There was a king in Ireland long ago. He had one son, and he sent him to school to Manannan. He spent seven years with him, and after the seven years he left him with him for seven years more. When the fourteen years were up he left him with him for another seven, that was a year and twenty. When he had taught him for twenty-one years, he (the King’s son) asked Manannan: “Well now,” says he, “is there under the world today any man that is more skilled in feats of activity and of valour than myself?”
“Well, there is not,” says the master, “any man today under the world more skilled than you except one man!”
"What is his name?” says the King’s son.
“I do not know,” says Manannan, “where he hails from nor where he lives, but his name is Mac Dournain, the son of the King of the Speckled Mountain.”
“I put myself under bonds, and under the great sorrow of the year,” says the King’s son, “not to sleep the second night on the same bed, nor to eat the second meal off the same table, whether he be under the ground or over the ground, until I find him.”
He arose on the following morning, he washed his hands, and he said his prayers, and down he went then to the shore of the sea. He took out his pocket knife, took up a piece of a stick, and from it made a ship, big, full and mighty, with no end of feather in nor top of feather out but one feather alone making shelter and fairy music for the whole. He thrust out to sea, and gave prow to sea and stern to shore. He sailed away; and he would not catch up with the March wind that was before him, nor the March wind that was behind him would not catch up with him either. He was sailing and ever sailing until he came in sight of an island. There was a very large gathering of people on the island.
“Perhaps,” says he, “this is the place I am seeking!”
He drew in his ship, and he put the tying of seven years upon her, even tho’ he might not be longer away from her than a single hour. What did he find there but a young Queen sitting in a chair of gold, and beside her was a chair of silver. Up he goes to her. He asked her what she was doing there. She told him that she was the twelfth daughter of her father. “And,” says she, “there is not a year for eleven years that the great giant has not come and carried off one of my sisters. I am the twelfth daughter,” says she, “and it was threatened that if my father did not bring me here today the giant would drown the whole island. He wouldn’t leave a person at all alive on the island if my father did not put me here today.”
Very well. He and she spent a little while talking and conversing with one another, and then he saw a ship, big, full, and mighty, coming towards him; there was the rowing of the hundreds on her and only one person in her. And out of the ship a giant stepped ashore.
“May it be a thousand times worse you may be a year from today!” says the giant. “Only for the excellence of the voyaging I made, my married wife would have been carried off by you!”
“It is not asking for right or justice from you that I came here today,” says the King of Ireland’s son, “but to take right and justice from you!”
They attacked each other, so that they made hard of the soft, and soft of the hard, until the end of the day and the evening were approaching each other, and the son of the King of Ireland remembered that there was not a man to stretch him nor a woman to lament him. He did nothing but raise his sword and swept the giant’s head off.
When the people of the island saw the great giant was dead they scattered in terror and ran for their lives lest the man who had saved the young Queen would drown the island and all that was in it. But he brought her home to her father.
There was a hundred thousand welcomes before him.
“Now,” says the father, “since it has happened that you saved her I shall give her to you in marriage, and the half of my kingdom, and the whole of it after my death.”
“Well, I am glad to get it,” says he. “But,” says he, “if I should ever return perhaps I’d make her my wedded wife, and if I don’t return may all good chance be hers!”
On the following day he arose, he said his prayers, and he washed his hands, and he struck out along the road. He was going and ever going until the end of the day and evening was approaching, and he saw an island far from him, and not near to him.
“Well,” says he, “I’d better go ashore to see if a person at all would have tidings of the place that I am looking for.”
He went in there, and he pulled up his ship. He gave the tying of seven years to her, even tho’ he might not be there but for an hour only. He was going up through the island, and he saw a house from him, and he went in there. When he went in there was not a person nor a stranger before him. He saw three plates of meat and three bowls of broth laid on the table.
“Goodness knows,” says he, “but I’m hungry and it is little that I want,” says he, “and it is little that any of these plates will notice my taking a little bite off it, and little will any bowl of broth notice if I take a mouthful out of it.”
He took up his knife, and he cut off a piece of the meat from each of the three plates, and he drank three sips from the three bowls of broth. It is not long he was in when he heard a great noise coming. He had no time to go anywhere to hide except on the rails under the table. In came three mighty warriors. They sat down at the table.
