The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends (15 page)

Fionn picked the greatest of his warriors and hurried to the shore, where the ships of Colgáin were beaching, spewing out their great bands of battle-hungry warriors. Without pause, Fionn
and his men rushed into the conflict and a bloody battle followed. For several days it raged, without victory on either side.

Then it was that Oscar, the deer-lover, son of Oisín, the “little deer”, who in turn was son of the mighty Fionn himself, found himself in single combat with Colgáin,
King of Lochlann. Both men were evenly matched and strong were their weapons. Soon their spears were shattered and then their shields were split asunder so that all they had were their powerful
swords. Finally, Oscar came in under the guard of the King of Lochlann and shattered his head with a hard blow.

No sooner did the head of the king roll on the floor than
the oldest son of the King of Lochlann rushed forward and fought with Oscar. To and fro they struggled, for the boy
was armed with grief and anger which gave strength to his sword-arm. Finally, Oscar used his battle foresight and managed to cleave the young man so that his head was also swept from him, the body
falling one way and the head the other.

The reserve battalions of the Fianna, gathering from the four corners of Éireann, had arrived. They rushed forward on the warriors of Lochlann and so wielded their weapons that none
escaped back to their boats alive. There was only one son of Lochlann left alive on the battlefield. That was the youngest son of the king, whose name was Míogach Mac Colgáin. It was
Fionn Mac Cumhaill himself who took charge of the boy, making him a hostage, for he was but a child who had only been brought along to witness his father’s deeds of bravery. It was the custom
for prisoners caught in war to become hostages and in Éireann hostages were well treated.

Fionn took the boy to live in his fortress at Almain, the Hill of Allen, whose ramparts enclosed many white-walled dwellings and a great hall towered in its midst. Here the boy grew to manhood
in comfort, but with the remembrance of the defeat of his father and his brother and the men of Lochlann ever lingering.

One day, one of Fionn’s great warriors, Conán Mhaol, the Bald, son of Morna, observing the brooding face of the young man, took Fionn aside. “You are doing a foolish thing, my
chief,” he commented.

“How so?” demanded Fionn.

“It is foolish to keep the son of the dead King of Lochlann in your company, now that he has grown to manhood. You must know how much he hates you and Oscar, your grandson. Indeed, he
hates all the warriors of the Fianna. Did we not defeat and destroy his father, his brother and all the warriors of Lochlann?”

Fionn thought a moment and then nodded slowly. “You are right, Conán. What should I do?”

“It is the right of hostages of noble birth to be apportioned land to dwell upon and work as they please. Give him land
and let him remove himself there. Then he will
not be a danger to you.”

“That is a good counsel,” declared Fionn.

Fionn told the youth that he could have such land in Fionn’s domains along the Shannon as he wished. The young man chose an island in the great river and made up the total amount of the
land by a small area on the mainland opposite the island. There was a reason he chose this island and the land on the shore. They were both sheltered harbours and the young man was already plotting
how he could bring shiploads of warriors from Lochlann and its allies to land there and attack Fionn and his Fianna and destroy them. So great was his hatred of the men of Éireann that he
had never ceased plotting his revenge, in all the years he had been Fionn’s hostage.

Míogach Mac Colgáin had a fine comfortable
rath
built there and received tribute of the people dwelling there. But never did he offer hospitality there to any man of
Éireann; no food nor drink would he part with to any who called at his house, unless that person was a stranger to the shores of Éireann.

Some years passed and no more was heard of Míogach, son of the King of Lochlann. Then, one day, Fionn Mac Cumhaill and the leading members of the Fianna were hunting in the southland on
Cnoc Fírinne. They had paused in the hunt to take a drink and rest and, while they were doing so, Fionn espied a tall man, large of limb and strongly built, with the accoutrements of a
warrior. A shield hung from his shoulder, there was a great sword at his side and he carried a spear of weight and length. He made for Fionn and saluted him.

“Greetings, warrior,” replied Fionn. ‘Who are you?”

Now Conán had been sitting by Fionn and he frowned. “Do you not know him?” he asked his leader in a whisper.

Fionn frowned; although there was something familiar about the young warrior, he shook his head. “I do not.”

