Heroes of the dawn/The Enchantment of Tara
THE ENCHANTMENT OF TARA
It was the eve of Samhain, and a bitter north wind was shrieking round the llath of the Kings at Tara, carrying on its icy breath frequent showers of snow and hail. But the cold fury of the storm did not enter the great dun, warm with many fires and bright with the light from a hundred candles, each in its own bronze sconce, and the metal rims of the warriors' shields hanging on the walls reflected the light in a myriad rays. For to-night the solemn feast of Samhain began, and from all the provinces of Ireland the kings, with their chief nobles and warriors, had come to keep it with the high king—Conn the Hundred-Fighter—at Tara.
The night was passing by, and the great company gathered together were eating and drinking, but instead of laughter and the cheerful sound of voices and music—as was usual at the feast of Samhain—there was silence; and deep gloom rested over all, from the high king to the serving-men. Suddenly the graven bronze doors of the dun opened, and a boy, taller than the tallest warrior there, entered the hall. His mantle of skins was white with the falling snow, which glittered on his fair hair and flecked his face with water. His blue eyes gazed serenely around him for a moment, then with confident step he walked up the hall, through the host of warriors seated there, and stood at a short distance from the king's table.
Conn looked at him, wondering who this youth, with the form of a hero, and the face of a young untried boy, could be. Then he called the boy nearer, and questioned him:
"I do not think I have seen you before," said Conn. "Who are you, and have you entered my service?"
"I am Fionn mac Cumall," answered the boy, "son of that great chief of the Clan Basna who met his death fighting the Clan Morna years ago. All the years since then I have been outlawed by the Clan Morna, but now I have come to take service with you and seek your friendship."
"That I willingly give to the son of Cumall," said the king, "for your father was a man of honour, and a noble, courteous enemy, and in all his life I never knew him to perform an ill deed."
Then the king took Fionn by the hand, and placed him next to his own son, who was called Art the Lonely, and they feasted and talked together.
After a time the king stood up, and every eye was turned towards him as he began to speak:
"Kings and men of Ireland," he said, "not for us this night will there be rest or peace. For many years now, as you know, on every Samhain eve Aillen mac Midna, that unconquerable enchanter, has come from the north and destroyed Tara, burning it to the ground, and to-night he will surely come again. Is there one among you all who will take it upon himself to keep guard over Tara, and kill this enchanter? If there is I will give him lands and wealth, and to the end of his days he shall never know care or want."
All the kings and nobles and warriors looked at each other, but not a word spoke any one of them. For they remembered former years, when Aillen mac Midna had come from his secret home beyond the Boyne to Tara, and his coming had always been heralded by a sweet, slow music, which had stolen their senses from them, and left their eyelids fast closed in a faery sleep. They remembered, too, that though Conn had always on Samhain eve encircled his dun with a treble line of his bravest men, it availed him nothing, for at the sound of that distant melody they sank to the ground in a deep slumber which only the dawn-light dispelled. Now they all remained silent, while a surge of shame and anger swept over them because, for all their acknowledged skill and courage in battle, they were unable to subdue this strange enemy.
The king sighed deeply, then suddenly a clear, youthful voice rang through the hall:
"I will guard Tara this night, O king," said the boy Fionn, "and I pledge my word that no hurt shall happen to it."
A ripple of laughter rang through the hall when the boy stood up and spoke so bravely, taking upon himself the defence of Tara, which not even the most courageous man there would do that one particular night of the year. The king regarded Fionn steadfastly, and some glint in the boy's blue eyes, and a curious light which now and again flashed and shone round his head, brought hope to Conn's heart that this night Tara would not be doomed.
"I accept your pledge," said the king, "for though your years are only those of a boy, your spirit is that of a hero. If you fail—and many great warriors have failed before—to avert from Tara the desolation that has fallen upon it so often, I shall not hold you less heroic. If you succeed I will give you lands and wealth, and in addition I will bestow on you the chieftainship of Ireland's Fianna, which Goll mac Morna holds. But tell me now, by what means will you conquer this powerful enchanter?"
