A long, long time ago—if I were there then, I wouldn’t be there now; if I were there now and at that time, I would have a new story or an old story, or I might have no story at all—there was a king and a queen in Ireland, and they were married. They had only one son, and the name that they gave him was Céatach, Son of the King of Cor from Ireland. When the son was fifteen years old, they heard about a magician in Greece and decided to send Céatach to learn athletics and deeds of valor from him. They did.
When Céatach had been a year and a half with the magician, one fine day when the magician and his wife were between heaven and earth, teaching athletics and deeds of valor to Céatach, Son of the King of Cor from Ireland, to the Son of the King of Maol, to the Son of the King of Ul, and to the Son of the King of Olachtai, there came from the Eastern World a warrior named Steel Skull, and he abducted the magician’s daughter. When the magician returned home, he noticed the smell of Steel Skull throughout the house and found that his daughter had been taken off.
“Son of the King of Maol,” said the magician, “will you go after Steel Skull and take my daughter from him? If you do, you can have her in marriage.”
“I will,” said the Son of the King of Maol.
“You have been with me here only five years,” said the magician. “If you had another year here, you could follow him. How is your courage, Son of the King of Olachtai?
“It is good,” he replied.
“You have been here with me only three years,” said the magician. “If you had a fourth year here, you could follow him. How is your courage Céatach, Son of the King of Cor from Ireland?”
“Very good,” said Céatach. “A mouthful I won’t drink and a bite I won’t eat, till I go to the Eastern World after your daughter and find where she is—either that or lose my head in the attempt.”
“You have been here only a year and a half, Céatach,” said the magician. “If you had another year here, you could follow him.”
“I’m able to do now what I will be able to do after another year here,” replied Céatach.
It was no use talking to him. They spent that night in three ways: a third at storytelling, a third at fiannaiocht [stories about the Fianna], and a third in deep restful sleep until the following morning.
Céatach rose, donned his fubuineach, fabaineach dress, and grasped his thick-backed thin-edged sword. Down he went to the wild billowy sea. He took a gold ring from his finger and made a large capacious ship out of it. He leaped onto the middle of the deck. He hoisted up the bulging, billowing sails from the bottom to the top of the masts. He made the rough gravel sink down to the bottom of the sea and churned up the fine sand. He didn’t leave a mooring rope without pulling, a new oar without bursting, or an old oar without breaking. The small eels and the big eels of the eastern sea and the western sea came entwined on deck to him, offering service and sport and music to the Son of the King of Cor in Ireland, on his way to the Eastern World.
When he reached there, he dashed three waves against his ship, a gust of wind going through her, and the sun splitting her. He put the mooring of a year and a day on her, even though she might be there only a minute. Then he turned her into a green stone on the strand with seaweed growing on her.
He walked up through the kingdom with his sword in his right hand until he came to the house of Steel Skull, the giant. When he struck the challenge pole demanding battle, he didn’t leave a foal in a mare, a lamb in a sheep, a child in a woman, or, a kid in a she-goat that he didn’t turn around nine times in their mothers’ wombs and back again. He didn’t leave an old castle without demolishing, a new castle without bending, an old tree without breaking, or a new tree without twisting. On his sword it was inscribed that there wasn’t a warrior under the earth or upon it who could defeat him. The giant’s herald came out and demanded to know what he wanted.
“Fight with Steel Skull,” replied Céatach, “or else the daughter of the magician in Greece.”
“Too soon you’ll get fight,” said the herald. “You won’t have long to wait for Steel Skull. He’s covering himself with a suit of armour from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. Every blow that he will give you will go from the skin to the flesh, from flesh to bone, from bone to marrow, and from marrow to smiortan through your ribs. Each blow that you aim at him will glance from his body as would a drop of rain from a glass bottle.”
It wasn’t long before Steel Skull came out. They attacked each other like two wild bears, two fiery dragons, two hawks, or two eagles for seven days and seven nights. They then fought as two noble warriors with their swords on the ground in front of the palace. Suddenly the daughter of the Greek magician appeared at the uppermost window and she saw the fight going on below.
“Bad cess to you, Son of the King in Ireland,” she cried. “’Tis a bad place you came to meet your death, where nobody save myself will cry over your body. Why don’t you remember all the athletics and feats of valor my father and mother ever taught you?”
