Part 11

“If she is a hound belonging to a king or a man of high degree, it must be that she has training and will come with me quietly. If she will not come gently, I will make her come in spite of her.”

When he went into the wood the hound smelt him and rushed at his throat to tear him to pieces. He hurled her off quickly, and then she made a second drive at him, and a fierce one.

“Indeed,” said Micky, “you are an impudent hound to belong to a king;” and, taking a long, strong tree branch, he gave her a blow on the flank that raised her high in the air.

After that blow the hound ran away as fast as her legs could carry her, and Micky made after her with all the speed of his own legs to catch her. On account of the blow she was losing breath fast, and he was coming nearer and nearer, till at length he ran before her and drove her in against the ditch. When she tried to go one way he shook the branch before her, and when she tried to rush off in another direction, he shook it there too, till he forced her into the road, and then she was mild and quiet and came with him as gently as any dog.

When he was near home some one saw Micky and the mad hound with him. A messenger ran and told the king he was coming and the mad hound walking with him. The king gave orders to close every door in the castle. He was in dread that the hound would devour every one living.

When the hound was brought before the closed door of the castle the king put his head out the window and said, “That hound has been so long astray that she is of no use to me now; take her to your mother, and she will mind the house for her.”

Micky took the hound home, and she was that tame and watchful that not a hen, nor a duck, nor a goose belonging to the king’s castle could come near the house.

The king went to the druid a second time, and asked, “What can I do to kill Micky Mor?”

“There is a raging wild boar in the woods there beyond that will tear him to pieces,” said the druid. “Tell Micky Mor that one of the servants, when coming from the town, lost a young pig, that the pig is in that wood, and to bring him.”

The king sent for the boy, and said, “One of my men lost a young pig while coming from the town; it is in that wood there beyond. If you’ll go to the wood and bring the pig hither, I’ll pay you well when you come.”

“I will go,” said the boy, “if you will send some one to show me the wood where the pig is.”

The king sent a man, but not the man who went the first time with Micky Mor, for that man said, “I am tired, and haven’t the strength to go.” They went on then, walking toward the wood. This guide grew tired like the first man, for the wood was far distant from the castle of the king. When he was tired, the boy put him under his arm, and the two began to chat away as they journeyed. When near the wood, the man begged and said, “Micky Mor, put me down now: it is a mad boar that is in the wood; and if you are not careful, he will tear you to pieces.”

“God help you!” said Micky; “’tis the innocent man you are to let such a small thing put dread on you.”

“I will leave you,” said the guide: “I cannot help you; you are able to fight the battle yourself.”

Away went the man; and when Micky Mor entered the wood, the wild boar was facing him, and the beast foaming from both sides of the mouth. As the guide had warned him to be on his guard, Micky gave one spring out of his body, and came to the boar with such a kick that his leg went right into the mouth of the beast, and split his jaw back to the breast. The wild boar dropped lifeless, and the boy was going home, leaving the great beast behind him. He stopped then, and said to himself, “If I go back without the boar, the king will not believe that I met him at all.” He turned back, caught the wild boar by the hind legs, and threw him across his shoulders.

The king thought, “As he brought the mad hound the first day, he may bring the wild boar to me this time.” He placed guards on all roads leading to the castle.

The guards saw Micky coming with the boar on his back. Thinking the boar alive, they ran hither and over, closed every door, window, hole, or place that a mouse might pass through, for fear the wild boar would tear them to pieces.

The youth went up to the castle, and struck the door; the king put his head out the window, and asked, “Can it be that you have the wild boar?”

“I have him; but if I have, he is dead.”

“As he is dead, you might take him home to your mother; and, believe me, he will keep you in meat for a long while.”

The king went to the druid again.

“I have no advice for you this time,” said the druid, “but one: he is of as good blood as yourself; and the best thing you can do is to give him your daughter to marry.”

This daughter was the king’s only child, and her name was Eilin Og. The king sent for the youth then, and said, “I will give you my daughter to marry.”

