Irish Fairy Tales, James Stephens [first color ebook reader TXT] 📗

in their veins, and the women of the household fainted where they stood. V

In course of time the news came to Fionn that his mother’s sister was not living with Iollan. He at once sent a messenger calling for fulfilment of the pledge that had been given to the Fianna, and demanding the instant return of Tuiren. Iollan was in a sad condition when this demand was made. He guessed that Uct Dealv had a hand in the disappearance of his queen, and he begged that time should be given him in which to find the lost girl. He promised if he could not discover her within a certain period that he would deliver his body into Fionn’s hands, and would abide by whatever judgement Fionn might pronounce. The great captain agreed to that.

“Tell the wife-loser that I will have the girl or I will have his head,” said Fionn.

Iollan set out then for Faery. He knew the way, and in no great time he came to the hill where Uct Dealv was.

It was hard to get Uct Dealv to meet him, but at last she consented, and they met under the apple boughs of Faery.

“Well!” said Uct Dealv. “Ah! Breaker of Vows and Traitor to Love,” said she.

“Hail and a blessing,” said Iollan humbly.

“By my hand,” she cried, “I will give you no blessing, for it was no blessing you left with me when we parted.”

“I am in danger,” said Iollan.

“What is that to me?” she replied fiercely.

“Fionn may claim my head,” he murmured.

“Let him claim what he can take,” said she.

“No,” said Iollan proudly, “he will claim what I can give.”

“Tell me your tale,” said she coldly.

Iollan told his story then, and, he concluded, “I am certain that you have hidden the girl.”

“If I save your head from Fionn,” the woman of the Shí replied, “then your head will belong to me.”

“That is true,” said Iollan.

“And if your head is mine, the body that goes under it is mine. Do you agree to that?”

“I do,” said Iollan.

“Give me your pledge,” said Uct Dealv, “that if I save you from this danger you will keep me as your sweetheart until the end of life and time.”

“I give that pledge,” said Iollan.

Uct Dealv went then to the house of Fergus Fionnliath, and she broke the enchantment that was on the hound, so that Tuiren’s own shape came back to her; but in the matter of two small whelps, to which the hound had given birth, the enchantment could not be broken, so they had to remain as they were. These two whelps were Bran and Sceólan. They were sent to Fionn, and he loved them for ever after, for they were loyal and affectionate, as only dogs can be, and they were as intelligent as human beings. Besides that, they were Fionn’s own cousins.

Tuiren was then asked in marriage by Lugaidh who had loved her so long. He had to prove to her that he was not any other woman’s sweetheart, and when he proved that they were married, and they lived happily ever after, which is the proper way to live. He wrote a poem beginning:

“Lovely the day. Dear is the eye of the dawn⁠—”

And a thousand merry people learned it after him.

But as to Fergus Fionnliath, he took to his bed, and he stayed there for a year and a day suffering from blighted affection, and he would have died in the bed only that Fionn sent him a special pup, and in a week that young hound became the Star of Fortune and the very Pulse of his Heart, so that he got well again, and he also lived happily ever after.

Oisín’s Mother I

Evening was drawing nigh, and the Fianna-Finn had decided to hunt no more that day. The hounds were whistled to heel, and a sober, homeward march began. For men will walk soberly in the evening, however they go in the day, and dogs will take the mood from their masters.

They were pacing so, through the golden-shafted, tender-coloured eve, when a fawn leaped suddenly from covert, and, with that leap, all quietness vanished: the men shouted, the dogs gave tongue, and a furious chase commenced.

Fionn loved a chase at any hour, and, with Bran and Sceólan, he outstripped the men and dogs of his troop, until nothing remained in the limpid world but Fionn, the two hounds, and the nimble, beautiful fawn. These, and the occasional boulders, round which they raced, or over which they scrambled; the solitary tree which dozed aloof and beautiful in the path, the occasional clump of trees that hived sweet shadow as a hive hoards honey, and the rustling grass that stretched to infinity, and that moved and crept and swung under the breeze in endless, rhythmic billowings.

In his wildest moment Fionn was thoughtful, and now, although running hard, he was thoughtful. There was no movement of his beloved hounds that he did not know; not a twitch or fling of the head, not a cock of the ears or tail that was not significant to him. But on this chase whatever signs the dogs gave were not understood by their master.

He had never seen them in such eager flight. They were almost utterly absorbed in it, but they did not whine with eagerness, nor did they cast any glance towards him for the encouraging word which he never failed to give when they sought it.

They did look at him, but it was a look which he could not comprehend. There was a question and a statement in those deep eyes, and he could not understand what that question might be, nor what it was they sought to convey. Now and again one of the dogs turned a head in full flight, and stared, not at Fionn, but distantly backwards, over the spreading and swelling plain where their companions of the hunt had disappeared.

“They are looking for the