“Somebody," says the first, “somebody has cut a bit from my roast of meat!”
“Well," says the second, “he didn’t turn his back on my share either.”
“Nor did he forget to take his portion from my share also,” says the third.
“Somebody took a mouthful out of my bowl of broth,” says the first man. “And from mine,” says the second. “And from mine,” says the third.
They were eating away, and a piece of meat fell from them on to the floor. One of the warriors stooped to pick it up, and what should he see but the son of the King of Ireland underneath, on the rails of the table.
“Hoho!” says he, “Who are you? Get out of that!”
He came out. “Well,” says he, “if it’s not of my will it’s of my unwill I came out! I’m the King of Ireland’s son, but who are ye?”
“Well,” says they, “it is how we are three brothers. We had one sister, and a giant came out of the Western World, and asked us for our sister, that is seven years ago. We had four islands. Our father and mother died, and then the giant came and said we must give him one of the islands. We did not wish to fall out with our brother-in-law, and for love of being great and friendly with him we gave him one of the islands. He came the second year, and he asked the second island of us. There was no desire on us to give it to him, but all the same, sooner than fall out with our brother-in-law—we didn’t want to quarrel with him—we gave him the second island. Well now,” says he, “he came looking for the third island; and we are at war with him for seven years, and we are as badly off now as ever we were, and we have to fight him and his men every day, and there is no man that we can kill in the day that is not alive again during the night and they all before us ready to fight again the following day.”
“Well,” says the King of Ireland’s son, “maybe I’ll give you a hand of help tomorrow.”
They spent that night right pleasantly, a third of the night in story-telling, a third in the telling of the high deeds of the Fianna, and a third in deep sleep and slumber, the taste of honey on every bite they ate, and they ate no bite dry, and thus they were until dawn. They went to sleep and in the morning the three warriors arose and took their breakfast; and the King’s son was asleep in his bed.
“Bad is this warrior,” says one of them, “he hasn’t stirred yet out of his bed.”
He heard them, and he got up with a leap.
“Is it likely,” says he, “that you didn’t think it worth while to call me? But maybe I’ll be in time enough yet.” He got his breakfast and when he had eaten it: “It is not a helping hand,” says he, “unless I leave you at rest at home today. What road are you taking?”
“Well, the path is well-trodden by us,” says they, “and you will follow it. There are three hills before you. If you get to the second hill you’ve a third of the journey over, and if you get as far as the third hill you have come two-thirds of the way.”
So the King’s son set off. He did not stop until he reached the first hill and he sat down there. He saw no appearance of a man or a stranger there, so he said he’d go a bit further. It was the same story with the second hill, but when he came at last to the third hill, he saw below him the speckling of the glens and the darkening of the hills with the multitude of warriors who were making towards him. He went off with himself. He attacked them and fought them until the end of the day when the white horse was going under the shade of the dock-leaf, and not better off was the dock-leaf if she were to wait for her. He remembered that there was no man to stretch him nor woman to lament him. He did not leave a head on body by the time the sun was setting.
“What’s the good now,” says he, “of going home, since I don’t know who these people are nor what is bringing them to life again?”
He lay down until night came. He pulled a corpse under him, a corpse over him, and a corpse on each side of him. He was not long lying there when he saw an old man coming, carrying a pot of healing balm and a little feather. “Get up, lads!” says the old man. He was rubbing the feather to them, and they were rising up into their standing as they were before.
“Don’t be in such a hurry, my lad!” says the King’s son. “Don’t put up any more of them in their standing, for if you do, it is not to me they will be helpful!”
So he out with his sword and stretched them all again, and cut off the head of the old man. He lay back again on the ground and pulled a corpse under him, a corpse over him, and one on each side of him.
When he had that done it was not long until he saw an old white horse coming, carrying a pot of healing balm and a feather. “Up lads,” says he, “ye are badly wanted!”
“Not so fast, old white horse,” says the son of the King of Ireland. “Put no more of them in their standing, or if you do, it is not me that they will help.”
He and the old white horse made at each other, but if they did it is not long the fight lasted.
