AN LEABHAR NA NAMLAIDH

I. Amlaidh's Dream

Twelve white stags of antlers red come charging through the chase.
Eleven hunters, faery-bred, blow horns of gold and grace.
Ten strong Laigin men, and brave, take up their spear and shield.
Nine fair witches dance and wave the silver branch they wield.
Eight young maidens weave a wrap for Tara's august Rí.
Seven sagely salmon nap beneath a hazel tree.
Six great stones, encircling rings, on Queen Medb's ancient plains.
Five gold torcs encircling kings - bright symbols of their reigns.
Four great treasures - Danann Blade and Cauldron, Spear and Stone.
Three forms of the Goddess - Maid and Motherhood and Crone.
Two realms of the earth - the light and dark, the Night and Day.
One of me to live and fight and die along my way.


II. The Sons of Nuinn

In the Cruachain lands to the west, there lived the three sons of Nuinn. These sons lived in the days after Tuan the salmon was caught by Cairill, Rí naUlaidh. Of any Cruachain warrior, Fearn mac Nuinn's spear flew the fastest and the farthest, with unmatched accuracy and force. By no Cruachain druid were Saille mac Nuinn's feats of draíocht exceeded. By no Cruachain bard was the brilliance of Coll mac Nuinn's gentle voice and harp-song ever outshone.

When the three brothers came of age to take wives for themselves, they all became enamored of Niamh naDruithne of the Lough. The nymph was surpassingly and inherently fair, as a daughter of the Tuatha De Danann. Her father was a Sídhe Rí of Cruachain, and they lived in a great palace upon a crystal lake, within a day's ride of Nuinn's dún.

The Sons of Nuinn arrived at the lough and rode their horses over the surface of the water, for Nuinn and his family were in the good graces of the Sídhe. Niamh's father, the Faery King, welcomed the three young suitors, and prepared for them exquisite raiment, a great feast of venison and ale and torcs of faery gold. The Sons of Nuinn accepted the king's gifts, all except the feast (for to partake of the food of the Sídhe is to be lost in the Otherworld forever).

Niamh entertained her father's guests that day, and she appeared to the Sons of Nuinn more desirable than ever before. Each of the three sons proposed to her that evening. "You are all worthy men of noble birth and excellent fame," Niamh spoke to them. "I am willing to consider each of you, but twilight is near, and my clan - the Dal naDruithne - are wont to frolic. You will sleep in our palace tonight, in the rooms prepared for you, and tomorrow your skills will be tested." The Faery spent the night over lake, vale and hill while the Sons of Nuinn slept soundly in the beds prepared for them.

The next morning, Nuinn's three sons met Niamh in a lea, at the lakeside. "Fearn mac Nuinn," she said to the eldest brother, "I will test the infamy of your spear-throw." Fearn mac Nuinn threw his spear with more vigor and precision than ever before, and he released it with great speed. His weapon struck the center of a spiral engraving on a cromlech, the head of the spear lodged into the rock. Niamh threw her spear with leisurely effort, but the weapon flew faster than the eyes of the Sons of Nuinn could follow. Fearn's spear was split - from bottom to tip - by Niamh's spear, and the cromlech was reduced to a crumbled pile of stone.

"Saille mac Nuinn," Niamh said to the second brother. "I will test the infamy of your draíocht." Saille closed his eyes, chanted softly, and summoned a great storm. The Sons of Nuinn would have blown away with the winds had they not caught onto the piles of stone from the cromlech. But Niamh threw her hands to the sky and sunlight cracked through the thick grey clouds. Before long, the sun had burned away the storm, and Saille's breactradh was undone.

"Coll mac Nuinn," Niamh said to the third brother. "I will test the infamy of your song." Taking his harp into the crook of his arm, Coll crooned such a tragic ballad that the eyes of his brothers grew moist with the telling of it, though they had heard it countless times before. Such was the power of Coll's musical briotais. Niamh then took her own harp into the crook of her arm, closed her eyes, and sang notes of such beauty, melancholy and sentiment that the Sons of Nuinn wept like they had never before wept, and they could not be consoled for hours.

The Sons of Nuinn had failed their tests, and their hearts ached. "Before I send you back to your father," Niamh finally said to the Sons of Nuinn, I will give you each one final test. It will be my husband that can drink the fastest a great horn of my father's mead. The brothers spirits were uplifted, and they eagerly returned to the hall of the Sídhe Rí to partake of his mead. The Sons of Nuinn each drank of a great horn and finished at the same time. But it mattered not. They had all three consumed of the table fare of the Sídhe and had become prisoners of the Otherworld forever.

