snug, as she had desired him.
About two o’clock, as he had been expected, Far Rua came in. “God save all here!” said he. “Is this where the great Finn M’Coul lives?”
“Indeed it is, honest man,” replied Oonagh. “God save you kindly—won’t you be sitting?”
“Thank you, ma’am,” says he, sitting down. “You’re Mrs. M’Coul, I suppose?”
“I am,” says she, “and I have no reason, I hope, to be ashamed of my husband.”
“No,” said the other; “he has the name of being the strongest and bravest man in Ireland. But, for all that, there’s a man not far from you that’s very anxious of taking a shake with him. Is he at home?”
“Why, no, then,” she replied; “and if ever a man left in a fury he did. It appears that someone told him of a big bosthoon of a giant called Far Rua being down at the Causeway to look for him, and so he set out there to try if he could catch him. Troth, I hope, for the poor giant’ssake, he won’t meet with him, for if he does Finn will make paste of him at once.”
“Well,” said the other, “I am Far Rua, and I have been seeking him these twelve minths, but he always kept clear of me; and I will never rest day or night till I lay my hands on him.”
At this Oonagh set up a loud laugh of great contempt, by the way, and looked at him as if he were only a mere handful of a man.
“Did you ever see Finn?” said she, changing her manner all at once.
“How could I?” said he. “He always took care to keep his distance.”
Ithought so,” she replied. “I judged as much; and if you take my advice, you poor-looking creature, you’ll pray night and day that you may never see him, for I tell you it will be a black day for you when you do. But, in the meantime, you perceive that the wind’s on the door, and as Finn himself is far from home, maybe you’d be civil enough to turn the house, for it’s always what Finn does when he’s here.”
This was a startler, even to Far Rua; but he got up, however, and after pulling the middle finger of his right hand until it cracked three times, he went outside, and getting his arms about the house, completely turned it as she had wished. When Finn saw this he felt a certain description of moisture, which shall be nameless, oozing out through every pore of his skin; but Oonagh, depending upon her woman’s wit, felt not a whit daunted.
“Arrah, then,” said she, “as you’re so civil, maybe you’d do another obliging turn for us, as Finn’s not here to do it himself. You see, after this long stretch of dry weather that we’ve had, we feel very badly off for want of water. Now, Finn says there’s a fine spring well somewhere under the rocks behind the hill there below, and it was his intention to pull them asunder; but having heard of you he left the place in such a fury that he never thought of it. Now, if you try to find it, troth, I’d feel it a kindness.”
She then brought Far Rua down to see the place, which was then all one solid rock; and after looking at it for some time, he cracked his right middle finger nine times, and, stooping down, tore a cleft about four hundred feet deep and a quarter of a mile in length, which has since been christened by the name of Lumford’s Glen. This feat nearly threw Oonagh herself off her guard; but what won’t a woman’s sagacity and presence of mind accomplish?
“You’ll now come in,” said she, “and eat a bit of such humble fare as we can give. Finn, even though you and he were enemies, would scorn not to treat you kindly in his own house; and, indeed, if I didn’t do it even in his absence, he would not be pleased with me.”
She accordingly brought him in, and placing half a dozen of the cakes we spoke of before him, together with a can or two of butter, a side of boiled bacon, and a stack of cabbage, she desired him to help himself—for this, be it known, was long before the invention of potatoes. Far Rua, who, by the way, was a glutton as well as a hero, put one of the cakesin his mouth to take a huge whack out of it, when both Finn and Oonagh were stunned with a noise that resembled something between a growl and a yell. “Blood and fury!” he shouted out. “How is this? Here are two of my teeth out! What kind of bread is this you gave me?”
“What’s the matter?” said Oonagh coolly.
“Matter!” shouted the other. “Why, here are two of the best teeth in my head gone.”
“Why,” said she, “that’s Finn’s bread—the only bread he ever eats when at home; but, indeed, I forgot to tell you that nobody can eat it but himself and that child in the cradle there. I thought, however, that as you were reported to be rather a stout little fellow of your size you might be able to manage it, and I did not wish to affront a man that thinks himself able to fight Finn. Here’s another cake—maybe it’s not so hard as that.”