“It is well,” said Micky Mor; “if you give her in friendship, I will take her.”

Micky Mor made himself ready; they gave him fine clothes, and he seemed fit to marry any king’s daughter. After the marriage he was a full week without going to see his own mother.

When he went to her at the end of the week, she cried out, “What is keeping you away from me a whole week?”

“Dear mother,” said he, “it is I that have met with the luck. I got the king’s daughter to marry.”

“Go away out of my sight, and never come near me again!”

“Why so, mother, what ails you? Could I get a better wife than a king’s daughter?”

“My dear son, if she is a king’s daughter, you are a king’s son, so you are as high as she.”

“If I am a king’s son, why have you and I been so poor?”

She told him then that the king had killed his father and all his forces, and that the whole castle and kingdom had belonged to his father.

“Why did you not tell me that long ago?”

“I would never have told you,” said she, “but that you have married the murderer’s daughter.”

Away went the son when he heard what his mother said, and the eyes going out of his head with wild rage, and he saying that he would kill every one living about the king’s castle. The people in the castle saw him coming, and thought from his looks that his mother had said some strong words to him, and they closed every door and window against him. The young man put his shoulder to the door of the castle, and it flew in before him. He never stopped nor stayed till he went to the highest chamber of the castle to the king and queen, killing every one that came in his way. “Pardon me! Spare me!” cried the king.

“I will never kill you between my own two hands; but I’ll give you the chance that you gave my own father while the spear was going from the hand to his breast.” With that, he caught the king, and threw him out through the window. When he had all killed who did not flee before him, he could find no sight of his own wife, though he looked for her everywhere.

“Well, mother,” said he when he went home, “I have all killed before me, but I cannot find my own wife.”

The mother went with him to search for the wife, and they found her in a box. When they opened the box, she screamed wildly.

“Sure, you know well that I did not marry you to kill you; have no fear.”

She was glad to have her life. Micky Mor then moved into the castle, and had his father’s kingdom and property back again. After awhile he went to walk one day with his wife, Eilin Og. While he was walking for himself, the sky grew so dark that it seemed like night, and he knew not where to go; but he went on till he came at last to a roomy dark glen. When he was inside in the glen, the greatest drowsiness that ever came over a man came over him.

“Eilin Og,” said he, “come quickly under my head, for sleep is coming on me.”

“It is not sleep that is troubling you, but something in this great gloomy glen, where you were never before in your life.”

“Oh, Eilin Og, come quickly under my head.”

She came under his head, and he got a short nap of sleep. When he woke, hunger and thirst came on him greater than ever came upon any man ever born. Then a vessel came to him filled with food, and one with drink.

“Taste not the drink, take not a bite of the food, in this dark glen, till you know what kind of a place is it.”

“Eilin Og, I must take one drink. I’ll drink it whomsoever it vexes.”

He took a draught hard and strong from the vessel; and that moment the two legs dropped off Micky Mor from the knees down.

When Eilin Og saw this, she fell to wailing and weeping.

“Hold, hold, Eilin Og! silence your grief; a head or a leg will not be in the country unless I get my two legs again.”

The fog now dispersed, and the sky became clear. When he saw the sky clear, he knew where to go; and he put his knife and spear and wife on the point of his shoulder. Then his strength and activity were greater, and he was swifter on his two knees than nine times nine other men that had the use of their whole legs.

While he was going on, he saw huntsmen coming toward him. A deer passed him. He threw the spear that he had in his hand; it went through the deer, in one side and out through the other. A white dog rushed straightway after the deer. Micky Mor caught the deer and the dog, and kept them.

Now a young Gruagach, light and loose, was the first of the huntsmen to follow the white dog. “Micky Mor,” said he, “give me the white dog and the deer.”

“I will not,” said Micky. “For it is myself that did the slaughter, strong and fierce, that threw the spear out of my right hand and put it through the two sides of the deer; and whoever it be, you or I, who has the strongest hand, let him have the white dog and the deer.”

