Tír
na nÓg - Oisín and Niamh
Long,
long ago in Ireland, from the time of Conn
Céadchathach in the second century after Christ
until the death of Cairpre Liffechair in the
third century, there was a band of warriors
called the Fianna, who defended Ireland against
invasion. Their leader was Fionn mac Cumhail, and
his son was Oisín the poet. It is from Oisín
that the stories of Fionn and the Fianna have
been passed down through the ages to modern day
poets like Colm mac Séalaigh, who wrote the
popular folk-rock song called *"Tír na
nÓg" that includes the lines in Irish that
I'm using here.
And
of all the stories of battles they fought in this
world, and the adventures they had in the
Otherworld, and all the turnings and twistings of
the heart they endured in both worlds, one story
will never be forgotten, and that is the story of
the day Oisín met Niamh.
One
day, Fionn and the Fianna were hunting in Kerry,
and they stopped to rest on a hill overlooking
the Atlantic Ocean, the way they could see if any
invaders were coming. And they saw one. Now, it
wasn't often an invader came to Ireland without a
fleet of boats and a whole army behind him, but
this one didn't have even one boat. This invader
was riding a majestic white horse across the tops
of the waves, and as Fionn and Oisín and the
rest of the Fianna stared in amazement, they
could see that the invader was a beautiful young
woman with long gold hair that flowed down past
her waist and streamed out behind her in the
wind.
"Spéirbhean ghléigheal
álainn"
is the phrase Colm uses to describe her in his
song, and it's an expression that poets have been
using for hundreds of years, when ordinary words
aren't enough to describe a woman. It's my
opinion that the phrase was invented by Oisín
himself for this occasion.
"Spéirbhean ghléigheal
álainn"
-- a dream-vision woman whose beauty radiated
from her like shafts of light.
The
older heroes of the Fianna pulled in their belts,
to redistribute some of the bulk back to where it
had slipped down from their chests, and the
younger heroes wished they had remembered to
brush their teeth that morning. Fionn looked at
Oisín standing beside him, and he could see that
this invader had already made a conquest, before
she even reached the shore.
She
was the most beautiful woman Young Oisín had
ever met. At the first sight of her, Oisín's
heart did a double-backflip and tied itself into
a knot. He was gob-smacked, but this great hero
-- who had battled many a mighty warrior of this
world and fearsome creature from the Otherworld
-- was too weak to even smack his gob.
As
the woman rode her horse up the hill to where
Fionn and Oisín were standing, Oisín's knees
started to tremble.
She
stopped in front of Fionn and Oisín, and Fionn
said by way of opening the conversation,"You
are very welcome to our country, young lady. I
don't believe I've seen you here before."
"But
I've seen you," she said, "when you
couldn't see me, Fionn mac Cumhail. I've often
come to Ireland to watch you and the Fianna ...
and your son Oisín."
At
the sound of his name on her lips, Oisín's knees
turned to jelly.
"What
is your name and where do you come from and who
is your father and what is your husband's
name?" said Fionn.
"My
name is Niamh Chinn Óir from Tír na nÓg, and
my father is Manannán mac Lir, who is lord in
that land."
Her
name -- Niamh -- means "brightness."
Niamh of the Golden Hair, from the Land of Youth,
where no one ever grows old.
"You
didn't mention the name of your husband back in
Tír na nÓg," Fionn reminded her, and
Oisín and every man of the Fianna held his
breath.
"Many
men in Tír na Óg have offered me their
love," said Niamh, "but I have given my
love to none of them."
Oisín
and the Fianna let out their breath in a sigh of
relief.
Fionn
looked at her with an eye well practised in
judging the makings of a good wife.
"That
seems very unfair of you, not to give your love
to any man," he said severely, for he was a
man with a keen sense of justice.
"Not
to any man of Tír na nÓg," said Niamh,
"because I'm in love with a man of Ireland,
and I've come here to ask him to marry me and
come back to Tír na nÓg with me."
And
then she smiled at Oisín, and the jelly in
Oisín's knees turned to water. Oisín looked at
his fellow heroes of the Fianna, and he saw
several things at once in their eyes: jealousy
that Niamh had not chosen them, and relief that
she was taking some of the competition for the
other women out of the way, but mostly he saw
sadness at the parting of friends and comrades.
And Oisín looked at Fionn and saw the look of
satisfaction that a father feels when he sees his
son well connected in marriage, but mostly
sadness at seeing that son leaving him.
We
don't know if Oisín had second thoughts -- or
any at all, for that matter -- but if he did,
Niamh swept them away when she leaned down from
the saddle and kissed him. The song sums it up
economically:
She
enchanted him with her unearthly beauty
She beguiled him with a kiss
And without the slightest difficulty
She enticed him to Tír na nÓg.