"I do not know, but something assures me that Aillen mac Midna will devastate Tara no more; so rest in peace, O king," said Fionn, with a smile.
As he smiled Conn, and his Druids also, saw a mist-like form standing at Fionn's back. Gradually it grew clearer, then a most wonderful being appeared, shining with a golden light and cloaked with rainbow colours. For a moment it stood there, then faded away; but Conn and his wise men knew that they had looked upon one of the ancient gods—one of those radiant, immortal beings who, clothed in flame and crowned with stars, are sometimes seen on the sacred mountains at twilight.
Absolute silence and a deep feeling of awe—a perception that some divine one of long-past ages had been among them—rested on every one there as Fionn walked down the hall, and with a strange, distant look in his eyes, as though he beheld something unseen by others, passed out into the night. The snow had ceased and the stars were shining now; the wind had dropped, and only occasionally sounded in weird murmurings through the giant oak-trees on one side of the rath. For a few minutes Fionn stood gazing upwards at the starry sky, wondering at the curious exultation and sense of power which possessed him; then, as he felt a slight touch on his arm, he started, and looking down saw a man of the Fianna standing by his side, with spear and shield in his hands.
"Have you come to keep guard with me?" asked Fionn. "I have given my word to the king that I alone will watch this night, and I cannot break my word."
"Nay," answered the man; "it is not I who would ask the son of Cumall to break his word. I am Fiacha mac Congha, and your father was foster-father to me in my youth—for his sake I would help his son. Though the Invisible Ones may aid you this night, yet have I here with me a shield and spear of power which may be of some use to you in the coming encounter. The shield was fashioned by Culain, smith of the Tuatha de Danann; the spear was forged by him also, and a wrong cast never yet was made by it."
"I thank you," said Fionn, "it was a kindly and courteous deed to bring these to me."
"One other thing there is," said Fiacha, "when you hear that sweet faery music sounding, strip from the spear-head its sheath and place the weapon to your forehead; in its blade is concealed a deadly power that will aid you to overcome the trance-like sleep the enchanter's melody causes. Perhaps the spear may move and struggle in your hand, as though some spirit was imprisoned in it; but have no fear, it is only a desire for battle that moves it."
He turned to leave Fionn, then came back and looked into the boy's face:
"There is a light in your eyes to-night, boy," he continued, "which recalls to my mind all the high thoughts and noble dreams of my youth. Of those dreams and thoughts what fulfilment is there? Neither in song nor story will my name go down to my children's children as a doer of noble deeds, or of one who has conquered evil powers; my days have been spent in the performance of little things."
"He who does his day's work of little things," said the boy, "is often nobler than he who has wrought great deeds."
"You speak," said Fiacha, "with a wisdom which I thought only the old possessed; a wisdom taught by much suffering and many failures," then with slow footsteps he left Fionn and returned to the banqueting hall.
In loneliness—except for a huge silver-grey hound which accompanied him Fionn paced round the rath. Three times he had accomplished its circuit, when the dog by his side lifted its head and howled mournfully, and shivered as though overcome by some dreadful terror. Fionn placed his hand on the hound, and spoke comfortingly to it; then looked intently into the darkness to see what thing of fear was approaching. He could see nothing, and resumed his steady pacing. Soon, however, a faint, low music fell on his ears, and he stood listening to it. So sweet, so wonderful was it, that it placed an enchantment on his senses, and only when he began to feel sleep overpowering him did he realize that this was the music of the enchanter Aillen mac Midna, who was coming to destroy Tara. Then he stripped the sheath from the spearhead, and held the shining blade to the centre of his forehead; as he did so the enchantment fell from him, and the strange power hidden in the blade filled him with a new fearlessness and strength.
Now within the dún there was silence; listening to the soft, delicate music one after another of the warriors and kings had slipped from their seats and lay on the floor, wrapped in a deep slumber. Even the Druids were powerless to resist that sleep-compelling melody. Their symbols of power dropped from their hands as they, too, fell to the floor. In all that great rath there was not one soul awake, except the young champion who kept watch; even warriors, wounded almost to death and racked with pain, slumbered peacefully.