“Micky Mor,” said Eilin Og, “yield up the white dog and the deer.”

“I will,” said he, “and more if you ask; for had I obeyed you in the glen, the two legs from the knees down would not have gone from me.”

The hunter, who was the Gruagach of Dun an Oir, was so glad to get his white dog and deer that he said, “Come with me, Micky Mor, to my castle to dinner.”

The three were then passing along by the strand of Ard na Conye to the Gruagach’s castle, when whom should they meet but a champion who began to talk with the men; but, seeing Eilin Og, he stopped on a sudden and asked Micky Mor, “Who is this woman with you? I think there is not another of such beauty in all the great world.”

“That is my wife, Eilin Og,” said Micky Mor.

“It is to find her that I am here, and to take her in spite of herself or her father,” said the champion.

“If you take her, you will take her in spite of me,” said Micky Mor; “but what champion are you with such words?”

“I am Maragach of the Green Gloves from Great Island. I have travelled the world twice, and have met no man to match me. No weapons have hurt my skin yet or my body. Where are your arms of defence in this great world, Micky Mor?”

“I have never wished for a weapon but my own two fists that were born with me.”

“I name you now and forever,” said Maragach, “the Big Fool (Amadan Mor).”

“Not talk of the mouth performs deeds of valor, but active, strong bones. Let us draw back now, and close with each other. We shall know then who is the best man; and if there is valor in you, as you say, you dirty little Maragach, I will give you a blow with strength that will open your mouth to the bone.”

They went toward each other then threateningly, and closed like two striking Balors or two wild boars in the days of the Fenians, or two hawks of Cold Cliff, or two otters of Blue Pool. They met in close, mighty struggle, with more screeching than comes from a thousand. They made high places low, and low places high. The clods that were shot away by them, as they wrestled, struck out the eye of the hag in the Eastern World, and she spinning thread at her wheel.

Now Maragach drew his sword strong, keen-edged, and flawless; this sword always took with the second blow what it did not cut with the first; but there was no blow of it that time which the Big Fool did not dodge, and when the sun was yellow at setting, the sword was in small bits, save what remained in the hand of the champion. That moment the Fool struck the champion a blow ’twixt neck and skull, and took the head off his body.

The three went on then to the castle of Dun an Oir (Castle of Gold), and had a fine dinner. During the dinner they were discoursing and telling tales; and the Gruagach’s wife took greatly to heart the looks that her husband was giving Eilin Og, and asked, “Which is it that you will have, Negil Og’s daughter or the wife of the Big Fool?”

Said Eilin Og to the Gruagach’s wife, “This man’s name is not the Big Fool in truth or in justice, for he is a hero strong and active; he is master of all alive and of every place. All the world is under his command, and I with the rest.”

“If he is all this, why did he let the legs go from him?” asked the Gruagach’s wife.

Eilin Og answered, “I have said that he has high virtues and powers; and only for the drink that was brought him in the dark lonely glen, he would not have let the legs go from him.”

The Gruagach was in dread that the Big Fool might grow angry over their talks, and that enchantment would not get the upper hand of strength, and said, “Give no heed to woman’s talk, Micky Mor, but guard my castle, my property, and my wife, while I go to the Dun of the Hunt and return.”

“If any man comes in in spite of me,” said Micky Mor, “while you are absent, believe me, he will not go out in spite of me till you return.”

The Gruagach went off then, and with the power of his enchantment put a heavy sleep on Micky Mor.

“Eilin Og,” said he, “come quickly under my head, for over-strong sleep has come on me.”

Eilin Og came under his head, and he got a short nap of sleep. The Gruagach returned soon in a different form altogether, and he took a kiss from his own wife.

“Oh,” said Eilin Og to her husband, “you are in your sleep, and it is to my grief that you are in it, and not at the right time.”

Micky Mor heard her, and he, between sleeping and waking, gave one leap from his body when he heard Eilin Og’s words, and stopped at the door. It would have been a greater task to break any anvil or block made by blacksmith or wood-worker, than to force the Big Fool from the door.