When Céatach heard that, the blood that was in the soles of his feet mounted to the top of his head. He rushed backward a little and then struck Steel Skull a blow near the apple of his throat, cutting off his head. The head went up into the air whistling and came down humming, in the hope of joining the body again. But Céatach was ready for it. He kicked the head with his huge right boot and sent it a ridge and seven acres away.
“Lucky for you that you did that,” said the head. “Had I joined the body again, it would have taken more than half of the Fianna to prise me loose.”
“It wasn’t to let you rejoin the body that I cut you off, you good-for-nothing,” replied Céatach.
He ran into the palace. The daughter of the Greek magician was coming down the stairs and, as ill luck should have it, in her way was an old man who had been in the palace for twelve hundred years. Céatach took hold of him by the two legs, swung him over his shoulders, and dashed him against the wall, whitewashing it with his brains. The Greek magician’s daughter smothered him with kisses, drowned him with tears, and dried him with fine silken cloths and her own hair. They divided the night into three parts: a third at storytelling, a third at fiannaiocht, and a third in deep and restful sleep until morning.
No sooner did day break than the warrior arose. He said his prayers, combed his hair, and asked God to direct him. He and the Greek magician’s daughter decided to get married and they did. They then thought that they should return to Greece. So they put what they needed aboard the best vessel that Steel Skull had and sailed forth, making for Greece. When they were about half way, Céatach, son of the King of Cor in Ireland, suddenly thought of the Fianna.
“I heard about the Fianna when I was young,” said he. “I have never seen them, and as I happen to be on my travels now, I will sail home to see what kind of men they are.”
“You won’t,” said his wife.
“I will,” said he.
“You won’t!”
“I will!”
What with the dint of arguing and talking, they didn’t feel anything until the vessel was high and dry on the strand below the house of the Fianna of Ireland. Céatach took his wife by the hand and led her to the city of the Fianna. The Fianna of Ireland had twenty-one houses; there were twenty-one rooms in each house, and twenty-one fires in each room. Around each fire sat twenty-one of the Fianna. The moment that Céatach and his wife entered, Conán caught sight of the woman and fell in love with her. Out he ran, as fast as he could, and went to an old wise man.
“Céatach, Son of the King of Cor in Ireland, has just arrived below,” said Conán, “and he has the most beautiful wife that wind or sun ever shone on. I’ll die if I don’t get her for myself after I put Céatach to death.”
“Bad cess to you,” cried the old man. “Don’t you well know that nobody has a beautiful wife in these times except the man who is able to fight for her?”
“Stop your gab,” said Conán. “My forefathers and myself have been feeding you so that you could tell us our fortunes. You’ll quickly lose that feeding, and even your head, unless you tell me how Céatach can be killed, so that I can get his wife.”
“Rather than lose my feeding or my head,” said the old wise man, “I advise you to put Céatach under a year’s geasa to go to the Magician of the Mountain and get from him the loan of his Rough Hound. Our Fianna soldiers, as you know, have their hands full every day fighting himself and the hound.”
When Conán got back to the house, he was no sooner inside the door than he said, “Céatach, Son of the King of Cor in Ireland, I put as a judgment and geasa on you to go to the Magician of the Mountain and get the Rough Hound on loan from him.”
All that Céatach did was to leap out onto the floor.
“Fionn,” said he, “I hope that you will take good care of my wife until I come back.”
“I give you my hand and word,” said Fionn mac Cumhaill. “Even if you are absent for a year and a day, your wife will be all right until you return.”
Céatach struck his two palms together, and the wind that issued from between them lifted Conán and stuck him to the rafters.
“That’s where you’ll stay, Conán,” said he, “be it short or long that I am away.”
He rushed out of the house. He went over a hill at each jump and across twelve glens at each step until the darkness and the end of the day was coming and until the white garron was seeking the shelter of the dockleaf, although the dockleaf would not be the better for waiting for him. When black night had fallen, he was close to the house of the Magician of the Mountain. The Magician was sitting in the doorway, combing his hair. Céatach jumped in through the door over his head.
