Eyes!” No sooner did the serpent hear the name than she uncoiled from the
tower, lashed the lake, and sent the water over the country. When the
lake bed was dry the serpent rushed toward the Sprisawn with open mouth.
When the Sprisawn saw the serpent he took his sword in both hands and
held it crosswise in front of his face, and when the serpent was coming
to swallow him so great was the force with which she rushed forward and
sucked the air to draw him in, that the Sprisawn split her in two from
the mouth to the tail, dividing the back from the belly, and the two
pieces fell apart like the two halves of a split log of timber.
Miach Lay and Red Bow came then to the Sprisawn and went to the tower,
but if they did, they could not go in.
“Oh,” said the Sprisawn, “if you had all the arms in the world you could
not break through that tower.” He went himself to the door then, and
striking it slightly with his wooden foot, for fear of killing the men
inside by too hard a blow, he burst in the door. The three men inside
came out, and Miach Lay embraced his own brother. All were glad, and
all started for home, but had not gone far when the other two men began
to dispute whose would the king’s daughter be. The first husband said
his claim was strongest; the second said his was. The Sprisawn tried to
settle the quarrel, but could not. “I would advise you,” said he, “to
leave the matter to the first man you meet.”
All agreed to do this.
The Sprisawn now left them and vanished as if he had never been with
them. They had not gone far when they met a man. “Well met,” said they;
“we are glad to see you.”
“What is the trouble that is on you?” asked the man.
“So and so,” said they, telling him the whole story; “and now you are to
be our judge.”
“I will do my best,” said the man, “if each one will be satisfied with my
decision.”
“We will,” said they.
“Now let each man tell his story.”
Each man told his story to the end.
“Who rescued you?” asked he.
“Miach Lay and his forces,” said they.
“Had not this man and his forces come, you would have been there till
this time?”
“We should,” said the three.
“If so,” said the man, “my decision is that the first and second husband
should each be thankful, go to his own people, and get another wife for
himself; and that the daughter of the King of Greece belongs to the
brother of the man who rescued all three.”
The two princes went away toward their own homes, and the man remained,
and who was he when he took his own form again but the Sprisawn. They
went then to the castle where the young lady had entertained Miach Lay,
and whose castle was it but the Sprisawn’s; the young woman was his
daughter. After resting there for some days, the Sprisawn asked Miach Lay
would he marry his daughter. Miach Lay was willing and glad, and remained
there.
Manus and Red Bow returned to the King of Greece. Manus lived in Greece
happily, and so did his children.
The two brothers did well not to marry any woman their father found for
them, for they would not have had the grand ladies that they had in the
end, and Miach Lay had the dominions of the Dark King, as well as those
of the Sprisawn, and they were very rich kingdoms.
THE AMADAN MOR AND THE GRUAGACH OF THE CASTLE OF GOLD.
On a time in Erin the King of Leinster resolved to make war on the King
of Munster, and sent him a message to be ready for battle on a day
mentioned. They raised flags for combat when the day came, and stood face
to face. The forces closed in battle, and were at one another then till
the King of Leinster and his men killed all the warriors of the King of
Munster and the king himself.
After the King of Munster and all his champions were slain, the King of
Leinster thought it better to live in Munster than in his own kingdom, so
he took possession of Munster and went to live in the king’s castle.
The wife of the King of Munster fled in haste to a forest, a thing easily
done, for all Erin was under forests in that time. The queen had a son in
the forest, and after a time she had no clothes for herself or the child.
Hair came out on them as on wild beasts of the wilderness. The child was
thriving and growing; what of him did not grow in the day grew threefold
at night, till at last there was no knowing what size was he.
The queen was seven years without leaving the place around her hut in the
forest. In the eighth year she went forth from the forest and saw her
husband’s castle and open kingdom, and began to weep and lament. There
was a great crowd of people around the castle where she had herself lived
in past years. She went to see what was happening. It was a summer of
great want, and the king was giving out doles of meal to people daily,
and the man who was giving the meal gave her a dole also. He was greatly
surprised when he saw her, and in the evening he was telling the king
that he had never seen such a sight in his life; she was all covered with
hair like a beast of the forest.
“She will come again to-morrow,” said the king; “then do you inquire what
sort is she, and where is her place of abode.”
She went next day to the castle; the man in charge gave her meal. After
she had gone he followed her, and when he was coming near she sat down at
the roadside from shame.