Oisín
leapt onto the great white horse behind Niamh,
and they galloped off across the waves to Tír na
nÓg, where Oisín received a warm welcome from
Manannán and his people. And if Oisín had
fallen completely in love with Niamh at first
sight, he fell twice as completely in love every
time he looked at her.
Now,
if this were a fairy tale, I could say, "And
they lived happily ever after." But it's not
a fairy tale, and they didn't. They lived happily
for three revolutions of the seasons -- or three
years, as they would have said if they counted
time in that land where time doesn't exist --
until one day, Oisín said to Niamh, "I keep
remembering the look of sadness in my father's
eyes and in the eyes of my friends in the Fianna
as I was leaving Ireland. If they miss me as much
as I miss them, they'll be as happy to see me
again as I will be to see them. I'd like to
borrow the white horse and go back to Ireland for
a short visit."
"Don't
leave this place," said Niamh.
"Don't go away from me, my darling.
"If you leave Tír na nÓg,
"You will never return."
"Of
course I will," Oisín said. "I love
you and I could never be happy without you. I'll
come back so fast you'll never know I left."
And
Oisín said to Niamh what many men have said to
many women down through the ages, and as far as I
know, some men are saying it yet: "Silly
woman, don't worry. Nothing is going to
happen."
When
Niamh saw that he was determined to go, she said,
"Remember when I went to Ireland to bring
you here, I stayed on the horse the whole time.
Whatever you do, promise me you won't get off the
horse. Don't even touch the ground."
"I
promise," Oisín said. "I'll be back in
the blink of an eye."
And
away over the waves he galloped on the back of
the great white horse, and in no time at all he
arrived in Ireland. He went directly to Dún
Áileann, where Fionn and the Fianna lived when
they weren't out hunting or defending Ireland
against invaders. This is a massive fort on the
hill of Knockaulin in County Kildare, which was
built by Fionn's great-grandfather, Nuada
Airgetlámh -- Nuada of the Silver Arm, king of
the Tuatha Dé Danaan. But as Oisín galloped up
the hill, he noticed that the road was overgrown
and the fields were untended, and he heard no
voices and saw no people. And when he reached
Dún Áileann, he saw that the roof had fallen in
and the walls were tumbling down. He couldn't
imagine what had happened. The headquarters of
the Fianna was deserted.
Oisín
went back down the road and turned the horse's
head toward Glenasmole -- the Glen of the
Thrushes -- one of the Fianna's favourite hunting
grounds near Dublin. It was in Glenasmole that he
saw the first people. A group of men were
struggling to move a large rock, and Oisín
wondered at this. Any one of the Fianna could
have picked the rock up with one hand, and Oscar,
Oisín's son and the strong man of the Fianna,
could have thrown it over the south side of
Glenasmole and landed it on Seefin -- the Seat of
Fionn -- or over the north side of the glen,
where it would land on what is now a haunted
house called the Hell Fire Club. And here were
ten men pushing and pulling and prying at the
rock, and not able to move it an inch. What had
happened to the people since Oisín left Ireland
for Tír na nÓg?
Oisín
didn't recognise any of the men as he rode up to
them. He noticed that they were small and puny,
about the size of you and me and everyone else
these days. There was amazement in the men's eyes
as they looked up at Oisín on the great white
horse. He greeted them and asked them where he
might find Fionn mac Cumhail and the Fianna.
"Fionn
mac Cumhail?" they said. "The Fianna?
There's no one around here named Fionn mac
Cumhail and never was. Back in the old days,
people used to tell fairy tales to frighten
children about a race of evil giants called the
Fianna who went around eating people. But no one
tells those stories anymore."
That's
when Oisín realised -- 300 years had passed in
Ireland, while he thought he had been away for
three years, and his father and friends had been
dead for a long time.
"It's
a good thing they don't tell those stories
anymore," Oisín said. "They're lies.
I'm Fionn's own son, Oisín, and I was a member
of the Fianna myself. We weren't giants, but any
one of us could have picked this rock up with one
hand, and my son, Oscar, could have thrown it to
the sidhe on the second hill that way or the
sidhe on the second hill that way."
And
he turned the horse's head toward the West and
Tír na nÓg, but one of the men said,
"Prove what you say is true by lifting this
rock for us, and then we'll listen to your
stories of Fionn and the Fianna."
"I'll
do that, so," Oisín said, "to set the
record straight, and then I'll go back to Tír na
nÓg, for there's nothing left for me in this
country."
Oisín
remembered what Niamh had said about not getting
off the horse, so he leaned down from the saddle
and put his hand under the rock. But when he
began to lift it, the girth of the saddle broke
under the strain, and Oisín fell to the ground.
And as soon as he touched the soil of Ireland,
300 years of this world's time caught up with his
body, and he was instantly turned into a
withered, blind, old man.