“Fu fa feasog,” [the Irish equivalent of English ‘Fie, fy, foo, fum!’] said the Magician. “I can smell a lying, thieving Irishman. To eat you in one bite would be too little for me, and to eat you in two bites would be too much. I don’t know what I’ll do with you, except I blow you up into the air or put you under my feet in the mud or put you under the top thong of my old shoe.”
May you be a thousand times worse off a year from tonight,” said Céatach. “You know that I haven’t come here that you might get justice and satisfaction from me. I came to get them in full from you.”
“What is your mission?” asked the Magician.
“Conán sent me to get the Rough Hound on loan from you.”
“Neither you nor the Rough Hound will go home alive to tell the tale,” said the Magician. “Which do you prefer: to wrestle on red flagstones or to stab with gray knives against each other’s bulging ribs?”
“I prefer to wrestle on red flagstones, where my fine-drawn noble feet will be rising, while your big unshapely ugly paws will be falling,” said Céatach.
Out they went. They attacked each other as would two wild bears or two fierce bulls for the length of seven nights and days. They made hard places soft and soft places hard. They drew wells of spring water up through the center of the green stones with the dint of choking, killing, striking, and testing each other. At last, Céatach gave him a twist which buried him to the knees in the ground. A second twist buried him to his waist; and a third to the upper part of his chest.
“Clay over you, churl,” shouted Céatach.
“Yes,” said the Magician; “you are the best warrior born of man and woman that I have ever met. If you release me from here, I will give you half my kingdom during my life and the whole of it after my death. I’ll give you my slender black steed, which can catch the March wind ahead of her, although the March wind behind her cannot overtake her. I’ll give you my sword of light, which will brighten the world from east to west, and myself and the Rough Hound will be your servants all the days of your life!”
“May you be a thousand times worse off a year from tonight,” replied Céatach. “Many’s the place where I would get a bite of food to put in my own mouth, but it would be hard to fill your big stomach. Still, ’twill do me no good to kill you.”
He took the Magician by the two ears, pulled them until they were seven yards long, and dragged him out of the hole. He then made a yoke, as you would for a young ram when taking him to the fair, and attached it to the Rough Hound and the Magician of the Mountain. He cut a switch, and all three started on the journey back to the Fianna.
Next morning, as day broke, the twenty-one maidservants that the Fianna had went out for water for the breakfast, and they saw Céatach approaching with the Rough Hound and the Magician of the Mountain tied with a yoke. The girls almost broke their necks as they ran in with the news, crying that not one of the Fianna would survive till next morning, since Céatach was coming with the Rough Hound to desolate the world.
“What’s this?” cried Fionn mac Cumhaill. “I knew that no matter how long Céatach would be away, it is he who would putan end to the Fianna.”
No sooner had he said this than in rushed Céatach, dragging the Rough Hound and the Magician of the Mountain on the yoke behind him. Conán fell down from the rafters. As soon as his two feet touched the floor, he ran out to the old wise man and asked him how he could put Céatach to death.
“Haven’t I already told you,” said the old man, “that no man has a beautiful wife these days but the man who is able to fight for her? What the devil is tempting and vexing you? If you anger Céatach, he won’t leave one of the Fianna alive; they’ll all be dead by morning.”
“Stop your gab,” cried Conán. “My forefathers before me and I have been feeding you to tell us our fortune or any other prophecy we needed. If you don’t help me now, your head will be off.”
“Well, rather than lose my feeding and my head,” said the old man, “You must put Céatach under a year’s geasa to go to the house of the King of the Western World and get the loan of the Honey Dish. No prince or king’s son or giant who has ever gone for it before has ever returned alive.”
Conán returned to the house. No sooner had he stepped inside the threshold than he said to Céatach, “Céatach, Son of the King of Cor in Ireland, I put as a judgment and geasa on you to go to the house of the King of the Western World and bring me the loan of the Honey Dish, which is being guarded by the Poisonous Ram. No prince or king’s son or giant who ever went to get it has returned alive.”
“That’s easily done,” said Céatach.
Down he rushed to the seashore and threw his golden ring out into the water. He made a large, capacious ship out of it, and jumped onto the middle of the deck, followed by the Rough Hound and the Magician of the Mountain. He hoisted his sails, and they never stopped until they reached the Western World. Céatach moored his ship to last for a day and a year, even though he might be there only for a minute. He then turned it into a green stone with seaweed growing on it.