Nearer and nearer the music came, then ceased; but Fionn, gazing steadily before him, became aware of a gigantic figure standing some distance away, like a darker blot on the starlit darkness of the night. The boy gripped his spear with his brave right hand, holding his
THROUGH THE DARKNESS CAME A SHAFT OF FLAME. FIONN RAISED HIS SHIELD TO CATCH IT.
shield firmly with his left. Then through the darkness came a shaft of flame, blown from the enchanter's mouth, and Fionn raised his shield to catch it. But the shield changed to a four-folded impenetrable mantle—woven from the blue of air, the green of earth, the crimson of fire, and the purple of ocean—which caught the magician's fire-blast and scattered it on every side in showers of sparks which did no evil. Again and again Aillen mac Midna blew his venomous shafts, and each time the mantle diverted them and rendered them harmless. At last Aillen knew that some one, who possessed a greater magic than his, was defending Tara that night, and full of baffled fury he turned and fled.
When Fionn saw that the enchanter was put to flight, he descended from the high bank of the rath and pursued him. Many miles he went, and when he splashed through the rippling waters of the Boyne he was close on the heels of the magician. At length Fionn called out: "O Aillen mac Midna, turn your face to me. Let it not be said that death shamefully overtook you in the back, as you fled from a boy"; but Aillen still continued his flight. Then Fionn poised his spear—which for a long time had struggled in his hand, striving to free itself—and with all the strength of his arm threw it; and so great was the force with which he sent it hurtling through the air that it pierced straight through the magician and into a tree beyond. A few yards further Aillen ran, then on the verge of a pine forest stumbled and fell, and when Fionn reached him he was dead.
A wave of exhaustion and weariness swept over the boy as he looked on the dead body of the enchanter, and gathering a quantity of fragrant pine-needles together to make a couch he sank down on it, and was soon fast asleep, lulled by the music of the wind murmuring through the trees.
In the morning, as the cold grey dawn lightened the eastern sky, Fionn woke and sat up, wondering where he was. Sleep had erased from his memory all the events of the preceding night, but as he rose to his feet his eyes fell on Aillen mac Midna, lying face downwards in the long grass; then remembrance returned to him, and with it the thought that he must hasten and tell the king that henceforth Tara would never again be destroyed by the magician.
He washed his face at the little stream flowing through the forest, and made a scanty breakfast from some nuts and late blackberries he found in a sheltered hollow, then he began to retrace his way to Tara, taking the head of Aillen in a satchel as proof to Conn that he was really dead.
By noon he had come within sight of the rath of Tara, and saw many people moving about on its green rampart. As he drew nearer Conn, with a great number of his warriors, came out and greeted him with joy, asking him many questions concerning the magician.
"He will trouble you no more," said Fionn, "and in proof of that I have brought his head to Tara," and drawing the head by its long black hair out of the bag, he placed it on the ground at the king's feet.
"Indeed throughout Ireland there is none to equal you, son of Cumall," said Conn, "and in the presence of all her kings and champions I will confer the chieftainship of the Fianna on you, as I have promised, and whatever wish or desire you have I will fulfil it. I name you also the chief champion of Ireland, and wherever you go honour shall be given to you as such."
They returned to the dún, and Conn gave orders that a banquet should be prepared, to celebrate Fionn's great feat. When the feast was ready he commanded his trumpeters to sound their trumpets, and as soon as every one was assembled in the great banqueting hall of the dun the king placed Fionn in the seat belonging to the chief of Ireland's Fianna, and all the Fians, even the deposed chief, Goll mac Morna, placed their hands in Fionn's, and vowed to be faithful and true to him as long as they lived.
So, to the day of his death, which was not till many, many years later, Fionn mac Cumall remained in command of the Fianna, and was the greatest and wisest chief the Fians ever had.