Far Rua, at the moment, was not only hungry, but ravenous, so he accordingly made a fresh set at the second cake, and immediately another yell was heard twice as loud as the first. “Thunder and giblets!” he roared, “take your bread out of this, or I will not have a tooth in my head; there’s another pair of them gone.”
“Well, honest man,” replied Oonagh, “if you’re not able to eat the bread say so quietly, and don’t be awakening the child in the cradle there. There, now, he’s awake upon me!”
Finn now gave a skirl that frightened the giant, as coming from such a youngster as he was represented to be. “Mother,” said he, “I’m hungry—get me something to eat.”Oonagh went over, and putting into his hand a cakethat had no griddle in it—Finn, whose appetite in the meantime was sharpened by what he saw going forward, soon made it disappear. Far Rua was thunderstruck, and secretly thanked his stars that he had the good fortune to miss meeting Finn, for, as he said to himself, I’d have no chance with a man who could eat such bread as that, which even his son that’s in the cradle can munch before my eyes.
“I’d like to take a glimpse at the lad in the cradle,” said he to Oonagh, “for I can tell you that the infant who can manage that nutriment is no joke to look at or to feed of a scarce summer.”
“With all the veins of my heart,” replied Oonagh. “Get up, acushla, and show this decent little man something that won’t be unworthy of your father, Finn M’Coul.”
Finn, who was dressed for the occasion as much like a boy as possible, got up, and bringing Far Rua out, “Are you strong?” said he.
“Thunder and ounze!” exclaimed the other, “what a voice in so small a chap!”
“Are you strong?” said Finn again. “Are you able to squeeze water out of that white stone?” he asked, putting one into Far Rua’s hand. The latter squeezed and squeezed the stone, but to no purpose; he might pull the rocks of Lumford’s Glen asunder, and flatten a thunderbolt, but to squeeze water out of a white stone was beyond his strength. Finn eyed him with great contempt as he kept straining and squeezing and squeezing and straining till he got black in the face with the efforts.
“Ah, you’re a poor creature,” said Finn. “You a giant! Give me the stone here, and when I’ll show what Finn’s little son can do you may then judge of what my daddy himself is.”
Finn then took the stone, and then, slyly exchanging it for the curds, he squeezed the latter until the whey, as clear as water, oozed out in a little shower from his hand.
“I’ll now go in,” said he, “to my cradle; for I scorn to lose my time with anyone that’s not able to eat my daddy’s bread, or squeeze water out of a stone. Bedad, you had better be off out of this before he comes back, for if he catches you, it’s in flummery he’d have you in two minutes.”
Far Rua, seeing what he had seen, was of the same opinion himself; his knees knocked together with the terror of Finn’s return, and he accordingly hastened in to bid Oonagh farewell, and to assure her that, from that day out, he never wished to hear of, much less to see, her husband. “I admit fairly that I’m not a match for him,” said he, “strong as I am. Tell him I will avoid him as I would the plague, and that I will make myself scarce in this part of the country while I live.”
Finn, in the meantime, had gone into the cradle, where he lay very quietly, his heart in his mouth with delight that Far Rua was about to take his departure without discovering the tricks that been played off on him.
“It’s well for you,” said Oonagh, “that he doesn’t happen to be here, for it’s nothing but hawk’s meat he’d make of you.”
“I know that,” said Far Rua, “divel a thing else he’d make of me; but, before I go, will you let me feel what kind of teeth they are that can eat griddle-cakes likethat?” and he pointed to it as he spoke.
“With all the pleasure in life,” says she; “only as they’re far back in his head you must put your finger a good way in.”
Far Rua was surprised to find so powerful a set of grinders in one so young; but he was still much more so on finding, when he took his hand from Finn’s mouth, that he had left the very finger upon which his whole strength depended behind him. He gave one loud groan and fell down at once with terror and weakness. This was all Finn wanted, who now knew that his most powerful and bitterest enemy was completely at his mercy. He instantly started out of the cradle, and in a few minutes the great Far Rua, that was for such a length of time the terror of him and all his followers, was no more.