The spirits of Fearn, Saille and Coll endure still in the trees that grow in the environs of the Lough of the Dal naDruithne.


III. The Threefold Fire

1. Gabha
The smith dwells deep within the ground;
A sword is struck, a hammer clangs.
Within his furnace shields are found,
And from his anvil mail hangs.

A world of winter white awaits,
Of crystal trees and hoary mire,
Above the blacksmith’s iron gates –
Above the soot and sweat and fire.

2. Grian
Behold the return of the Sun:
The gold winter lion;
The thaw is his roar.
His warm Summer reign has begun.
His mane is afire;
The dark is no more.

To Brighid the lion obeys:
A nascmhíl of mercy,
To whom we give thanks.
His fiery iron-claws blaze
And burn a green rune
Upon winter’s white flanks!

3. Anam
Awaken you with speed this blessed morn!
And plant your grain and seed this blessed morn!
Weave your cross, get clothing made!
On whetstone hone your spear and blade!
Prepare for birth or bride or raid this blessed morn!

Awaken you and grin this blessed morn!
With open doors let in this blessed morn!
Return to life and breathe the air!
With clansmen hunt fine winter fare!
The new year echoes everywhere this blessed morn!


IV. Táin Bo Niafer

Swift and fierce are Cathal's men
In raid, in love, in battle.
No drink they take,
Lest they mistake
Dear Cathal for dear cattle!

V. The Rose of Seanchaí Hill

O Katlyne of libations golden
'Tis to thee we're thrice beholden:
First, our lips to thy mead's taste.
Next, our arms around thy waist.
Third, the bloom that lingers still
On thee - The Rose of Seanchaí Hill.


VI. Whene'er the Lads Return

O, quite a tale to tell there'll be
Whene'er the lads return!
A satire for Dunn Seannachie
Whene'er the lads return!
Through Cailleach na Muir young maids will sing
And druids will be reckoning
The faery kine our lads will bring
With eyes and hooves that burn.
Let Amlaidh recount ev'rything
Whene'er the lads return!

O, merriment and health to all
Whene'er the lads return!
Attentive watchman - sound the call
Whene'er the lads return!
MacMorna, with his harp new-strung,
Sings ballads that are proudly sung
With trembling string and nimble tongue
These songs our sons will learn!
And when they're old, they'll teach the young,
Whene'er the lads return!

VII. A Cup for Lamfada

A cup for Lamfada,
A bowl for his hound,
A drink for Nuada,
Now send the cup round!

VIII. A Double Honor

A double honor it verily would
Of Filidh Rua to be.
I offer my song, my spear and my sword
To count as number three.

To serve my Rían thusly
Fills my heart with great delight!
O let me join my clan to seek
The Imbas, the hunt and the fight!

IX. The Treasure of Sliabh Buile

The carousing wanes, and the thumping of shields grows quiet as the fianna hush themselves. I launch myself up onto the oaken dais, before the crowd, populating the red glow of the firepit’s smoldering embers.

Raising my spear Gae Cogar high above my head, I cry Fainic ár bua na filíochta! and throw the spear into the center of the room. The warriors scatter as the spear lodges deep into the floor. “Reckless Cathmaol!” cries the hot-headed Lughaid. “What is the meaning of such a gesture? And why command us to Beware your poetic prowess? What sets you apart from the rest of us?”

“I call every man here a fool who does not respect those words,” I answer him. “I speak on behalf of the Fian na Filidh Rua, whose potent words are complemented by menacing skill and steadfast perseverance. The Imbas is our greatest weapon. Our songs and poetry set fire to our spears and swords, setting the battlefield and woodlands ablaze with Amergin’s spirit!

“I make you the target of my spear, my friends, a folly to be sure. But imagine the shame of the fennidh who turned their spears upon the one who would lead them to the treasure at the top of Sliabh Buile!

“Now, it is common knowledge that Sliabh Buile is the tallest mountain in Eire, surrounded by the misty Díthreabh Domhain, where spirits haunt the oaks. Because the top of the mountain is in faeryland, it is invisible to all, as very few dare enter Díthreabh Domhain.

“After Samhain last, the Fian na Coirí Filíochta were keen for one last adventure before wintering at Tara. They set their sights for the top of Sliabh Buile, where they knew fine weapons and clothes of the sídhe lay unsued, waiting to be claimed. Now, the woods of Díthreabh Domhain are thick, and there is only one entrance into the oak coppice.