Down he lay again. But he was not long resting when a huge and terrible hag appeared, carrying a pot of healing balm and a little feather, and she began to put them in their standing.
“Hold a moment, hag,” says he, “put no more of them in their standing, or if you do, it is not me that they will help.”
“Bad luck to you!” says she, “and no welcome to you, son of the King of Ireland. I’m ready for you. There are nine inches of plate-iron on my neck, nine inches of steel on the nails of my toes, nine inches of steel on my finger-nails, and I have nine feet of a tail of iron to put you to death!”
She twisted the iron tail around him. When she had it twisted around him she began to squeeze him towards her, and when she was squeezing him he thought that his last hour had come. He thrust his arm at her breast and struck his elbow against her, and with the mighty squeezing the hag was giving him he put his elbow right through her, and she died.
He stretched back, and it is he who was tired and weary. He pulled a corpse under him, a corpse over him and a corpse on each side of him. And then he fell into a deep slumber, without stirring or moving. It was not long until one of the big giants came, and with him came his servant, and they had a big turf-basket to hold the dead bodies which they were carrying home to eat. They carried him off with them, and did not stop until they arrived at the giant’s castle. The giant and his servant boy started in on the corpses, pulling them from each other and gulping them down.
The next morning when the second giant and his boy were setting off again for the battlefield the old woman, the giant’s mother, sat up in bed and shouted to them. “Ah son,” says she, “badly did you treat me last night when you came home, and badly did I fare, and if your brother had been here he wouldn’t have left me short of food.”
“Well, mother,” says he, “it was not my turn until today, and had I the chance before this of bringing you anything, in troth, I would not have left you short, here are some corpses left over, and you can be picking at them until I come back tonight, and then I promise you you’ll have plenty.”
So up gets the old hag, and puts down a great blaze of a fire, she pulls out the bodies from the heap behind her. She began to tear them to pieces and to eat them and she was feeling them one after the other, to choose the best and the plumpest, and she put her hand on the King of Ireland’s son, and he is in a deep snoring slumber. She pulls out the fire. “In troth,” says she, “if you were roasted at the back of the fire, you would put a little taste on my tongue!” So, when she had the fire red hot, she shoved him into the back of it.
Well, he slept on until the marrow began to boil in his bones, and then he jumped with one clear jump out of the fire and where should he land but behind the old hag on the hob. The hag looked at him! “Musha,” says she, “sure it’s the Lord sent you, and you’re just what I’m looking for to carry in fresh water, and to bring out the turf ashes!”
“Aha, may it be a thousand times worse you’ll be a year from now, you old hag!” says the King of Ireland’s son, “to have the impertinence in you to think of having me as a lad for water and for turf-ashes,” and he struck her a clout and made white-wash of her brains on the kitchen wall. “And I’ll do worse than that to you,” says he, “for I’ll bury you down under the threshold stone where everyone will walk over your carcass as they go out and come in for ever!”
When he had that done, he went out then, and looked around. There was a long street there, and high walls, and lofty houses. He went on down the street; and he was burned and in rags and sore distress. The eleven daughters of the King of the island were there high up in a sunny bower, and they saw the young man go past below them. The young Princess, the eldest of the girls, looks out and says she:
“The finest man my eyes have ever lighted on is walking down there below, and he is burned and tattered and we have something here to cure him if we could only get him here. Come over here, sisters,” says she, “till I cut off your hair, and plait it into a rope so that we may make a ladder of it, and we will bring him in here.”
He heard them talking. “Well,” says he, “don’t cut off your hair, but open the window, and I am no warrior if I am not able to go with a leap in on the window!”
So she opened the window. He arose with a mighty spring, and jumped in on to the floor where they were.
“Now,” says she, “there is a barrel of poison here and also a barrel of healing balm, and I don’t know one from the other. But wait,” says she, “and I’ll cut my finger and try which is the right one.”
She made a cut in her finger, and which barrel did she put the finger into but the barrel of poison; the pain struck her, so she dipped the finger into the other barrel, and the pain left her.
So the King of Ireland’s son went into the barrel of healing balm, and when he was washed and cleaned he was as safe and sound and as good as ever he had been in all his life.