He walked through the island. It happened that the son of the King of the Eastern World was marrying the daughter of the King of the Western World that night, and a feast to last seven nights and seven days was in progress. Three musicians were playing when Céatach reached the outside door. As soon as he heard them, he snatched three wisps of straw from the lintel of the door and made three sets of bagpipes out of them: one for himself, one for the Magician of the Mountain, and a set for the Rough Hound. The three of them started to play outside in the yard, and when all who were attending the feast in the palace heard the fine pipe music outside, they caught hold of the pipers within and threw them out of the palace. They brought in Céatach, the Magician of the Mountain, and the Rough Hound, and the three sat down to play. There was no better entertainment under the sun than the fine music they played with the dint of magic mist and conjuring.
When a good part of the night had been spent with their playing, Céatach asked for a drink. So well was his music liked that the Honey Dish was brought to him to drink from. He drank, and recognized the vessel he was seeking. He had kept an eye out for it, as any thief would, so that he would know where it was and be able to snatch it later. The night wore on. The Honey Dish had been placed on a table, and above it was the head of the Poisonous Ram that was watching it. After a time, Céatach started to play again, and his music put everybody in the palace asleep with the dint of magic mist and conjuring. He made one leap toward the dish, and a second leap outside the door with the Magician of the Mountain and the Rough Hound at his heels. A third leap brought him down to the seashore. Céatach had his overcoat under one arm and the Honey Dish under the other. At his heels was the Poisonous Ram. All that Céatach could do was to throw his coat over the side of a rock that was near him and hide at the other side. So anxious was the ram to attack Céatach that he thought he was hiding under the coat. He gave it a powerful butt with his head, and drove it as far as his two shoulders in through the rock. All Céatach did was to jump up and draw a blow with his sword across the ram’s neck. The head remained fast in the rock, and the body fell to the ground with not a sign of life in it.
They sailed away full of joy. In the meantime, the mother of Céatach’s wife had heard that her daughter had reached Ireland and she thought that the Fianna had killed Céatach and kept her daughter. So she declared war on the Fianna and named the day for battle. When Céatach arrived back one night, it wasn’t women were troubling Conán but the war that was to break out next day. On the following morning, the Fianna were ready with twenty-one ships to sail to Greece.
When Céatach and his wife were in bed the previous night, Céatach said, “I’ll go along with the Fianna tomorrow to help them in the fight against your father and mother.”
“You won’t go to fight against my father and mother,” said she.
“I will,” replied Céatach.
“You won’t,” said his wife.
“I will.”
“You won’t. Why should you go?”
“I’d feel ashamed if my people, my own kingdom, were defeated by any kingdom on earth,” said he.
So he got ready next morning.
Just as he was going on board the same ship as Fionn mac Cumhaill, Céatach’s wife said to Fionn, “Fionn, if Céatach is coming home dead, you must have black sails hoisted. If he’s alive, have white sails.”
“I’ll do that,” answered Fionn.
“That’s all I’m asking of you,” said she.
They sailed away for Greece, and when they reached that country, the king had twenty-one ships ready to oppose them. In addition, the Son of the King of Maol and the Son of the King of Olachtai were in battle array on the strand. As day dawned, when they were about to start fighting, Céatach asked Fionn mac Cumhaill would he and his men prefer to fight the twenty-one ships or the two warriors on the strand. Fionn said he and his hosts would prefer to fight the two noble warriors.
“If so,” said Céatach, “then I will fight the twenty-one ships by myself.”
The Fianna landed on the strand to fight the Son of the King of Maol and the Son of the King of Olachtai. Céatach sailed out to do battle with the twenty-one ships, and by noon every man on the twenty-one ships had been slain by Céatach, Son of the King of Cor in Ireland. He then came ashore. By that time, nine of the Fianna had fallen at the hands of the two noble warriors.
“I heard great praise of you and your men, Fionn,” said Céatach, “but I fear that they are not half as good as they are made out to be. Let you and them sit down now, while I see what I can do by myself.”
The Fianna sat down. At that moment, the Son of the King of Maol was high up in the sky in the form of a poisonous lion.