“Fear me not,” said the man. “I wish to know if you are of the dead or
the living, and what sort are you.”
“I am a living person, though I may seem like one from the dead.”
“Where do you live?”
“I have no house or home save a small hut in the forest, and I have the
look of a beast because I eat fruits and leaves of trees and grass of the
earth.”
The man told the king, and the king said, “Tell the woman to-morrow that
I will give her a house of some kind to live in.”
The king gave the strange woman a house, and she went to live with her
son in it. The son was seven years old at that time, and not able to walk
or speak, although he was larger than any giant. His mother had called
him Micky, and soon he was known as Micky Mor (Big Micky).
She was there for awhile in the house with her son, and she taking doles
of food like any poor person. One fine summer day she was sitting at the
doorstep, and she began to weep and lament.
“What is the cause of your crying?” asked the boy, who had never spoken
before till that moment.
“God’s help be with us,” said the mother. “It is time for you to get
speech. Thank God you are able to talk now.”
“It is never too late, mother.”
“That is right, my child,” said she, “it is better late than never.”
“Tell me, mother, why do you cry in this way and lament?”
“It is no use for me to tell you, my child; three men have just gone back
to the strand, and once I was able to give the like of them a good warm
dinner.”
“Well, mother, you must go and invite them to dinner this time.”
“What have I to give them to eat, my poor child?”
“If you have nothing to give them but only to be talking till morning,
you will have to go and invite them.”
When she was ready he said: “Mother, before you go tie my two hands to
the beam that is here in the house above the hearth, that I may not fall
in the fire while you are absent.”
Before the mother went out she passed a rope under his arms, tied him to
the cross-beam, and put a stool under his feet. He kicked the stool away;
he had to pull and drag himself to swing, the fire was catching his feet,
the beam was cracking from his weight and the swinging. The sinews of his
legs stretched, he got his footing then, and walked to the door.
“Thanks be to God,” said the mother, when she came back. “It is curious
how your talk and your walk came to you on the one day.”
“It is nearly always the case that ’tis together talk and walk come to
a child; but now it is time for us to be providing something for the
friends that are coming to-night.”
He went away then and asked the man who brought turf out of the reeks to
the king’s castle to give him as much as would make fire for himself and
his mother for the night.
“Go away,” said the man; “I will not give you a sod of turf. Go to the
king and get an order; then I will give you turf in plenty.”
“I would not be tiring myself going for an order, but I will have plenty
in spite of you.”
Micky took away then a great basket of turf and no thanks to the man.
“Well, mother,” said he, “here is turf enough for you, and make down a
good fire.”
He went to the mill and said to the miller: “My mother sent me for flour.
There will be three at the house to-night, and what will not be used will
be brought to you in the morning.”
“You stump of a fool, why should I give you flour? Go to my master, the
king; if he gives an order, I will give you flour in plenty.”
Micky caught the miller. “I will put you,” said he, “in one of the
hoppers of the mill unless you make away with yourself out of this.”
The miller ran away in dread that Micky would kill him. Micky laid hold
of a strong, weighty chain, and tied a great sack of flour and put it on
his back. When the sack was across his back he could not pass through the
doorway, and knew not what to do.
“It would be a shame for me to say of the first load I put on my back
that I left that same after me.” He stepped backward some paces and made
such a rush that he carried out the frame of the door with him.
“Well, mother,” said he, “we have fire and flour enough now, and let you
be making loaves for the visitors.”
He went next to the woman in charge of the milk-house. “It is hither my
mother sent me for a firkin of butter. There are three strangers above
in our house. What will be left of the butter I will bring back in the
morning, and all my own help and assistance to you for a week to come.”
“Be out of my milk-house, you stump of a fool,” said the woman. “What
assistance can you give to pay for my milk and butter?”
“Let you be out of this, my good woman,” said Micky, “or I will not
leave much life in you from this day out.”
She went away in a hurry, and he carried a firkin of butter home on his
shoulder.
“Now, mother,” said he, “you have bread, fire, butter, and all things you
need. If we had a bit of meat, that would be all that we care for.”
He went away then and never stopped nor stayed till he reached the place
where all the king’s fine fat sheep were. He caught up one and brought it
home on his shoulder.
Next day the turf-keeper, the miller, the dairywoman, and the shepherd
went to complain to the king of what Micky had done.
