The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends (40 page)

“Can it be that our sons still live?” demanded the chief of Cinn Tire.

“Shame is my portion,” replied Donall, “I am the only one of the young company to escape.”

They saw that his left hand was covered with a bloody bandage and realised that he had not left the others easily.

“All are perished?” demanded the Lord of Colbhasa.

“As true as I stand here,” nodded Donall and there was grief in his voice.

“How could this be – who brought the curse of the
Eich-Uisge,
the feared Kelpie, upon our people?” It was the chief of lie who spoke, voicing what they all felt a mind to
ask.

The shield-bearer hesitated and looked at the King of Sgìtheanach.

“Speak on, be not afraid,” grunted the king, gazing with downcast eyes as if he could not bring himself to look upon his fellow chieftains.

“It was Iain, son of my Lord of Sgìtheanach,” Donall confessed. “But no blame to him,” he added hurriedly. “The Kelpie appeared to us as a beautiful
creature. It was as white as the froth of the waves, his mane like the restless foam around the rocks of the sea shore. He was a gentle beast and whinnied softly as he pawed with his hooves on the
foreshore.

“We had seen the creature as we sailed in An Cuan Barragh and came on Eilean nam Muc. There was the beast on the foreshore and Prince Iain was the first to cry to us to go ashore and see
what manner of splendid animal this white creature was. Surprise and joy was on us as we landed our ships on the shore and Iain went forward holding out his hand – you all know what pride
Iain took in horses and how he loved them.”

Donall paused. The great chieftains of the island were nodding to themselves.

“Speak on, Donall,” cried the Lord of Diura. “Speak on, though there is pain in my heart each time you utter what must be.”

“Iain stretched out his hand to the creature’s muzzle and the animal nuzzled him. May the gods take pity on us.”

“All our sons, our heirs . . .” The old chieftain of Colla, who had but one son, suddenly placed his old white-haired head in his hands and a sob racked his body.

“Lost, lost and soon our lands and strongholds will be no more. All lost to the Kelpie!” cried the Lord of Leodhas.

“Prince Iain would have severed his hand, had he known the outcome,” cried Donall defensively.

“Would he had done so,” snapped the Lord of Muile.

“But surely he knew?” The Lord of Canaigh raised the question. “Who does not know the ancient lore?”

“This is true,” the Lord of Colbhasa agreed. “All of you have been taught the ancient lore, since you were able to leave your mothers’ arms. You must have
known!”

Donall hung his head in shame. “We knew . . . we had been taught. But we did not believe it. We thought you made up the tale to frighten us. Young men always reject the stories of their
elders.”

“You know, now,” muttered the King of Sgìtheanach.

“And know too late to do anything,” sighed the chieftain of Rum.

“We’d best hear the story out,” observed the taciturn chieftain of Tirodh.

Donall called for a drink and took a sip to fortify himself. “This is the way of it,” he began.

The young sons of the chieftains had seen the magnificent horse on the sands of the Island of Muc, which is the island of pigs. They had landed and petted the great white horse. The young men
thought the beast must be lost, for there was no one rich enough on the island to possess such a creature. Then it was that Iain suggested that they ride on it.

He was the first to mount. But the creature stood waiting patiently and another lad mounted behind. Still the creature waited and then, one by one, all the sons of the chieftains were on his
back; and all seated in comfort without crowding.

Donall, not being a chieftain’s son, waited behind before he was hauled into a precarious perch at the end. Even as he was being lifted up by his companions, the great steed pounded along
the sea shore and then
–
then it took to the sea, speeding across the waves as if they were solid ground. Away, away, towards the red-gold setting sun, flying over the choppy bright
waves.

Donall did not know where they went, except that they darted through great valleys formed by waves and whirlpools of tides and still the hooves of the beast did not sink as much as half an inch
into the water.

Donall confessed that it never even entered their heads to
leap off the back of the Kelpie. None could move off the broad back of the animal. It seemed that wherever their
hands grasped the Kelpie, they were stuck and stuck fast.

It was then that Donall decided to act. Taking out his hunting knife with his right hand he slashed at the fingers of his left, which held tight to the young lord in front of him and the
magnetism of the animal ran through each young son of each chieftain from Iain who held the mane at the front through to Donall’s one hand at the back. With the fingers thus severed, Donall
freed himself of the power of the beast and he sprang from the back of the creature and plunged head-down into the sea.