“Son of the King of Maol, come down and fight me here on land in the guise of a warrior,” shouted Céatach.
“No!” said the Son of the King of Maol. “Let you come up as a poisonous lion to meet me.”
Céatach rose on the toes of his two feet, and by the strength of his two hands, he rose in the sky as a poisonous lion. He wasn’t there a minute and a half when he had the head cut off the Son of the King of Maol. Down he came to earth as a handsome, fine warrior and called on the Son of the King of Olachtai to do likewise. The Son of the King of Olachtai refused but invited Céatach to rise to meet him as a poisonous lion. For the second time, Céatach rose up on the toes of his two feet, and by the strength of his two hands, he rose up in the sky as a poisonous lion. They attacked each other and continued for seven nights and seven days in the guise of two fiery dragons, two hawks, and two eagles, until there was never a bird ever created that they didn’t make of themselves. No one could say that either was better or worse than the other. Into the sea they went then, and there wasn’t a kind of fish ever created that they didn’t make of themselves for seven nights and seven days more. Then they came on land as two warriors and fought each other with swords for a further seven nights and days, until they both had to lie down on the strand with the dint of cold, weariness, thirst, and hunger, although neither of them had succeeded in getting in a blow on the other during the twenty-one days. Then they suddenly rushed at each other, and each drove his sword through the heart of his opponent. Both fell down dead. When Fionn saw Céatach falling, he rushed over to draw the sword out of his heart.
“Don’t pull the sword from my heart for a while yet, Fionn,” said Céatach. “I have a few words to say to you before I die.”
“I won’t pull it so,” answered Fionn. “But I thought that the sooner the sword was withdrawn, the shorter would you be in pain.”
“If you drew out the sword, Fionn, my blood would come out in one spurt. I have something to say to you.”
“What is it?” asked Fionn.
“Didn’t my wife ask you, when you were leaving home, to hoist black sails if I were brought home dead?”
“Yes, she did,” replied Fionn.
“And what are you going to do?” asked Céatach.
“I’ll hoist the black sails,” said Fionn.
“That’s the worst thing you could do, Fionn,” said Céatach. “My wife has magic power, and if she blows her breath against your ships, she won’t leave a person or animal, sheep or lamb or horse, alive within a distance of a hundred miles of any lake or sea. She’ll drown them all with the blast, for she doesn’t mind what happens to anybody, once I am dead.”
“Is that all you wish to tell me?” asked Fionn.
“That’s all,” said Céatach.
Fionn then pulled the sword from Céatach’s heart, and Céatach died. Twenty-five men of the Fianna took the body aboard the ship and placed it below deck. There it was kept while they sailed home with white sails up.
Since the day they had set out for the war, Céatach’s wife had not slept a wink. She just walked the strand. At last she saw the ships coming with white sails up. There wasn’t a woman ever under the sun who was more delighted and more proud than she, thinking that her husband was alive. When his ship was within a league of the land, Fionn leaped from her deck and came down on dry land.
“True enough it is, you deceitful thieving little Fionn,” she cried. “I am without a husband, since you are ashore ahead of him, for no man ever took precedence over him since he reached manhood.”
“Your husband isn’t dead at all,” said Fionn. “The weariness and slumber of a warrior have been on him now for three nights and days below deck, and we can’t rouse him. Go aboard yourself and try to wake him.”
With one jump she was on deck, and with a second one she was below deck. When she saw Céatach dead, she fell in a faint. No sooner had she reached the ship than Fionn cut the mooring rope with an axe and let it drift with the currents and waves of the great sea.
For seven nights and seven days, she swooned over the body of her husband. On the eighth day, she went on deck but could see nothing of God’s creation except the sky and the sea. She gave the ship two-thirds of its full power of motion and sailing and sailed on for a day and a year. At the end of that time, she was running out of food. She saw land far away and she sailed towards it. When she reached it, she moored the ship as firmly as if it were to be there for seven years.