“Well,” says the girl, “we are the eleven sisters, the daughters of the King who gave you lodging, and I’m to be married tomorrow to the great giant whose brother you killed yesterday, and my ten sisters will be his mistresses as long as he lives.”
Sure enough, next morning a proclamation was made, inviting all on the island to the wedding. The King of Ireland’s son went off with himself, and late in the evening he went into a house where an old woman lived who looked after the giant’s hens, and he asked for a night’s lodging.
“Well,” says the hen-wife, says she, “isn’t it the great wonder that you are not at the wedding-house?”
“Where’s the wedding?” says he.
“O,” says she, “and don’t you know that the giant and the King’s daughter are to be married tomorrow?”
“Indeed,” says he, “I never heard a word about it, but perhaps,” says he, ”that I’m in time enough yet!”
“O, you won’t be let in now,” says she. “Nobody will be admitted now except a musician or a fool.”
“Well, I’m not much of a hand at music,” says he, “but I’d do right well as a fool.”
So he went into the hen-wife’s house and when he had got his supper: “Have you a bag?” says he.
“Indeed no, I haven’t any bag that’s any good.”
So he made her fetch him material from the shop, and she brought him twenty-one yards of coarse linen, and thread and needles. When the hen-wife made a stitch he made seventeen stitches, and so between them they made a bag to please him. He went off with himself then, and did not stop until he came to the giant’s house. He knocked at the door, and was asked who was there.
“A fool,” says he.
“Let him in!”
He was let in, and when he went in the dinner was on the table. Devil a taste on the table that he was not packing into his bag, and when the bag was full, he went to the door and threw it across to the hen-wife’s house. He went in then again to the feast, and there was not a taste of what was coming to the table that he did not break or destroy. Everybody began to laugh. The big giant asked them what cause for laughter they had; and one of them said that it was the fool.
“Oh, never mind him,” says he, “I’ll go down to him and I’ll teach him manners.”
The young Princesses knew that it was the King of Ireland’s son who was doing all this.
But when the big giant came down the King of Ireland’s son caught hold of him and tied his hands and feet to each other and threw him into the corner.
“Stay there you now,” says he, “till morning!”
Next morning he asked the company what death they preferred him to give to the giant, but they left it to himself, and so he didn’t go to any great trouble but just killed him.
Then he appointed the most respectable man he met there as King of the island, and imposed tax and tribute on him, and the following day he sailed away with the King’s eleven daughters, and he kept sailing on a steady course for home. He saw an island that he had not noticed the time he was coming already.
“God knows,” says he, “but maybe this is really the place I’m looking for.”
“If you take my counsel,” says the eldest of the King’s daughters, “you should not land anywhere but make straight for home!”
“Ah,” says he, “it’s not in my nature nor disposition to return home until I know who is on the island.”
So he landed. Who was there but the son of the King of the Turks with twenty-one of his men, and they looking for pretty women.
When the King of Ireland’s son landed on the island, the son of the King of the Turks saw the eleven women who were along with him.
“God’s truth,” says he, “if ever in my life I saw such fine women as these who are with this man!”
And so he went to his sean dall glic—his wise blind counsellor—and asked him to devise some means of putting to death the King of Ireland’s son so that he might be able to carry off the women.
“Well,” says he, “you have enough to do, for there is no one in the world a match for him. You will never get the upper hand of him unless you make him drunk.”
“And how will I make him drunk, can you tell me?” says the son of the King of the Turks.
“I’ll tell you that,” says the wise man. “Make a hole,” says he, “in the floor opposite the place where you’re sitting. Get a big funnel and put it inside your shirt up to the throat. Make a bet then with him that there’s not a man in the world who can drink as much whiskey as yourself. Well, the Irishman is so stubborn in his inclination and so cross-grained that he will never submit. He’ll begin drinking then. Be you then letting the drink down yourself into the funnel, every mortal drop of it, and he’ll keep on until he falls down dead drunk.”
Well, the two of them had their supper together, the Turk and the King of Ireland’s son.
“Now,” says the son of the King of the Turks, “I’ll lay you a bet and a strong wager that there isn’t a man over the ground in the wide world that can drink as much whiskey as myself!”