“Micky Mor,” said the Gruagach, disguised, “let me out.”

“I will not let you out till the Gruagach of Dun an Oir comes home, and then you will pay for the kiss that you took from his wife.”

“I will give you a leg swift and strong as your own was; it is a leg I took from the Knight of the Cross when he was entering his ship.”

“If you give me one of my legs swift and strong as ever, perhaps I may let you go out.”

That moment the Fool got the leg. He jumped up then, and said, “This is my own leg, as strong and as active as ever.

“The other leg now, or your head!” said Micky Mor.

The Gruagach gave him the other leg, blew it under him with power of enchantment. Micky Mor jumped up. “These are my own legs in strength and activity. You’ll not go out of this now till the Gruagach comes, and you pay for the kiss you took from his wife.”

“I have no wish to knock a trial out of you,” said the Gruagach, and he changed himself into his own form again. “You see who I am; and I am the huntsman who took your legs with the drink that you got from the cup, and I am your own brother born and bred.”

“Where were you,” asked the Big Fool, “when my father was killed with all his men?”

“I was in the Eastern World at that time, learning enchantment and magic.”

“If you are my brother,” said the Big Fool, “we will go with each other forevermore. Come with me now to such a wood. We will fight there four giants who are doing great harm to our people these many years.”

“Dear brother,” said the Gruagach, “there is no use for us to go against the four giants; they are too powerful and strong for us, they will kill us.”

“Let me fight with three of them,” said Micky Mor, “and I’ll not leave a foot or a hand of them living on earth; you can settle one.”

The Gruagach had his great stallion of the road brought from the stable for himself and his brother to ride. When they led him out, the stallion gave three neighs,—a neigh of lamentation, a neigh of loyalty, and a neigh of gladness.

This stallion had the three qualities of Fin MacCool’s slim bay steed,—a keen rush against a hill, a swift run on the level, a high running leap; three qualities of the fox,—the gait of a fox gay and proud, a look straight ahead taking in both sides and turning to no side, neat in his tread on the road; three qualities of a bull,—a full eye, a thick neck, a bold forehead.

They rode to the forest of the giants; and the moment they entered, the giants sniffed them, and one of them cried out, “I find the smell of men from Erin, their livers and lights for my supper of nights, their blood for my morning dram, their jawbones for stepping-stones, and their shins for hurleys. We think you are too big for one bite and too small for two bites, and sooner or later we’ll have you out of the way.”

The Big Fool and three of the giants made at one another then; and he didn’t leave a hand nor a foot of the three alive. He stood looking then at his brother and the other giant. The young Gruagach was getting too much from the giant; and he called out, “Dear born brother, give me some aid, or the giant will put me out of the world.”

“I will give him,” said the Big Fool, “a blow of my fist that will drive his head through the air.”

He ran to him then, gave the giant one blow under the jawbone, and sent his head through the air. It is not known to man, woman, or child to this day where the head stopped, or did it stop in any place.

THE KING’S SON AND THE WHITE-BEARDED SCOLOG.

Not in our time, nor the time of our fathers, but long ago, there lived an old king in Erin. This king had but the one son, and the son had risen up to be a fine strong hero; no man in the kingdom could stand before him in combat.

The queen was dead, and the king was gloomy and bitter in himself because old age was on him. The strength had gone from his limbs, and gladness from his heart. No matter what people said, they could not drive sorrow from him.

One day the king called up his son, and this is what he said to him, “You are of age to marry. We cannot tell how long I’ll be here, and it would cheer and delight me to see your wife; she might be a daughter to me in my last days.”

“I am willing to obey you,” said the son; “but I know no woman that I care for. I have never seen any one that I would marry.”

With that, the old king sent for a druid, and said, “You must tell where my son can find the right bride for himself. You must tell us what woman he should marry.”

“There is but one woman,” said the druid, “who can be the right wife for your son, and she is the youngest daughter of the white-bearded scolog; she is the wisest young woman in the world, and has the most power.”