You never saw an island or a kingdom more wild with heather, furze, and sedge than the place she had reached. She walked along, but there wasn’t a sign of a human being or animal of any kind—sheep or lamb, cow or horse—to be seen. It was a bare mountain. She decided that she would lose nothing by climbing to the top to see what was at the other side. She hadn’t long to live, in any case, she thought. She made her way slowly along, almost dead from hunger and fainting very often. When she reached the top, she saw, some distance away, a ruined castle with only one room remaining. Smoke was rising from it; so she made for it and went in. There was nobody inside, although there was a nice fire burning. A table was laid in the middle of the floor and on it were three cups of tea, three prints of butter, and three loaves of bread. Being overcome with thirst, cold, and hunger, she took a bit out of each of the loaves, some butter from each of the prints, and a sup from each of the cups.
She had barely swallowed the last bite and sup when she heard somebody approaching outside the castle. Three men entered; one had lost an arm, the second had lost both arms, and the third had lost his left cheek. All three were losing blood as they came in. They went into a room that was there and returned as the three finest men on whom wind or sun had ever shone! The poor woman hid herself between the legs of the table with fear. When they sat down at the table, the eldest of the three spoke, “There’s a bite taken out of my loaf, a sup out of my cup, and a piece out of my butter print.”
“The same has happened to mine,” said the second man.
“And the same to mine,” said the third.
“Well,” said the eldest man, “whether it was a man or a woman did it, he acted fairly toward the three of us. He didn’t take more from one than from the others.”
They started to eat their meal, and whatever glance the youngest gave toward the wall, he saw the shadow of a beautiful woman upon it. He rose from the table.
“The most beautiful woman that wind or sun has ever shone upon is here under the table,” said he.
The second man took a look under the table.
“You won’t have her! She’s mine!” said he.
“Neither of ye will have her,” said the eldest. “I’ll take her!”
The three brothers started to kill one another around the floor, fighting for the beautiful woman. She stood up in an endeavor to make peace and told them that she could marry only one man.
“So, if ye leave the choice to me,” said she, “I will decide the matter between ye.”
“I’m agreed to that,” said the eldest.
“And I,” said the second.
“I too,” said the third.
Each of them was hoping to win her.
“Here’s what I’ll do now, according to my promise,” said she. “I’ll marry the eldest one of ye if ye bring back to life my brother, who is lying dead in that ship below there. I saw ye getting rid of your own wounds in the room over there awhile ago.” “I’m agreed to that,” said the eldest.
“And I,” said the second.
“I too,” said the third.
They were delighted with what she had arranged. They fetched their little pot of healing balm and their magic wand and went down to the ship. They went into the hold where Céatach was lying.
When the eldest saw the great size and huge limbs of Céatach, he said, “Upon my soul. I won’t bring this fellow to life. We could do with his help, but if he opposed us, devil a bite we’d ever eat.”
“I won’t revive him, either,” said the second.
“Nor will I,” said the third.
“May God help me!” said the woman. “What cowards ye are. I am his sister, and I’m going to marry the eldest of ye. Don’t ye know very well that my brother will help ye at anything ye want to do in this kingdom?”
She kept on coaxing them until they agreed to revive him. They rubbed the healing balm to him and struck him with the magic wand. Up rose Céatach, Son of the King of Cor in Ireland, as well as he had ever been. His wife knew that she need worry no longer now that her husband was alive again.
“This man is not my brother at all,” said she. “He is my husband. And I give ye my hand and word that it is ye he will help as long as he stays in this kingdom.”
They had seven times as great an opinion of her as they had before when they heard that—on account of the plan she had carried out to get her husband revived. They returned to the house, and you may be sure, they ate a good supper (although the devil a bite of it did they give me). Afterward they spent awhile doing feats of valor. Then when it was getting late at night, they told Céatach and his wife to go upstairs to bed. They would sleep downstairs themselves. Céatach and his wife slept upstairs until near daybreak. Then they could hear the three brothers moving about and getting ready downstairs. Céatach jumped up, ran downstairs, and put his arms around the three of them. He asked them where they were going.
“That’s none of your business,” they said. “You and your wife can sleep here until we come back in the evening. But we must be off. We were left here without sister or brother, father or mother, cousin or relative of any kind under God—just we three orphans. Each day, three waves of giants descend on us, trying to kill us and take possession of this place. Each day we kill them all—a wave per man. But they are all alive to attack us again next morning. So we return home badly wounded each evening.”
“I’ll go along with ye,” said Céatach.
“Upon my soul, you won’t,” cried his wife.
