Irish Fairy Tales (25 page)

“I cannot violate my geasa,” said the High King.

“I will eat with you,” said Segda (Sweet Speech), “and thus, while you are our guest you will not do violence to your vows.”

“Indeed,” said Conn, “that will be a great satisfaction, for I have already all the trouble that I can cope with and have no wish to add to it by offending the gods.”

“What is your trouble?” the gentle queen asked.

“During a year,” Conn replied, “there has been neither corn nor milk in Ireland. The land is parched, the trees are withered, the birds do not sing in Ireland, and the bees do not make honey.”

“You are certainly in trouble,” the queen assented.

“But,” she continued, “for what purpose have you come to our island?”

“I have come to ask for the loan of your son.”

“A loan of my son!”

“I have been informed,” Conn explained, “that if the son of a sinless couple is brought to Tara and is bathed in the waters of Ireland the land will be delivered from those ills.”

The king of this island, Daire, had not hitherto spoken, but he now did so with astonishment and emphasis.

“We would not lend our son to any one, not even to gain the kingship of the world,” said he.

But Segda, observing that the guest's countenance was discomposed, broke in:

“It is not kind to refuse a thing that the Ard-Rí of Ireland asks for, and I will go with him.”

“Do not go, my pulse,” his father advised.

“Do not go, my one treasure,” his mother pleaded.

“I must go indeed,” the boy replied, “for it is to do good I am required, and no person may shirk such a requirement.”

“Go then,” said his father, “but I will place you under the protection of the High King and of the Four Provincial Kings of Ireland, and under the protection of Art, the son of Conn, and of Fionn, the son of Uail, and under the protection of the magicians and poets and the men of art in Ireland.” And he thereupon bound these protections and safeguards on the Ard-Rí with an oath.

“I will answer for these protections,” said Conn.

He departed then from the island with Segda and in three days they reached Ireland, and in due time they arrived at Tara.

Chapter 7

O
n reaching the palace Conn called his magicians and poets to a council and informed them that he had found the boy they sought—the son of a virgin. These learned people consulted together, and they stated that the young man must be killed, and that his blood should be mixed with the earth of Tara and sprinkled under the withered trees.

When Segda heard this he was astonished and defiant; then, seeing that he was alone and without prospect of succour, he grew downcast and was in great fear for his life. But remembering the safeguards under which he had been placed, he enumerated these to the assembly, and called on the High King to grant him the protections that were his due.

Conn was greatly perturbed, but, as in duty bound, he placed the boy under the various protections that were in his oath, and, with the courage of one who has no more to gain or lose, he placed Segda, furthermore, under the protection of all the men of Ireland.

But the men of Ireland refused to accept that bond, saying that although the Ard-Rí was acting justly towards the boy he was not acting justly towards Ireland.

“We do not wish to slay this prince for our pleasure,” they argued, “but for the safety of Ireland he must be killed.”

Angry parties were formed. Art, and Fionn the son of Uail, and the princes of the land were outraged at the idea that one who had been placed under their protection should be hurt by any hand. But the men of Ireland and the magicians stated that the king had gone to Faery for a special purpose, and that his acts outside or contrary to that purpose were illegal, and committed no person to obedience.

There were debates in the Council Hall, in the market-place, in the streets of Tara, some holding that national honour dissolved and absolved all personal honour, and others protesting that no man had aught but his personal honour, and that above it not the gods, not even Ireland, could be placed—for it is to be known that Ireland is a god.

Such a debate was in course, and Segda, to whom both sides addressed gentle and courteous arguments, grew more and more disconsolate.

“You shall die for Ireland, dear heart,” said one of them, and he gave Segda three kisses on each cheek.

“Indeed,” said Segda, returning those kisses, “indeed I had not bargained to die for Ireland, but only to bathe in her waters and to remove her pestilence.”

“But dear child and prince,” said another, kissing him likewise, “if any one of us could save Ireland by dying for her how cheerfully we would die.”

And Segda, returning his three kisses, agreed that the death was noble, but that it was not in his undertaking.

Then, observing the stricken countenances about him, and the faces of men and women hewn thin by hunger, his resolution melted away, and he said:

“I think I must die for you,” and then he said:

“I will die for you.”

And when he had said that, all the people present touched his cheek with their lips, and the love and peace of Ireland entered into his soul, so that he was tranquil and proud and happy.

The executioner drew his wide, thin blade and all those present covered their eyes with their cloaks, when a wailing voice called on the executioner to delay yet a moment. The High King uncovered his eyes and saw that a woman had approached driving a cow before her.

“Why are you killing the boy?” she demanded.

The reason for this slaying was explained to her.

“Are you sure,” she asked, “that the poets and magicians really know everything?”

“Do they not?” the king inquired.

“Do they?” she insisted.

And then turning to the magicians:

“Let one magician of the magicians tell me what is hidden in the bags that are lying across the back of my cow.”

But no magician could tell it, nor did they try to.

“Questions are not answered thus,” they said. “There is formulae, and the calling up of spirits, and lengthy complicated preparations in our art.”

“I am not badly learned in these arts,” said the woman, “and I say that if you slay this cow the effect will be the same as if you had killed the boy.”

“We would prefer to kill a cow or a thousand cows rather than harm this young prince,” said Conn, “but if we spare the boy will these evils return?”