“It is not luck we asked for the first day we drew him on us,” said the
king.
The king started and never stopped nor stayed till he went to his old
druid. “Such a man as we have brought on us,” said the king. “Tell me now
how to put an end to him.”
“There is,” said the druid, “a black mad hound in a wood beyond the
mountain. Tell Micky that you lost that hound one day in the hunt, and to
bring her and he will be well paid for his trouble.”
The king sent for Micky, and told him all as the druid advised.
“Will you send any man with me to show me the road?”
“I will,” said the king.
Micky and the man were soon travelling along the road toward the
mountain. When Micky thought it too slow the man was walking, he asked,
“Have you any walk better than that?”
“Why, then, I have not,” said the man, “and I am tired, and it is because
I have such a good walk that I was sent with you.”
Micky took up his guide, put him under his arm, with the man’s head near
his own breast, and they began to talk as Micky moved forward. When they
came near the wood, the man said, “Put me down, and beware of the hound.
Be not rash with her, or she may harm you.”
“If she is a hound belonging to a king or a man of high degree, it must
be that she has training and will come with me quietly. If she will not
come gently, I will make her come in spite of her.”
When he went into the wood the hound smelt him and rushed at his throat
to tear him to pieces. He hurled her off quickly, and then she made a
second drive at him, and a fierce one.
“Indeed,” said Micky, “you are an impudent hound to belong to a king;”
and, taking a long, strong tree branch, he gave her a blow on the flank
that raised her high in the air.
After that blow the hound ran away as fast as her legs could carry her,
and Micky made after her with all the speed of his own legs to catch
her. On account of the blow she was losing breath fast, and he was
coming nearer and nearer, till at length he ran before her and drove her
in against the ditch. When she tried to go one way he shook the branch
before her, and when she tried to rush off in another direction, he shook
it there too, till he forced her into the road, and then she was mild and
quiet and came with him as gently as any dog.
When he was near home some one saw Micky and the mad hound with him. A
messenger ran and told the king he was coming and the mad hound walking
with him. The king gave orders to close every door in the castle. He was
in dread that the hound would devour every one living.
When the hound was brought before the closed door of the castle the king
put his head out the window and said, “That hound has been so long astray
that she is of no use to me now; take her to your mother, and she will
mind the house for her.”
Micky took the hound home, and she was that tame and watchful that not a
hen, nor a duck, nor a goose belonging to the king’s castle could come
near the house.
The king went to the druid a second time, and asked, “What can I do to
kill Micky Mor?”
“There is a raging wild boar in the woods there beyond that will tear him
to pieces,” said the druid. “Tell Micky Mor that one of the servants,
when coming from the town, lost a young pig, that the pig is in that
wood, and to bring him.”
The king sent for the boy, and said, “One of my men lost a young pig
while coming from the town; it is in that wood there beyond. If you’ll go
to the wood and bring the pig hither, I’ll pay you well when you come.”
“I will go,” said the boy, “if you will send some one to show me the wood
where the pig is.”
The king sent a man, but not the man who went the first time with Micky
Mor, for that man said, “I am tired, and haven’t the strength to go.”
They went on then, walking toward the wood. This guide grew tired like
the first man, for the wood was far distant from the castle of the king.
When he was tired, the boy put him under his arm, and the two began to
chat away as they journeyed. When near the wood, the man begged and said,
“Micky Mor, put me down now: it is a mad boar that is in the wood; and if
you are not careful, he will tear you to pieces.”
“God help you!” said Micky; “’tis the innocent man you are to let such a
small thing put dread on you.”
“I will leave you,” said the guide: “I cannot help you; you are able to
fight the battle yourself.”
Away went the man; and when Micky Mor entered the wood, the wild boar was
facing him, and the beast foaming from both sides of the mouth. As the
guide had warned him to be on his guard, Micky gave one spring out of
his body, and came to the boar with such a kick that his leg went right
into the mouth of the beast, and split his jaw back to the breast. The
wild boar dropped lifeless, and the boy was going home, leaving the great
beast behind him. He stopped then, and said to himself, “If I go back
without the boar, the king will not believe that I met him at all.” He
turned back, caught the wild boar by the hind legs, and threw him across
his shoulders.
The king thought, “As he brought the mad hound the first day, he may
bring the wild boar to me this time.” He placed guards on all roads
leading to the castle.