William Carleton.
Joseph Campbell.
The Festivities at the House of Conan of Ceann Sleibhe
Win victory and blessings, O Fionn,” said Conan, “and tell me who was the man that, having only one leg, one arm, and one eye, escaped from you in consequence of his swiftness, and outstripped the Fenians of Eire, and why is this proverb used, ‘As Roc came to the house of Fionn’?”
“I will tell you that,” said Fionn. “One day the chief of the Fenians and I went to Teamhair Luachra, and we took nothing in the chase that same day but one fawn. When it had been cooked it was fetched to me for the purpose of dividing it. I gave a portion of it to each of the Fenian chiefs, and there remained none for my own share but a haunch bone. Gobha Gaoithe, son of Ronan, presentedhimself, and requested me to give him the haunch. I accordingly gave it to him. He then declared that I gave him that portion on account of his swiftness of foot: and he went out on the plain, but he had only gone a short distance when Caoilte, son of Ronan, his own brother, overtook him, and brought the haunch back again to me, and we had no further dispute about the matter. We had not been long so when we saw a huge, obnoxious, massy-boned, black, detestable giant, having only one eye, one arm, and one leg, hop forward towards us. He saluted us. I returned the salutation, and asked him whence he came. ‘I am come by the powers of the agility of my arm and leg,’ responded he, ‘having heard there is not one man in the world more liberal in bestowing gifts than you, O Fionn; therefore, I am come to solicit wealth and valuable gifts from you.’ I replied that were all the wealth of the world mine I would give him neither little nor much. He then declared ‘they were all liars who asserted that I never gave a refusal to any person.’ I replied that if he were a man I would not give him a refusal. ‘Well, then,’ said the giant, ‘let me have that haunch you have in your hand, and I will say good-bye to the Fenians, provided that you allow me the length of the haunch as a distance, and that I am not seized upon until I make my first hop.’ Upon hearing this I gave the haunch into the giant’s hand, and he hopped over the lofty stockades of the town; he then made use of the utmost swiftness of his one leg to outstrip all the rest of the Fenians. When the Fenian chiefs saw that, they started in pursuit of the giant, while I and the band of minstrels of the town went to the top of the dun to watch their proceedings. When I saw that the giant had outstripped them a considerable distance, I put on my runninghabiliments, and, taking no weapon but Mac an Loin in my hand, I started after the others. I overtook the hindmost division on Sliabh an Righ, the middle (next) division at Limerick, and the chiefs of the Fenians at Ath Bo, which is called Ath-Luain (Athlone), and those first in the pursuit at Rinn-an-Ruaigh, to the right-hand side of Cruachan of Connacht, where he (the giant) was distant less than a javelin’s cast from me. The giant passed on before me and crossed Eas Roe (now Ballyshannon), of the son of Modhuirn, without wetting his foot. I leaped over it after him. He then directed his course towards the estuary of Binn-Edair, keeping the circuit of Eire to his right hand. The giant leaped over the estuary, and it was a leap similar to flight over the sea. I sprang after him, and having caught him by the small of the back, laid him prostrate on the earth. ‘You have dealt unjustly by me, O Fionn,’ cried the giant; ‘for it was not with you I arranged the combat, but with the Fenians.’ I replied that the Fenians were not perfect, except I myself were with them. We had not remained long thus when Liagan Luaimneach, from Luachar Deaghaidh, came to us. He was followed by Caoilte Mac Ronan, together with the swiftest of the Fenians. Each of them couched his javelin, intending to drive it through the giant and kill him in my arms, but I protected him from their attacks. Soon after this the main body of the Fenians arrived; they enquired what was the cause of the delay that the giant had not been slain. ‘That is bad counsel,’ said the giant, ‘for a better man than I am would be slain in my eric.’ We bound the giant strongly on that occasion; and soon after Bran Beag O’Buadhchan came to invite me to a feast, and all the Fenians of Eire, who had been present,accompanied him to his house. The banqueting hall had been prepared for our reception at that time, and the giant was dragged into the middle of the house, and was there placed in the sight of all present. They asked him who he was. ‘Roc, son of Diocan, is my name,’ replied he, ‘that is, I am son to the Legislator of Aengus of the Brugh in the south. My betrothed poured a current of surprising affection and a torrent of deep love upon Sgiath Breac, son of Dathcaoin yonder, who is your foster son, O Fionn; it hurt my feelings severely to hear her boast of the swiftness and bravery of her lover in particular, and of the Fenians in general, and I declared that I would challenge him and all the Fenians of Eire to run a race with me; but she sneered at me. I then went to my beloved friend, Aengus of the Brugh, to bemoan my fate; and he metamorphosed me thus, and bestowed on me the swiftness of a druidical wind, as you have seen. This is my history for you; and you ought to be well satisfied with all the hurt and injury you have inflicted upon me already.’