He peered up and saw the Kelpie, with the chieftains’ sons still astride his white back, and the horse plunging down into the yawning maw of the Corrievreckan, the great whirlpool, which
some said was the entrance into the Otherworld. His last sight of his companions was of youths laughing and joyous, for they did not realise their danger.

Donall swam and swam until the gentle tide washed him ashore at Dùn Bheagain and he made his way to the King of Sgìtheanach to report what had transpired.

There was another silence while the grieving chieftains reflected on his story.

“You cannot accept that there is an end to it!” cried a stentorian voice.

They looked up and saw the tall white-haired figure of Lomar, the King’s Druid.

The Lord of Ile laughed, but with anger not humour. “What would you have us do?”

“Fight the Kelpie’s magic with magic.”

“And the Kelpie as old as the ages themselves? There is no magic that can out-magic the spell of the Kelpie!” It was the Lord of Barragh who spoke, and his wisdom was to be
respected, for his land was on the western rim of the ocean. He knew the ways of the gods and goddesses, for the far west was their resting place.

“Pah!” snapped Lomar. “You would rather use the strength that you have in grieving than fight the evil that has claimed your sons and heirs.”

“The Druid is right,” exclaimed the King of Sgìtheanach. “But what can we do? Our ships would not dare enter the Corrievreckan, for they would be
swept down into the Otherworld.”

“Send a warrior to see Dall, the Blind One,” replied Lomar. “He has the wisdom.”

Now Dall, the Blind One, was a man of ancient wisdom who dwelt on the heights of the Hill of the Red Fox.

“He will be of no help,” cried the Lord of Colla. “No one can fight the Kelpie.”

“Indeed, what can he do, unless he be wise in bringing back the dead to life?” sneered the Lord of Arainn.

“That he cannot do,” cried the Lord of Eige. “Once they have gathered at the House of Donn, Lord of the Dead, the souls of the departed cannot be ferried home again.”

“By the Nine Wells of Manánnan, the Ocean God, I will go to see the Blind One!” cried Donall the shield-bearer, stung by their negative attitudes. “You are all old
women, who would rather hide behind the walls of your fortress than take sword and shield and defy the fate that has taken away your sons. Is that all you care of them?”

The great chieftains of the islands looked at one another, full of surprise that a mere shield-bearer should berate them in such a fashion. But they made no move against him for, in truth, his
words had stirred guilt within them.

“Bold young man, if you can deliver our sons, do so,” sighed the King of Sgìtheanach. “But we shall not raise false hopes in our womenfolk. Not even our wives, the
mothers of our young sons, must know this plan, for fear it come to the ears of the
Eich-Uisge,
the dreadful Kelpie, who has carried them off.”

So it was agreed that no word was spoken of the hope that now lay within their breasts and the lusty sons of the kings of the islands were therefore mourned as dead and throughout the islands.
There was a great sorrowing and a
caoineadh,
which is a keening, a great act of wailing and lamentation.

Donall took his shield and sword and set off immediately for the Hill of the Red Fox and he was not long in looking before he came across Dall, the Blind One, and told him his purpose.

“Trust is the first priority, my son.”

“Trust?”

“With trust, with faith, one can go anywhere or move any obstacle.”

Donall was silent.

“Do you trust me?” asked Dall.

“I . . . I have no one else to trust,” admitted Donall.

Dall smiled. “Your hand is wounded. Give it to me.”

Donall reached out the hand with the severed fingers.

Dall took it and held it a moment. “See that cauldron bubbling away on the heat of the fire?”

“I do,” replied Donall, seeing it in the hearth of Dall’s cabin.

“Put your hand into it. Have trust in me.”

Donall did not hesitate but did so. There was no pain.

“Draw it out now,” ordered Dall.

Great was Donall’s surprise when he saw that his hand was perfectly healed and the fingers regrown.

“We will succeed!” Donall cried with enthusiasm at such a demonstration of power.