The guards saw Micky coming with the boar on his back. Thinking the boar
alive, they ran hither and over, closed every door, window, hole, or
place that a mouse might pass through, for fear the wild boar would tear
them to pieces.
The youth went up to the castle, and struck the door; the king put his
head out the window, and asked, “Can it be that you have the wild boar?”
“I have him; but if I have, he is dead.”
“As he is dead, you might take him home to your mother; and, believe me,
he will keep you in meat for a long while.”
The king went to the druid again.
“I have no advice for you this time,” said the druid, “but one: he is of
as good blood as yourself; and the best thing you can do is to give him
your daughter to marry.”
This daughter was the king’s only child, and her name was Eilin Og. The
king sent for the youth then, and said, “I will give you my daughter to
marry.”
“It is well,” said Micky Mor; “if you give her in friendship, I will take
her.”
Micky Mor made himself ready; they gave him fine clothes, and he seemed
fit to marry any king’s daughter. After the marriage he was a full week
without going to see his own mother.
When he went to her at the end of the week, she cried out, “What is
keeping you away from me a whole week?”
“Dear mother,” said he, “it is I that have met with the luck. I got the
king’s daughter to marry.”
“Go away out of my sight, and never come near me again!”
“Why so, mother, what ails you? Could I get a better wife than a king’s
daughter?”
“My dear son, if she is a king’s daughter, you are a king’s son, so you
are as high as she.”
“If I am a king’s son, why have you and I been so poor?”
She told him then that the king had killed his father and all his forces,
and that the whole castle and kingdom had belonged to his father.
“Why did you not tell me that long ago?”
“I would never have told you,” said she, “but that you have married the
murderer’s daughter.”
Away went the son when he heard what his mother said, and the eyes
going out of his head with wild rage, and he saying that he would kill
every one living about the king’s castle. The people in the castle saw
him coming, and thought from his looks that his mother had said some
strong words to him, and they closed every door and window against him.
The young man put his shoulder to the door of the castle, and it flew
in before him. He never stopped nor stayed till he went to the highest
chamber of the castle to the king and queen, killing every one that came
in his way. “Pardon me! Spare me!” cried the king.
“I will never kill you between my own two hands; but I’ll give you the
chance that you gave my own father while the spear was going from the
hand to his breast.” With that, he caught the king, and threw him out
through the window. When he had all killed who did not flee before
him, he could find no sight of his own wife, though he looked for her
everywhere.
“Well, mother,” said he when he went home, “I have all killed before me,
but I cannot find my own wife.”
The mother went with him to search for the wife, and they found her in a
box. When they opened the box, she screamed wildly.
“Sure, you know well that I did not marry you to kill you; have no fear.”
She was glad to have her life. Micky Mor then moved into the castle, and
had his father’s kingdom and property back again. After awhile he went to
walk one day with his wife, Eilin Og. While he was walking for himself,
the sky grew so dark that it seemed like night, and he knew not where to
go; but he went on till he came at last to a roomy dark glen. When he was
inside in the glen, the greatest drowsiness that ever came over a man
came over him.
“Eilin Og,” said he, “come quickly under my head, for sleep is coming on
me.”
“It is not sleep that is troubling you, but something in this great
gloomy glen, where you were never before in your life.”
“Oh, Eilin Og, come quickly under my head.”
She came under his head, and he got a short nap of sleep. When he woke,
hunger and thirst came on him greater than ever came upon any man ever
born. Then a vessel came to him filled with food, and one with drink.
“Taste not the drink, take not a bite of the food, in this dark glen,
till you know what kind of a place is it.”
“Eilin Og, I must take one drink. I’ll drink it whomsoever it vexes.”
He took a draught hard and strong from the vessel; and that moment the
two legs dropped off Micky Mor from the knees down.
When Eilin Og saw this, she fell to wailing and weeping.
“Hold, hold, Eilin Og! silence your grief; a head or a leg will not be in
the country unless I get my two legs again.”
The fog now dispersed, and the sky became clear. When he saw the sky
clear, he knew where to go; and he put his knife and spear and wife on
the point of his shoulder. Then his strength and activity were greater,
and he was swifter on his two knees than nine times nine other men that
had the use of their whole legs.