Then I repented me of the indignity put upon the giant, and I released him from his bonds and I bade Liagan Luaimneach companion him to the presence of his betrothed one and testify to her on my behalf of his prowess in the race, wherein he had outstripped all the Fenians of Eire, save only myself. So the two went forth together in friendly amity, and Roc, for the champion feat reported of him by Liagan Luaimneach, recovered the affection of his betrothed, and straightway took her to wife. From that adventure, indeed, arose the proverb, ‘As Roccame to the House of Fionn,’ and so that is the answer to your question, O Conan,” said Fionn.
“Win victory and blessings, O Fenian King,” said Conan; “it is with clear memory and sweet words you relate these things. Tell me now the meaning of the byword, ‘The hospitality of Fionn in the house of Cuanna.’”
“I will tell you the truth concerning that, O Conan,” said Fionn. “Oisin, Caoilte, Mac Lughaidh, Diarmuid O’Duibhne, and myself happened one day, above all other days, to be on the summit of Cairn Feargall. We were accompanied by our five hounds, namely, Bran, Sceoluing, Sear Dubh, Luath Luachar, and Anuaill. We had not long been there when we perceived a rough, tall, huge giant approaching us. He carried an iron fork upon his back, and a grunting hog was placed between the prongs of the fork; a young girl of mature age followed and forced the giant on his way before her. ‘Let someone go forward and accost those people,’ said I. Diarmuid O’Duibhne followed, but did not overtake them. The other three and I started up, and followed Diarmuid and the giant. We overtook Diarmuid, but did not come up with the giant or the girl; for a dark, gloomy, druidical mist showered down between us and them, so that we could not discern what road they took. When the mist cleared away we looked around us, and discovered a light-roofed, comfortable-looking house at the edge of the ford near at hand. We proceeded to the house, before which spread a lawn upon which were two fountains. At the brink of one fountain lay a rude iron vessel, and a vessel of bronze at the brink of the other. Those we met in the house were an aged, hoary-headed man standing by the door jamb to the right hand, and a beautiful maid sittingbefore him; a rough, rude, huge giant before the fire busily cooking a hog; and an old man at the other side of the fire, having an iron-grey head of hair and twelve eyes in his head, while the twelve sons (germs) of discord beamed in each eye. There was also in the house a ram with a white belly, a jet-black head, dark-green horns, and green feet; and there was in the end of the house a hag covered with a dark ash-coloured garment. There were no persons in the house except these. The man at the door-post welcomed us; and we five, having our five hounds with us, sat on the floor of the bruighean. ‘Let submissive homage be done to Fionn Mac Cumhaill and his people,’ said the man at the door-post. ‘My case is that of a man begging a request, but obtaining neither the smaller nor the greater part of it,’ said the giant. Nevertheless, he rose up and did respectful homage to us. After a while I became suddenly thirsty, and no person present perceived it but Caoilte, who began to complain bitterly on that account. ‘You have no cause to complain, Caoilte,’ said the man of the door-post, ‘but only to step outside and fetch a drink for Fionn from whichever of the fountains you please.’ Caoilte did so, and fetched the bronze vessel brimful to me and gave me to drink. I took a drink from it, and the water tasted like honey while I was drinking, but bitter as gall when I put the vessel from my lips; so that darting pains and symptoms of death seized me and agonising pangs from the poisonous draught. I could be but with difficulty recognised; and the lamentation of Caoilte on account of my being in that condition was greater than that he had before given vent to on account of my thirst. The man at the door-post desired Caoilte to go out and bring me a drink from the other fountain. Caoilte obeyed, andbrought me the iron vessel brimful. I never underwent so much hardship in battle or conflict as I then suffered while drinking, in consequence of the bitterness of the draught; but as soon as I put the vessel from my lips I recovered my own colour and appearance, and that gave joy and happiness to my people.