“I’ll take you on,” says the King of Ireland’s son, “that I’ll drink every drop as much as you!”
Well, they started at the drinking and they drank and drank until the King of Ireland’s son fell back at last on his chair. Then the other man caught hold of him and tied him with chains firm and fast and threw him into a corner and left him there till morning.
Next day he was for death, and says the young Turk to the King’s eleven daughters, “What form of death will I give him now?”
“Well, we don’t like him to die at all,” says the eldest, “but as it’s got to be, throw him over the cliff into the great sea and let him be killed or drown!”
“Well, I’ll do that!” says he.
He brought him to the edge of the cliff over the sea, and then said the young Queen:
“Now I am asking a request from you. Will you give me permission to give him a kiss before you throw him over?”
“I will,” says he.
When she stooped down to kiss him she slipped a magic ring on his finger. He took him then and threw him over the cliff into the sea.
“Now,” says the King’s daughter, “I put you under bonds and under the great sorrow of the year not to know whether I or my sisters are men or women until the end of a year and a day.”
“A good thing is worth waiting for!” says the son of the King of the Turks.
The King of Ireland’s son kept going from wave to wave on the top of the sea. Now there’s a bird in the sea in those regions, they say’ which some call the Corr and others the Griffin. She has human sense and intelligence. And her nest was up on the side of a cliff, and three young birds in the nest. Well, she saw below her the King of Ireland’s son floating on the top of the water, and down she swooped, caught him in her talons, and carried him off to her nest. During the day she was always away getting food which she used to feed to her young in the evening. And when she had them fed, she used to give him what was left. But he wasn’t satisfied with the slender portion he was getting, and so he killed the young birds one after the other. The griffin said nothing and made no complaint until she came home the third night and found the third fledgling gone with the cliff.
“Well now,” says she, “I treated you fairly, but you have left me alone with my birdeens all killed, and so I’ll leave you where I found you on the top of the wave.”
Well, there he was floating on the sea, and there was no fear of his drowning because of the magic ring on his finger. He was thrown up at last by the sea on a big rock, and there he lay until one day he saw a ship sailing by, and he began to shout and scream. And the captain of the ship heard him.
“Well,” says the captain, “there’s somebody there on that rock and ye had best go out and see what kind of person it is.”
He sent out four of his men in the long boat, but when they saw him, and he so wild looking and covered with hair, they got frightened and returned to the ship. The captain sent out another four.
“Don’t come back to me,” says he, “unless you bring him with you!” They went off to the rock, and they got frightened, and were coming back again.
The King of Ireland’s son was thinking that he would not have another chance, so he pressed his hands and knees together and jumped clean off the rock and into the boat to them, and they landed him on the ship.
“Who are you?” says the captain.
“Well,” says the King of Ireland’s son, “you are no gentleman nor sea-captain, for if you were you would free me from my bonds.”
“That is true,” says the captain. The captain then freed him. “Now, who are you?”
“You are no gentleman nor sea-captain, for if you were you would give me food and clothing and put a sword into my hand.”
When he had dressed and eaten, he went through all the swords in the ship until he found an old one in the hold, eaten with rust. He shook it, and knocked seven tons of rust off it.
“Now,” says he to the captain, “who are ye?”
“Well,” says the captain, “I ask pardon and protection from you, it is how I have been looking for a man whose name I do not know, neither do I know under the world where he is. A hero he was, who helped me and my brothers, there is a year and a day ago, he killed all before him and then he left us. But the giant is now in our harbour with a fleet of ships and threatens to take our island from us. And I have come and a lot more with me to seek for the man who helped us before.”
“Well,” said the King of Ireland’s son, “I am that man and I’ll help you.”
So he returned with the captain to the island where the giant was with his fleet. He sailed into the middle of the ships, and he had a mighty oak club in his hand, and for every blow he struck he sunk a ship, and soon he disposed of the whole of them.