“Where does her father live, and how are we to settle it?” asked the king of the druid.

“I have no knowledge of the place where that scolog lives,” said the druid, “and there is no one here who knows. Your son must go himself, and walk the world till he finds the young woman. If he finds her and gets her, he’ll have the best bride that ever came to a king’s son.”

“I am willing to go in search of the scolog’s daughter,” said the young man, “and I’ll never stop till I find her.”

With that, he left his father and the druid, and never stopped till he went to his foster-mother and told her the whole story,—told her the wish of his father, and the advice the old druid had given him.

“My three brothers live on the road you must travel,” said the foster-mother; “and the eldest one knows how to find that scolog, but without the friendship of all of them, you’ll not be able to make the journey. I’ll give you something that will gain their good-will for you.”

With that, she went to an inner room, and made three cakes of flour and baked them. When the three were ready, she brought them out, and gave them to the young man.

“When you come to my youngest brother’s castle,” said she, “he will rush at you to kill you, but do you strike him on the breast with one of the cakes; that minute he’ll be friendly, and give you good entertainment. The second brother and the eldest will meet you like the youngest.”

On the following morning, the king’s son left a blessing with his foster-mother, took one for the road from her, and went away carrying the three cakes with him. He travelled that day with great swiftness over hills and through valleys, past great towns and small villages, and never stopped nor stayed till he came in the evening to a very large castle. In he went, and inside was a woman before him.

“God save you!” said he to the woman.

“God save yourself!” said she; “and will you tell me what brought you the way, and where are you going?”

“I came here,” said the king’s son, “to see the giant of this castle, and to speak with him.”

“Be said by me,” replied the woman, “and go away out of this without waiting for the giant.”

“I will not go without seeing him,” said the king’s son. “I have never set eyes on a giant, and I’ll see this one.”

“I pity you,” said the woman; “your time is short in this life. You’ll not be long without seeing the giant, and it’s not much you’ll see in this world after setting eyes on him; and it would be better for you to take a drink of wine to give you strength before he comes.”

The king’s son had barely swallowed the wine when he heard a great noise beyond the castle.

“Fee, faw, foh!” roared some one, in a thundering voice.

The king’s son looked out; and what should he see but the giant with a shaggy goat going out in front of him and another coming on behind, a dead hag above on his shoulder, a great hog of a wild boar under his left arm, and a yellow flea on the club which he held in his right hand before him.

“I don’t know will I blow you into the air or put my foot on you,” said the giant, when he set eyes on the king’s son. With that, he threw his load to the ground, and was making at his visitor to kill him when the young man struck the giant on the breast with one of the three cakes which he had from the foster-mother.

That minute the giant knew who was before him, and called out, “Isn’t it the fine welcome I was giving my sister’s son from Erin?”

With that, he changed entirely, and was so glad to see the king’s son that he didn’t know what to do for him or where to put him. He made a great feast that evening; the two ate and drank with contentment and delight. The giant was so pleased with the king’s son that he took him to his own bed. He wasn’t three minutes in the bed when he was sound asleep and snoring. With every breath that the giant took in, he drew the king’s son into his mouth and as far as the butt of his tongue; with every breath that he sent out, he drove him to the rafters of the castle, and the king’s son was that way going up and down between the bed and the roof until daybreak, when the giant let a breath out of him, and closed his mouth; next moment the king’s son was down on his lips.

“What are you doing to me?” cried the giant.

“Nothing,” said the king’s son; “but you didn’t let me close an eye all the night. With every breath you let out of you, you drove me up to the rafters; and with every breath you took in, you drew me into your mouth and as far as the butt of your tongue.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“How could I wake you when time failed me to do it?”

“Oh, then, sister’s son from Erin,” said the giant, “it’s the poor night’s rest I gave you; but if you had a bad bed, you must have a good breakfast.”

With that, the giant rose, and the two ate the best breakfast that could be had out of Erin.