“The man then asked if the hog which was in the boiler was yet cooked. ‘It is cooked,’ replied the giant, ‘and allow me to divide it.’ ‘How will you divide it?’ said the man of the house. ‘I will give one hindquarter to Fionn and his hounds; the other hindquarter to Fionn’s four men; the forepart to myself; the chine and rump to the old man who sits at the opposite side of the fire and to the hag in yonder corner; and the giblets to you and the young woman who is opposite to you.’ ‘I pledge my word,’ said the man of the house, ‘you have divided it very fairly.’ ‘I pledge my word,’ exclaimed the ram, ‘that the division is very unfair so far as I am concerned, for I have been altogether forgotten.’ And so saying, he immediately snatched the quarter that lay before my four men, and carried it away into a corner, where he began to devour it. The four men instantly attacked the ram all at once with their swords, but though they laid on violently, it did not affect him in the least, and the blows fell away as from a stone or rock, so that they were forced to resume their seats. ‘Upon my veracity, he is doomed for evil who owns as companions such four fellows as you are, who tamely suffer one single sheep to carry away your food and devour it before your faces,’ exclaimed the man with the twelve eyes; and at the same time going up to the ram, he caught him by the feet and gave him a violent pitch out of the door, so that he fell on his back on the ground;and from that time we saw him no more. Soon after this the hag started up, and having thrown her ashy-grey coverlet over my four men, metamorphosed them into four withered, drooping-headed old men. When I saw that I was seized with great fear and alarm; and when the man at the door-post perceived this, he desired me to come over to him, place my head on his bosom, and sleep. I did so; and the hag got up and took her coverlet off my four men; and when I awoke I found them restored to their own shape, and that was a great happiness to me. ‘O Fionn,’ asked the man of the door-post, ‘do you feel surprised at the appearance and arrangements of this house?’ I assured him that I never saw anything which surprised me more. ‘Well, then, I will explain the meaning of all these things to you,’ said the man. ‘The giant carrying the grunting hog between the prongs of the iron fork, whom you first saw, is he who is yonder, and his name is SLOTH. She who is close to me is the young woman who had been forcing him along, that is ENERGY; and ENERGY compels SLOTH forward with her; for ENERGY moves, in the twinkling of the eye, a greater distance than the foot can travel in a year. The old man of the bright eyes yonder signifies the WORLD; and he is more powerful than anyone, which has been proved by his rendering the ram powerless. That ram which you saw signifies the CRIMES of the man. That hag there beyond is withering OLD AGE, and her clothing has withered your four men. The two wells from which you drank the two draughts mean FALSEHOOD and TRUTH; for while telling a lie one finds it sweet, but it becomes bitter at the last. Cuanna from Innistuil is my own name. I do not reside here, but having conceived a wonderful love foryou, O Fionn, on account of your superiority in wisdom and general celebrity, I therefore put those things into the way before you in order that I might see you. And this story shall be called, to the end of the world, the Hospitality of Cuanna’s House to Fionn. Let you and your men come together, and do ye five sleep until morning.’ Accordingly we did so, and when we awoke in the morning we found ourselves on the summit of Cairn Feargaill, with our hounds and arms by us. So there is the meaning of the byword, ‘The hospitality of Fionn in the house of Cuanna,’ O Conan,” said Fionn.
(Translated from the Irish by Nicholas O’Kearney.)