“There is only one night of the year when we might do so,” agreed Dall. “In a few days’ time is the feast of Samhuinn, when the sun goes down, and the Otherworld becomes
visible to this world. Souls may cross from one world to another. That is our chance. We may be able to rescue those chieftains’ sons and bring them home during the hour of midnight only.
That feast-day and that time alone is the one time we may hope to rescue the lost chieftains’ sons.”

“How can this be done?”

Dall pursed his lips thoughtfully. He was not a vain man. “I do not know whether it can be accomplished. All I can pledge is that I will try, but faith is the key. If you have faith in me,
then my task might be fulfilled.”

“What task?”

“At midnight on the feast of Samhuinn, I shall come to the castle of the King of Sgìtheanach. I shall stretch out my hands over the waters and order the return of the souls of your
lost companions from the waters of the deep. It will be my strength and knowledge against that of the Otherworld.”

So Donall returned back home and, though he told the King of Sgìtheanach what old Dall had said, he did not tell the daughter of the king, who was sister to his lost
friend, the prince he was shield-bearer to. This girl was named Dianaimh, for she was the “flawless” jewel of the islands, such being the meaning of the name. Now Donall and Dianaimh
were close friends in the way of brother and sister and no more than that. Donall was, in fact, heartsick with love for Dianaimh’s cousin, a girl named Faoinèis.

Now Dianaimh had grown up with the young princes of the islands and had every cause to lament, as had the other women, but she could not bring herself to feel sad for she, too, was in love. It
had happened only a short time before these tragic events. One day, as she was sitting on the sea shore, a little distance away from her father’s castle, by an inlet watching the sea birds
swoop and dance in to warm sun, a handsome young man wandered by. He wore a snow-white shirt and an amazing green parti-coloured
féile-beag,
or kilt, and a
brat-falaich
or
cloak. His skin was snow-white, his eyes green and his hair was the colour of the foam on the waves striking the shore.

Now Dianaimh had been singing a sad song of lost love.

“A sad song is that, sweet lady,” said the young man. “You have brought a tear on my cheek.”

Dianaimh’s heart was full of sorrow for the young man who seemed so sad and handsome. He came and sat at her feet and there was, indeed, a desolation on his features.

“It is not a song of experience for me,” she confided wistfully.

“But the sentiment is there. Yet reach forward and wipe the tear from my cheek and all will be well.”

Now this was a bold thing to say and yet Dianaimh was not
at all upset by it. She felt an urge to do as he asked and make him happy. She reached forward and with her finger,
as gently as she could, she wiped his tear. The tear stuck to her finger and as she drew her hand away, it dropped on her breast above her heart. For a moment it felt warm and comforting. She
looked on the young man with eyes of love.

“Sweet stranger, tell me your name?”

“I am called the
Eich-Uisge,
the Kelpie, lord of the deeps. Do you fear me?”

“Not I,” vowed Dianaimh, yet, deep within her, she knew there was a reason why she should have been scared. But the drop of a Kelpie’s tear makes a mortal its slave and
lover.

“You are my love, Dianaimh,” the lord of the deeps said. “The beating of your heart is like the throb of my pulse.”

Each morning from that day on, Dianaimh and the Kelpie had met at the sea-shore and vowed their love to one another.

They had to part at sunset. The Kelpie was always strict about this. For when the sun came near the western horizon, he had to return to the sea.

“If ever you find me resting when the sun is setting,” the Kelpie admonished, “wake me and tell me to go.”

It happened one late afternoon, Dianaimh and her unearthly lover lay on the sea-shore, sleeping in one another’s arms. Dianaimh woke and saw the sun was near the western rim and she turned
to her lover. He was so handsome and so deep in sleep that she felt it wrong to wake him. When he stirred she crooned a lullaby that sent him back to sleep. So she closed her eyes feeling there
could be little harm in letting him rest a while longer.

She reached out her hand to stroke his silken hair, stroking it gently . . . gently . . . Then she became aware that the silk had a slimy touch to it. She looked with wide eyes. She lay in the
arms of a strange creature, a pale horse, whose coat glistened with slime, with hoofed feet and a flowing white mane. One front hoof, where her lover’s hand had fondly held her hair, was now
twisted in her braid. She tried to start away but the hoof so entwined her hair that she could not move. She felt in her belt for her knife and swiftly cut away the braid, leaving it in the hoof.
Then she crept away.