“They will not be banished until you have banished their cause.”

“And what is their cause?”

“Becuma is the cause, and she must be banished.”

“If you must tell me what to do,” said Conn, “tell me at least to do something that I can do.”

“I will tell you certainly. You can keep Becuma and your ills as long as you want to. It does not matter to me. Come, my son,” she said to Segda, for it was Segda's mother who had come to save him; and then that sinless queen and her son went back to their home of enchantment, leaving the king and Fionn and the magicians and nobles of Ireland astonished and ashamed.

Chapter 8

T
here are good and evil people in this and in every other world, and the person who goes hence will go to the good or the evil that is native to him, while those who return come as surely to their due. The trouble which had fallen on Becuma did not leave her repentant, and the sweet lady began to do wrong as instantly and innocently as a flower begins to grow. It was she who was responsible for the ills which had come on Ireland, and we may wonder why she brought these plagues and droughts to what was now her own country.

Under all wrong-doing lies personal vanity or the feeling that we are endowed and privileged beyond our fellows. It is probable that, however courageously she had accepted fate, Becuma had been sharply stricken in her pride; in the sense of personal strength, aloofness, and identity, in which the mind likens itself to god and will resist every domination but its own. She had been punished, that is, she had submitted to control, and her sense of freedom, of privilege, of very being, was outraged. The mind flinches even from the control of natural law, and how much more from the despotism of its own separated likenesses, for if another can control me that other has usurped me, has become me, and how terribly I seem diminished by the seeming addition!

This sense of separateness is vanity, and is the bed of all wrong-doing. For we are not freedom, we are control, and we must submit to our own function ere we can exercise it. Even unconsciously we accept the rights of others to all that we have, and if we will not share our good with them, it is because we cannot, having none; but we will yet give what we have, although that be evil. To insist on other people sharing in our personal torment is the first step towards insisting that they shall share in our joy, as we shall insist when we get it.

Becuma considered that if she must suffer all else she met should suffer also. She raged, therefore, against Ireland, and in particular she raged against young Art, her husband's son, and she left undone nothing that could afflict Ireland or the prince. She may have felt that she could not make them suffer, and that is a maddening thought to any woman. Or perhaps she had really desired the son instead of the father, and her thwarted desire had perpetuated itself as hate. But it is true that Art regarded his mother's successor with intense dislike, and it is true that she actively returned it.

One day Becuma came on the lawn before the palace, and seeing that Art was at chess with Cromdes she walked to the table on which the match was being played and for some time regarded the game. But the young prince did not take any notice of her while she stood by the board, for he knew that this girl was the enemy of Ireland, and he could not bring himself even to look at her.

Becuma, looking down on his beautiful head, smiled as much in rage as in disdain.

“O son of a king,” said she, “I demand a game with you for stakes.”

Art then raised his head and stood up courteously, but he did not look at her.

“Whatever the queen demands I will do,” said he.

“Am I not your mother also?” she replied mockingly, as she took the seat which the chief magician leaped from.

The game was set then, and her play was so skilful that Art was hard put to counter her moves. But at a point of the game Becuma grew thoughtful, and, as by a lapse of memory, she made a move which gave the victory to her opponent. But she had intended that. She sat then, biting on her lip with her white small teeth and staring angrily at Art.

“What do you demand from me?” she asked.

“I bind you to eat no food in Ireland until you find the wand of Curoi, son of Darè.”

Becuma then put a cloak about her and she went from Tara northward and eastward until she came to the dewy, sparkling Brugh of Angus mac an Og in Ulster, but she was not admitted there. She went thence to the Shí ruled over by Eogabal, and although this lord would not admit her, his daughter Ainè, who was her foster-sister, let her into Faery. She made inquiries and was informed where the dun of Curoi mac Darè was, and when she had received this intelligence she set out for Sliev Mis. By what arts she coaxed Curoi to give up his wand it matters not, enough that she was able to return in triumph to Tara. When she handed the wand to Art, she said:

“I claim my game of revenge.”

“It is due to you,” said Art, and they sat on the lawn before the palace and played.

A hard game that was, and at times each of the combatants sat for an hour staring on the board before the next move was made, and at times they looked from the board and for hours stared on the sky seeking as though in heaven for advice. But Becuma's foster-sister, Ainè, came from the Shí, and, unseen by any, she interfered with Art's play, so that, suddenly, when he looked again on the board, his face went pale, for he saw that the game was lost.

“I didn't move that piece,” said he sternly.

“Nor did I,” Becuma replied, and she called on the onlookers to confirm that statement.

She was smiling to herself secretly, for she had seen what the mortal eyes around could not see.

“I think the game is mine,” she insisted softly.

“I think that your friends in Faery have cheated,” he replied, “but the game is yours if you are content to win it that way.”

“I bind you,” said Becuma, “to eat no food in Ireland until you have found Delvcaem, the daughter of Morgan.”

“Where do I look for her?” said Art in despair.

“She is in one of the islands of the sea,” Becuma replied, “that is all I will tell you,” and she looked at him maliciously, joyously, contentedly, for she thought he would never return from that journey, and that Morgan would see to it.

Chapter 9

A
rt, as his father had done before him, set out for the Many-Coloured Land, but it was from Inver Colpa he embarked and not from Ben Edair.