“You ought to know him,” replied Conán. “It is for you to know your friends and recognise your enemies. This man is Míogach Mac Colgáin, son of the dead
King of Lochlann.”

Fionn rose, recognising his hostage. “You have grown into
a fine-looking warrior, Míogach. Do you mean me harm or are your intentions good?”

“My intentions, according to my lights, are good. I came to bid you accept my hospitality at my
rath
, which stands not far from here, on the shore of the Shannon.”

Conán swiftly intervened. “Beware of this, my chieftain. He has never offered the meat nor drink of hospitality to any champion of Éireann.”

“That is because I had no meat nor drink to offer,” the young man said hastily. “Now I have the hospitality to offer, allow me to make you my first guest, Fionn.”

Now Fionn liked to believe the best of people and so he was satisfied and accepted Míogach’s hospitality. He told his son Oisín to take command of the Fianna when he was away
and to encamp them at Sliabh na mBan. He took with him Conán, and Conán’s brother Goll, and Faolán and Glas Mac Aonchearda for his companions, and they followed
Míogach to his
rath.

Now Míogach’s
rath
on the banks of the Shannon was a breathtaking sight, but no more noble than its interior. Míogach led them inside and they found the walls all
lined with silks of richest red. Every part was in the most spectacular colours that could be imagined. Even the surly Conán was forced to voice his praise of it. In the hallway, they put
aside their armour and their weapons – for it was a prohibition of the land to enter a feasting hall with arms.

Then Míogach led them into a great wondrous dining room and pointed to their places at the long oak wood table. Míogach then excused himself, saying he had to tell the servants to
make ready the meal and bring them wine, and he went out and closed the door.

For a while, the four heroes stood chatting about the splendours of the house, and then they realised that time was passing.

“Míogach has left us a considerable time without drink and food,” observed Fionn.

“Míogach has not returned,” pointed out Conán. “Where is he?”

“Look to the fire, Fionn,” Goll suddenly cried. “The fire
that was blazing well when we entered and giving forth the sweet odour of pine and applewood, now
smokes and carries the repugnant stench of rotting corpses.”

“Look at the walls, Fionn,” cried Faolán. “The tapestries which were of softest silk are now decaying rags and beneath them the polished red panels of yew are just rough
planks of birch fastened with hazel twigs.”

“Look at the doors, Fionn,” cried Glas. “Where once there were seven doors in this room, there is now no door at all, save one crack to the north which lets in snow and the icy
breath of the north wind, even though it was summer when we came here.”

And they all realised that the polished wooden floor had gone, the table and even the chairs they had sat in had vanished and they were sprawled on the cold, damp earth.

“Rise up!” gasped Fionn. “I recognise this magic. We are in the House of Death, which is draining our souls of vigour. Let us rise up and leave this place!”

Conán tried to struggle up but could not move from his place.

“We are pinned to the earth,” cried Goll.

“What can we do?” wailed Faolán, who was brave in battle, but no man was brave against the magic of evil sorcerers.

“I should have listened to Conán,” cried Fionn. “The son of the King of Lochlann has long planned this revenge. We have been brought here so that we may be drained of
our vitality and die.”

Now in his youth, Fionn had baked the Salmon of Knowledge for Finegas the Druid, who dwelt beside the Boyne. And as Fionn had been turning the spit, his thumb had brushed the flesh of the fish
and, on sucking it, he obtained wisdom. So now Fionn sucked his thumb and he knew what fate was in store for Éireann if he and the Fianna perished.

“Míogach has long been plotting his revenge, my friends. He has brought great warriors from Lochlann and all the lands allied to that north kingdom. Even Daire Donn, the King of the
World, has come with all his warriors. There is Sinnsior na gCath from Greece, and twenty-six sub-kings
with him; and every sub-king has twenty-six battalions of warriors and
can fight twenty-six battles before they tire. Each battalion has thirty great champions in them. There are the three kings from Inis Tuile and they are equal to three evil dragons. There are Neim,
Aig and Aitceas, champions who can never be taken in battle. It is Neim, Aig and Aitceas who prepared the curse of this house for Míogach. We have only one way to escape from it, only one
way to sever the invisible bonds that keep us tied to the earth . . .”