While he was going on, he saw huntsmen coming toward him. A deer passed
him. He threw the spear that he had in his hand; it went through
the deer, in one side and out through the other. A white dog rushed
straightway after the deer. Micky Mor caught the deer and the dog, and
kept them.
Now a young Gruagach, light and loose, was the first of the huntsmen to
follow the white dog. “Micky Mor,” said he, “give me the white dog and
the deer.”
“I will not,” said Micky. “For it is myself that did the slaughter,
strong and fierce, that threw the spear out of my right hand and put it
through the two sides of the deer; and whoever it be, you or I, who has
the strongest hand, let him have the white dog and the deer.”
“Micky Mor,” said Eilin Og, “yield up the white dog and the deer.”
“I will,” said he, “and more if you ask; for had I obeyed you in the
glen, the two legs from the knees down would not have gone from me.”
The hunter, who was the Gruagach of Dun an Oir, was so glad to get his
white dog and deer that he said, “Come with me, Micky Mor, to my castle
to dinner.”
The three were then passing along by the strand of Ard na Conye to the
Gruagach’s castle, when whom should they meet but a champion who began to
talk with the men; but, seeing Eilin Og, he stopped on a sudden and asked
Micky Mor, “Who is this woman with you? I think there is not another of
such beauty in all the great world.”
“That is my wife, Eilin Og,” said Micky Mor.
“It is to find her that I am here, and to take her in spite of herself or
her father,” said the champion.
“If you take her, you will take her in spite of me,” said Micky Mor; “but
what champion are you with such words?”
“I am Maragach of the Green Gloves from Great Island. I have travelled
the world twice, and have met no man to match me. No weapons have hurt my
skin yet or my body. Where are your arms of defence in this great world,
Micky Mor?”
“I have never wished for a weapon but my own two fists that were born
with me.”
“I name you now and forever,” said Maragach, “the Big Fool (Amadan Mor).”
“Not talk of the mouth performs deeds of valor, but active, strong bones.
Let us draw back now, and close with each other. We shall know then who
is the best man; and if there is valor in you, as you say, you dirty
little Maragach, I will give you a blow with strength that will open your
mouth to the bone.”
They went toward each other then threateningly, and closed like two
striking Balors or two wild boars in the days of the Fenians, or two
hawks of Cold Cliff, or two otters of Blue Pool. They met in close,
mighty struggle, with more screeching than comes from a thousand. They
made high places low, and low places high. The clods that were shot away
by them, as they wrestled, struck out the eye of the hag in the Eastern
World, and she spinning thread at her wheel.
Now Maragach drew his sword strong, keen-edged, and flawless; this sword
always took with the second blow what it did not cut with the first; but
there was no blow of it that time which the Big Fool did not dodge, and
when the sun was yellow at setting, the sword was in small bits, save
what remained in the hand of the champion. That moment the Fool struck
the champion a blow ’twixt neck and skull, and took the head off his body.
The three went on then to the castle of Dun an Oir (Castle of Gold), and
had a fine dinner. During the dinner they were discoursing and telling
tales; and the Gruagach’s wife took greatly to heart the looks that her
husband was giving Eilin Og, and asked, “Which is it that you will have,
Negil Og’s daughter or the wife of the Big Fool?”
Said Eilin Og to the Gruagach’s wife, “This man’s name is not the Big
Fool in truth or in justice, for he is a hero strong and active; he
is master of all alive and of every place. All the world is under his
command, and I with the rest.”
“If he is all this, why did he let the legs go from him?” asked the
Gruagach’s wife.
Eilin Og answered, “I have said that he has high virtues and powers; and
only for the drink that was brought him in the dark lonely glen, he would
not have let the legs go from him.”
The Gruagach was in dread that the Big Fool might grow angry over their
talks, and that enchantment would not get the upper hand of strength, and
said, “Give no heed to woman’s talk, Micky Mor, but guard my castle, my
property, and my wife, while I go to the Dun of the Hunt and return.”
“If any man comes in in spite of me,” said Micky Mor, “while you are
absent, believe me, he will not go out in spite of me till you return.”
The Gruagach went off then, and with the power of his enchantment put a
heavy sleep on Micky Mor.
“Eilin Og,” said he, “come quickly under my head, for over-strong sleep
has come on me.”
Eilin Og came under his head, and he got a short nap of sleep. The
Gruagach returned soon in a different form altogether, and he took a kiss
from his own wife.