“Indeed, I will,” said Céatach.
“No, you won’t,” said she.
“Yes, I will.”
“He can come with us to watch the fighting,” said the three brothers; “but we won’t ask him to take any part himself. He can just look on.”
“Well, ye have no business coming home tonight if Céatach isn’t with ye,” said his wife.
Céatach went off with them, and they reached the battlefield just as the sun rose. Then they saw the three waves of giants coming toward them.
“We had better get to work,” said the eldest brother.
“Sit down there,” said Céatach. “I want to see how good a man I am still.”
He forced the three brothers to sit down. Then he took his sword and attacked the three waves of giants. By noon, he had them all lying dead in one single heap.
“Come home with us now,” said the brothers when the giants were killed.
“There’s little use in my going home with ye today, if these giants will be all alive tomorrow,” said Céatach. “Isn’t it better for me to remain here and see how they come to life each night?”
“We won’t face home at all,” said they. “Your wife will murder us if you don’t return with us.”
All the same, he made them go home. When they left him, Céatach laid himself down among the bodies. Meanwhile, his wife was scolding the brothers for coming back without him. They told her that they had asked him to come home and that he had refused.
The night was foggy and raining. Just as Céatach was falling asleep before dawn, he heard a noise and jumped up. Then he saw a small hag of a woman over near the cliff. She was pushing a churn in front of her and in her hand was a little brush with which she sprinkled what was in the churn on the dead bodies of the giants. As the drops from the brush touched them, up they rose like a plague of flies in autumn.
“Little hag,” shouted Céatach, “if you’re on my side, I’ll be all right. But if you’re going to be against me, I’d better stop you now.”
He rushed toward the hag and cut off the heads of those whom she had brought to life. But in all the wars he had been through from the start of his life and of all the warriors he had fought, the hag gave him a tougher battle than any.
Finally, when he was cutting off her head, the hag said, “Céatach, Son of the King of Cor in Ireland, I put it as a judgment and geasa upon you that you must go to the King of the Bridge and tell him that you have killed the Sow and her Litter.”
“That won’t be any great trouble to me,” said Céatach.
Well, he made off to the King of the Bridge.
“King of the Bridge,” said Céatach, “I have killed the Sow and her Litter, and here I am.”
“That’s the last killing you’ll do forever more,” said the king.
They attacked each other, but the King of the Bridge lasted only half as long as the hag.
When he was dying, he said, “Céatach, Son of the King of Cor in Ireland, I place as a judgment and geasa upon you to go to the King of the Church and to tell him that you have killed the King of the Bridge and the Sow and her Litter, and that you yourself have come to him.”
Céatach made off the King of the Church and said to him, “King of the Church, I have killed the King of the Bridge and the Sow and her Litter, and here I am.”
“That’s the last killing you’ll do forever more,” said the king. They fought for a long part of the day and, when the King of the Church was dying, he said, “Céatach, Son of the King of Cor from Ireland, I place as a judgment and geasa upon you to go to the Great Hag of the Hills and tell her that you have killed the King of the Church, the King of the Bridge, and the Sow and her Litter, and that you yourself have come to her.”
“That won’t be too hard to do,” said Céatach. He set off and early enough in the day he saw the hag within a hundred miles of him. He could see the whole world between her two legs, and he couldn’t see anything between her and the top of the sky. The hindmost tooth in her head would do as a mast for a ship to cross to America.
He stood in terror before her, but he said to himself, “I may as well die a warrior as a coward, for you old hag can take one stride to equal three hundred of mine. Your big legs are long, and you will catch me by the back of the neck and kill me.”
He went close to her and said, “Great Hag of the Hills, l have killed the King of the Church, the King of the Bridge, and the Sow and her Litter, and here I am.”
“You’ll never again kill anybody,” said she.
Céatach and the hag fought each other for seven nights and seven days, and nobody could tell which was the better or which was the worse. On the eighth day, Céatach swung his sword and struck her near the apple of her throat and cut off her head. The head was whistling as it rose into the air, and it was humming as it fell, hoping to join the body again. But Céatach was ready. He kicked the head with his big boot and sent it across a ridge and seven acres of ground.
“’Twas well for you that you did that,” said the head. “If I joined the body again, it would take more than half of the Fianna to prise me loose.”