“What is that?” demanded Conán.

“We have to rub our limbs with the blood of the three kings of Inis Tuile.”

“More easily said than done,” pointed out Faolán.

Fionn sat awhile sucking his thumb and then he said: “We are faced with death and must have courage. What is to be done, when we wait for death?”

“Why,” said Conán, “nothing is left but to sing the
dord-fhiann
while we wait for death.”

The
dord-fhiann
was a warrior’s chant, often intoned before a battle and accompanied by the beating of the spear-shafts against the shield. But they had no spears nor shields.

“That is what we shall do,” affirmed Fionn. “We will raise our voices in the
dord-fhiann
and sing as mournfully as we can when we see death approaching.”

So they sang.

On the peak of Sliabh na mBan, Oisín, son of Fionn, turned to his brother Fia. “What is that humming I hear?”

Fia listened intently. “It is the
dord-fhiann
, which is sung only in time of great peril. It is Fionn’s voice which is raised there: Fionn, Conán, Goll, Faolán
and Glas. They are in peril.”

“Go and scout the land and see what ails them,” Oisín instructed.

So Fia, with Insin Mac Suibhne, rode off towards the Shannon and came to the foreshore near the house of Míogach.

“It is indeed our Fianna brethren,” cried Insin.

They approached the walls of the house.

“Fionn? Are you in there?” hissed Fia through the wall, for they could find no door nor windows.

“Is that the voice of Fia that I hear?” came Fionn’s response.

“Indeed, it is.”

“Do not come near to us, for we are tied to the earth by some black enchantment. Beyond the ford through the river to the island is a mighty army gathering. It means no good to
Éireann.”

Fia turned to Insin and warned him.

“Who is that with you?” came Fionn’s voice.

“It is Insin, your foster-son.”

“You must leave this place and get back to your brother Oisín and tell him what has befallen us.”

“It is unseemly for us to leave you here, undefended and in danger,” protested Fia.

There was a silence.

“Then one of you guard us while the other goes to the camp of Míogach on the island and finds out what is being planned.”

It fell to Insin’s lot to go down to the ford which separated the shore of the Shannon from the island in midstream, while Fia continued on to the camp of the King of Lochlann’s son
on the island.

It so happened that at that very moment when Fia came to the island, Sinnsior na gCath, the King of Greece, was boasting that he would cross the ford, enter the enchanted house, take off the
head of Fionn and bring it back to the gathered enemies of Éireann. He had taken a hundred of his men and began to pass over the ford. Fia missed them in the darkness of the night, for he
had circled behind the camp as Sinnsior led his men from the gate.

So Sinnsior crossed the ford and, in the darkness, saw a young man waiting for him.

“Hello, boy,” he growled, for Insin was young. “Will you be a guide to me and show me where Míogach’s magic house is, in which Fionn and his companions are? I mean
to take his head and those of his companions and bring them back to Daire Donn, King of the World.”

Insin chuckled dryly. “A bad guard would I be if you did that, for I am Insin of the Fianna. Come to shore and I will greet you with a fine death.”

Sinnsior gave a great battle-cry and led his warriors racing through the shallows of the ford towards the shore. And a battle-fever came on Insin and he set about him, until all one hundred
warriors of Sinnsior were destroyed and only the King of Greece was left alive. Insin was now so full of wounds, having fought so furiously, that he fell dead at Sinnsior’s feet. The king
immediately cut off the head and took it for his own trophy.

“Now I will go back for more men,” Sinnsior said to himself, seeing his warriors stretched into the water and the water red with blood. “I will fetch more men and then I will
take the head of Fionn Mac Cumhaill.”

So he turned and hurried back across the ford to the island.

It was at that moment that Fia, having finished his scouting, came to the river to pass back again and saw the King of Greece crossing towards him.

“Who are you?” demanded Fia.

“I am Sinnsior of Greece. I went across to get the head of Fionn Mac Cumhaill and met a great champion guarding the ford and he killed one hundred of my best men before I was able to slay
him.”

Sinnsior was given to boasting.

Fia pursed his lips scornfully. “I wonder that you yourself are not marked, nor that you did not fall first, leading your men.”