Niamh's
great white horse galloped away. Some say it was
because he was frightened at what happened to
Oisín, but, no -- he was wise enough to
understand that Oisín could never return to Tír
na nÓg now.
But
the men got an awful fright. They thought Oisín
was dead, until they heard him muttering,
"Tír na nÓg, Tír na nÓg." So they
did the logical thing -- they took him to the
wisest man they knew, and that was Saint Patrick.
Patrick
was an old man himself then. He died about 1500
years ago, and so we know almost the exact date
when Oisín returned to Ireland from Tír na
nÓg: about AD 480. Fionn and the Fianna had been
dead for 200 years.
When
the men told Patrick that Oisín had said he was
Oisín, the son of Fionn mac Cumhail, Patrick
knew what they were talking about, and he was
very interested. He had a great respect for the
old traditions and stories, and he knew that
Oisín was the poet and historian of the Fianna,
and if anyone could tell him the old stories, it
was Oisín. But there was another thing. Oisín
was the last of the old pagan heroes, and Patrick
very much wanted to convert him to Christianity
and baptise him.
But
what was he to do with this feeble, blind old man
who kept muttering, "Tír na nÓg, Tír na
nÓg -- The Land of Youth, The Land of
Youth"? Patrick was kind and sympathetic,
and he said to Oisín, "Tír na nÓg is gone
now. It disappeared with the coming of the new
religion of Christianity."
"Níl
sin fíor," Oisín said. "That's not
true." And of course it wasn't. How could
Tír na nÓg be gone if it's forever? But Patrick
thought it was true -- or perhaps he only wanted
it to be true.
Oisín
said:
"Look!
There it is,
Just there on the horizon.
That's where I belong --
In the Land of Youth."
Patrick
shook his head sadly to see Oisín staring with
his sightless eyes and pointing at the wall.
Eventually, Oisín understood that for him Tír
na nÓg would always remain "just there on
the horizon".
Patrick
took Oisín into his house and gave him a servant
boy to look after him and lead him around, and he
asked Oisín to tell him the old stories and
explain how the places in Ireland got their
names, so he could write down the information for
future generations. Oisín realised it was the
only way to correct the lies that people were
telling about the Fianna, and he agreed. So
Oisín and Patrick travelled around the country
with a scribe. That's how the stories of Fionn
and the Fianna have come down to us today, from
Oisín through the writing of Patrick's scribe
and down through generations of poets and
storytellers, and that was the beginning of my
own present-day Legendary Tours.
The
scribe, whose name was Brogán, was either
extremely conscientious or overwhelmed in the
presence of the two most prominent men of his
age. He wrote down everything until Patrick told
him he could leave out the instructions to
himself.
Write
it, Brogán, in the form of a truly wise
conversation about the adventures of the son
of Cumhaill and the great trials he endured.
Let us listen to what Oissín says ...
(from Duanaire Finn, Pt II, Gerard
Murphy, ed.)
While
they were travelling around the country, Patrick
took the opportunity to tell Oisín about the God
of Christianity and Heaven and Hell.
"Where
are the Fianna?" Oisín asked him one day.
"They're
in Hell, because they weren't Christians,"
Patrick said.
"What's
Hell like?"
"It's
hot, and there are devils and demons always
poking at you with pitchforks."
"Sure,
the Fianna will be well able for them. They've
fought worse in their time. And what's Heaven
like?"
"Everything
is warm and comfortable, and you sing the praises
of God all day."
"Sounds
boring," Oisín said. "I'd rather be
with my friends in Hell, if I can't go to Tír na
nÓg. And you say your God is stronger than our
old gods. Well ...
"If
my son Osgar and God
Wrestled it out on the hill
And I saw Osgar go down
I'd say your God fought well."
(version by Frank O'Connor)
After
all the stories were written down, Oisín needed
to do something to earn his keep. Old and blind
and feeble though he was, Oisín still had the
strength of ten normal men, and Patrick put him
to work clearing the fields of the big stones
that were too heavy for the other men to move.
Oisín didn't mind this at all. A real poet
enjoys working close to the earth and getting his
hands dirty with honest labour. But one day he
complained:
"Patrick,"
he said, "you have me working hard all day
moving stones, but you don't feed me
properly."
"Oisín,"
said Patrick, "how can you say that? You get
a full quarter of beef each day for your meat.
You get a full griddle of bread. And you get a
full churn of butter."
Oisín
said, "In my day, I've seen a quarter of a
blackbird bigger than your quarter of beef. And
I've seen an ivy leaf bigger than your griddle of
bread. And I've seen a rowan berry bigger than
your churn of butter."
"I
don't believe that," Patrick said.
Now,
to call any man a liar is a great insult. To call
a member of the Fianna a liar is a greater
insult. But to call a poet a liar is the greatest
insult of all, because a poem is the embodiment
of truth, and a poet is the designer and creator
of that embodiment. If a poet tells a lie, he
loses the ability to see truth and to be a poet.