“It wasn’t to let you join it again that I cut you off,” said Céatach.
“I place geasa upon you,” said the head, “to go to the Great Cat of the Cave and tell her that you have killed the Great Hag of the Hills, the King of the Church, the King of the Bridge, and the Sow and her Litter, and that you yourself have come to her. There are three hundred miles of cave at the end of the kingdom.”
When Céatach reached the mouth of the cave, he went three hundred miles under the earth. The cat had not left the cave for three hundred years. On the day that Céatach entered the place, the weather was rough with storm and gale and raging seas. The cat was sitting on the middle of the hearth with its back to the fire. She had three huge humps on her back, and each of them was three times as large as the Twelve Bens. Fear and terror of the cat came over Céatach.
“I’m finished now or never,” said he. “My time has come. But if I try to escape through cowardice, you will catch me and tear me to pieces. ’Tis better for me to die as a warrior than as a coward. Great Cat of the Cave,” said he, “I have killed the Great Hag of the Hills, the King of the Church, the King of the Bridge, and the Sow and her Litter, and here I am!”
“Devil a person you’ll ever kill again,” said the cat.
She gave a jump from the hearth, attacked Céatach, tore his liver and lungs from his body, and hung them on the side rafters of the Cave. Céatach was still alive, watching the cat, sword in hand. As she attacked a second time, he noticed a skin mole on her left underside; so he lunged at it with his sword. The cat fell dead. So did Céatach. They had killed each other. Céatach happened to fall under the cat’s groin between her two hind legs, and the leg under which he lay completely covered him.
A week passed. The three brothers had been searching for Céatach. Everything they came upon was dead. Nothing was alive. They found the Great Hag of the Hills dead, and finally reached the cave of the cat. They went in and traveled through it until they came upon the dead body of the cat. There was no trace of Céatach to be seen. They decided that Céatach had killed all their enemies and that they were free from trouble for the future. Their worries were over forever, they thought. But where was Céatach?
They then made up a plan that the eldest would marry Céatach’s wife. If she struck him six times in every second of the day for the rest of time, it would be wrong for her, and disrespectful to her husband who had freed the kingdom for them. She refused to marry him.
As they were leaving the place, she was tearing her hair from her head and dashing her head against the walls in her sorrow. Just as they were about to mount the stairs of the cave, she fell in a faint. The three brothers returned to revive her by giving her a drink. She opened her eyes and caught sight of Céatach’s boot sticking out from under the cat’s groin.
“Ah! He’s still there. I have found him,” she cried.
“Where?” they asked.
She pointed out the tip of Céatach’s boot to them. Strong though they were, they had to get a roller to lift the cat’s leg off Céatach. At the end of eight days, they succeeded. They rubbed their healing balm to him and struck him with the magic wand, and up he rose as well as he had ever been.
The mistake they made, however, was to put the liver and lungs of the cat instead of his own back into Céatach’s body. They made their way home. Céatach was as well as he had ever been, but he had a wild look in his eyes that he never had before. When they were half-way home, didn’t a big rat run across the road from an old ruined house that was at the roadside. Céatach sprang after the rat and tried to get in through the old walls to catch it. They then remembered that it was the liver and lungs of the cat they had put back into him. So the brothers returned to the cave and took down from the side rafters the liver and lungs of Céatach. They returned to Céatach and his wife. Over to Céatach they went, opened him up, pulled out the liver and lungs of the cat, and put in his own. Then they rubbed the healing balm to him, struck him with the magic wand, and up he stood as well as he had ever been.
They returned home and held a feast which lasted for seven nights and seven days. I was there with them but, if I was, the devil a taste of the feast did they give me. All that I got from them them was paper shoes and stockings of thick milk. I threw them back at them. They were drowned, and I came safe. Not a word or news have I got from them for the past year and a day.
May this company and the storyteller be seven thousand times better off a year from today. And the dear blessing of God and of the Church on the souls of the dead.
[This tale was collected by audio recording in September, 1935, from a sixty-two year old man named Éamonn a Búrc at Aill na Brón, Kilkerrin, Cárna, county Galway. He told the collector that he had heard the tale forty years earlier from his father, a native of Ardmore, Cárna.]