That night he stayed with the captain, but at skreek of dawn on the morrow he was off again on his travels. He didn’t stop until he went down to the shore, he pulled out his knife and a piece of stick, cut a skiver off the stick and from it made a ship, great, wide and mighty with no feather in nor no feather out but one feather alone making shelter and fairy music for the whole. He gave bow to the sea and stern to shore, and he never stopped until he struck land and anchorage in the place where he had left the son of the King of the Turks. And there he found that a proclamation had gone out announcing the marriage for the next day. He came to the house of an old woman, and he asked her if she could give him lodging until morning.
“Isn’t it a great wonder," says she, “that you’re not up at the wedding house?”
“What wedding?” says he.
“The wedding of the son of the King of the Turks and the King’s daughter.”
“That’s the first time I heard about it,” says he, “but perhaps I’m still in time to go to the feast.”
“No,” says the old woman, “for no one will be let in now but a musician or a jester!”
“Well, I’m no good as a musician, but I’d not be too bad as a fool!”
Anyhow off he went to the wedding, and when he said that he was a fool he was let in by the doorkeeper. And then he started, and bad as were his antics and behaviour on the first occasion, he was seven times worse now. The son of the King of the Turks left his place and walked down the room to give him a clout and to put him out the door, but if he did, the King of Ireland’s son caught hold of him, tied him with the tying of the five smalls—his neck, his wrists, and his ankles fettered together—and he threw him into the corner and left him there until morning.
And when the dawn came he got four horses and tied him to them, and they made four quarters of the son of the King of the Turks.
He gave the island and all that was in it to the most respectable man he found there, on the condition that he should pay tribute and rent to him during his life. He set off then for home, himself and the King’s eleven daughters. As he sailed he came one day close to land, and he saw a man walking on the strand.
“Maybe,” says he, “that after all my travels that this is MacDournain, the son of the King of the Speckled Mountain, the man that I’ve been looking for!”
“If you take my advice,” says the eldest daughter of the King, “you’ll stay where you are; you’ve done enough already.”
“Ah,” says he, “I cannot stop, and I must go in.”
He went ashore and approached the stranger. The man came up to him, and he carrying on his back a huge cauldron.
The two of them attacked each other, and the fight went on for three nights and three days, and on the third day MacDournain knocked the King’s son down on the strand, turned the cauldron on top of him and sat down himself on top of it. And he stayed there sitting on the cauldron, with the King’s son underneath, for a whole night and a day. When he thought that he was well smothered, MacDournain got up and lifted the cauldron, but when he saw that the man he thought dead was still alive he took to his heels across the sands and ran for his life. The King’s son shouted after him: “If you are a real champion you’ll come this time to look for me, for I won’t follow you any more!”
When at length he returned home safe and sound after all his voyaging and adventures there was a hundred thousand welcomes before him, and the King gave him the choice of his daughters.
“I’ll marry,” says he, “the woman I earned, the woman who saved me, and it’s she I’ll bring home to the house of my father and mother in Ireland.”
He bade farewell to the King and returned home.
When the King of Ireland had his son back again, he prepared a great wedding feast, and he invited all to come, and come they all did. In the middle of the feasting a stranger came to the door. The old King arose and went to the door and asked him to come in.
“I am not going in,” says he, “until I find a man who can tell me a story without a lie, and if he does he shall put all kinds of meat—mutton, beef, pork—into my cooking-pot, and when the tale is told without a single lie the meat will be cooked, and I will sit down, and eat my fill of it!”
The old King came back into the parlour where his son and the company were seated, and he gave a sigh which broke one of the rafters in the house.
“You are a man under geasa, father,” says the King’s son.
“O,” says the old King, “there’s a man outside here, and he put a question on me”—and then he told what happened.
“Wait, father, that’s the man for whom I have been seeking. I’ll go out to him, and it is short that the tale will be a-telling.”
Out went the King’s son and they attacked each other. They made hard of soft, and soft of hard, and brought up wells of fresh water through the grey slabs of rock. And then the King’s son remembered that there was not a man to stretch him nor a woman to lament him. He gave him a twist, and he put him down into the ground to his waist, the second twist he put him to his arm-pits, and the third to the base of his neck.
“Long am I seeking for you, and since you are there, now you will stay there!” and he seized his sword and swept the head off him.
[Collected in 1932 from Micheal Breathnach at Mam in County Galway, Ireland.]