And so to call a poet a liar is to deny that he
is what he is, to say he is nothing. Oisín was
so angry he could hardly speak.
"I'll
prove what I said is no word of a lie. The three
things the Fianna lived by were the truth in our
hearts, the strength in our hands, and fulfilment
in our tongues."
Oisín
knew there was a new litter of pups in the house.
He told his servant boy to bring the pups to him.
The boy did so, and Oisín said, "Fasten a
cowhide to the wall, then throw the pups against
the cowhide one by one, and tell me what
happens."
The
boy threw the pups against the cowhide and
reported to Oisín:
"All
the pups fell down except the last one, and he
held onto the cowhide with his teeth and
claws."
"Keep
that one," said Oisín, "and raise him
in a dark room for a year, and don't let him
taste meat or blood during that time."
The
boy did that, and at the end of the year, Oisín
said, "Now put a collar and chain on the dog
and lead me to Glenasmole."
Glenasmole
-- the Glen of the Thrushes -- is a peaceful glen
in the Wicklow Hills just an hour's bicycle ride
from the centre of Dublin. There are farms at the
lower end where the land is green and fertile,
and as the glen rises into the heathery hills all
you can see and hear are the sheep and horses
wandering loose and the wild birds and animals
living their wild and natural lives. As you
remember, that is where Oisín fell off the great
white horse.
When
Oisín and the boy arrived in Glenasmole, Oisín
said, "Now, you'll see a big stone ..."
The
boy said, "Oisín, sir, this part of the
glen is full of big stones."
"Oh,
that's right," said Oisín. He described the
stone he meant, and the boy found it and led
Oisín to it.
"Now
lift the stone and tell me what you find under
it."
"Oisín,
sir, you expect me to lift this stone?"
Oisín
lifted the stone, and the boy said, "I see a
rusty old sword and an iron ball and a big bronze
trumpet."
"Take
the trumpet and blow it," said Oisín,
"and tell me what you see."
The
boy blew the trumpet.
"Did
anything happen?" said Oisín.
"No,"
said the boy.
"Blow
it again. Louder this time."
The
boy blew the trumpet louder.
"Do
you see anything now?" said Oisín.
"No,"
said the boy.
"Give
me the trumpet," said Oisín, and he blew a
blast on the trumpet that knocked the leaves off
all the trees in Glenasmole and shook the birds
from their perches.
"Now
do you see anything?" he asked the boy.
"Yes.
I see a flock of big blackbirds flying this way
up the glen."
"Anything
else?"
"Yes.
Behind that flock is another flock of blackbirds,
and they're even bigger than those in the first
flock."
"Anything
else?"
"Yes.
And behind that flock is a third flock of huge
blackbirds, and they're bigger than any bird I've
ever seen."
"Take
the chain off the dog now," said Oisín.
The
boy took the chain off the dog, and the dog ran
towards the blackbirds, growling and licking his
lips. He singled out the largest of the birds and
attacked it, and as big and ferocious as the dog
was, the bird was even bigger, and it was a hard
battle the dog fought before he finally killed
it. The dog licked the bird's blood and then
turned towards Oisín and the boy, with its eyes
blazing and blood and slaver dripping from its
mouth.
"It's
gone quiet," Oisín said. "What's
happening?"
"The
dog killed the blackbird and drank its blood, and
now I think the taste of blood has driven the dog
mad. Now it's coming towards us. Now it's
running. It's going to attack us. What are we
going to do?"
"Take
the iron ball," Oisín said calmly,
"and throw it at the dog."
"I'd
be afraid to do that, sir. What if I miss?"
"Give
me the ball, and point me to where the dog
is."
The
boy handed the ball to Oisín, and Oisín threw
it, and the ball went into the dog's mouth and
straight through it and out the other end and
killed it.
"Now,"
said Oisín, "sharpen the sword and cut open
the blackbird and tell me what you find in its
stomach."
The
boy cut open the blackbird and he said, "I
found two things in its stomach: an ivy leaf
that's bigger than the griddle of bread, and a
rowan berry that's bigger than the churn of
butter that Patrick gives you each day."
"And
now cut off a quarter of the blackbird with the
sword," Oisín said.
The
boy did that, and the quarter of blackbird was
bigger than the quarter of beef that Patrick gave
Oisín for his meat each day.
"Now,"
said Oisín, "let's show these things to
Patrick."
They
did that, and when Patrick heard the story and
saw the ivy leaf and the rowan berry and the
quarter of blackbird, he said to Oisín,
"Oisín, I was wrong. You told no word of a
lie."
"It
was the three things we lived by," said
Oisín: "the truth in our hearts, the
strength in our hands, and fulfilment in our
tongues."
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