“Circling the woods, a quarter deasil, revealed to them the uninviting entrance. As they approached the maw of uncertainty, a young, helmeted banfennid fell from out of nowhere and barred the entrance to the wood. ‘Stand aside, girl,’ spoke the Rigfennid Felann in an authoritative tone.

“‘Stand aside, I will not,’ replied the strange banfennid. With a quick twist of her wrist, her sword was in her hand and Felann’s was on the ground! The rest of the fian came at the insolent banfennid with spears, but a salmon leap and a wide sword-stroke severed the points from the fian’s spears. The banfennid was more than a match for this band of nine, and it would not do to have her become an enemy. Or worse, become a friend with Felann’s friends and dishonor them with satire, for it was clear to them that this firebrand had a tongue as formidable as her sword.

“Felann laughed with feigned amusement. There would be only one way to save face now. ‘You are fortunate to have met us on a day when we are affable and at leisure. We’ve no stomach for battle, and certainly not with a banfennid. Yet I see you have potential to be something of a warrior. I will offer you a place in my fian, if you like.’

“The Rigfennid underestimated this banfennid. ‘I will not accept your offer, Felann, son of Eochaid. But if you’ve any intention of climbing Sliabh Buile, you will need me to accompany you. Certainly, you know, none have lived to triumph the raging mountain. That is, none but myself.’

“Aware of the mountain’s reputation, but unwilling to be outdone, Felann replied, ‘Alright, banfennid. We will allow you to tag along, if you like.’

“The mangled branches of the Díthreabh Domhain are thick and jagged. The spirits that inhabit them use the branches as spears and snares, known to grasp helpless travellers and never release them. Evidence of such behavior lie on the leafy ground – torn leines, cracked spears and bones. The banfennid ran ahead, knowing where to step, when to jump, how to duck. Each of the fennidh followed after, matching her every move precisely, until they finally arrived at a clearing. The trial was great, but the fennidh forced smiles and laughter. ‘If you’re to guide us, banfennid, you will need to move more quickly!’ spat Iobhar with a contrived chuckle. ‘We intend to winter at Tara, and we’ve no time to waste.’

“‘Very well,’ replied the unaffected banfennid, smiling. Felann gave Iobhar a disapproving glance.

“They camped for the night on the side of the mountain, where the fennidh repaired their spears. ‘What of the giants who dwell in these foothills?’ asked Nuallan, trying his best to sound casual.

“‘Giants? Ha!’ shouted the great hulk-of-a-man, Donan. ‘I am a match for them, surely.’

“The banfennid laughed at Donan and answered him, ‘You are but an acorn to them! These great giants roam at night and crush ancient oaks in their stride.’ The banfennid’s tale frightened the fian such that none of them slept. When the giants did arrive, the fian was helpless, though they did their best to put on a good show. Confidently, the banfennid lifted her voice to the heavens and wove a lulling spell that encircled them. Sleep overcame the fennidh and the giants, so that the banfennid was the only one awake. Wedging the butt of her spear beneath each sleeping giant, she rolled them down the side of the mountain, into the mists below, while the fian slept soundly.

“The fennidh awoke the next morning to find that they were all in one piece. The banfennid stretched, yawned and unceremoniously told them the tale of how she overcame the giants in battle and how her sword was so terrible to them that the last of them ran away for fear. The fennidh listened to the banfennid’s account with amazement, finding it harder and harder to appear unimpressed by her.

“The journey up the mountain was a great battle. Enormous stones rolled down the mountain without warning, but the banfennid sensed them approaching and led the fian through the maze of peril. As they neared the summit, they passed the entrance to a dark cave. ‘Who disturbs my house?’ came a thunderous voice upon the ears of the travellers.

“‘This is the home of the dragon of Sliabh Buile,’ the banfennid whispered to her companions. No fennid nor aire has ever passed his cave and lived.’

“‘Then we must pass so quietly that he will not hear us,’ Felann answered this.

“But the banfennid knew better. ‘Impossible, Rigfennid. The dragon can smell your cowardice. But we will not perish. Stay close and be silent,’ she advised. Then, calling upon all the power of the Imbas, the banfennid recited the following with forceful assurance:

Stay! You serpent of the angry mountain!
I am the music of Brigit’s fountain!
Stay! And rest your angry wings!
I am the song in the Daghda’s strings!
Stay! Bare not your angry teeth!
I am the hum in the High King’s heath!
Stay! You shall lie and I shall stand –
For I am Eire: Sliabh Buile’s land!

“‘Pass, goddess, pass,’ the dragon replied with great respect, ‘Your treasures await you.’

“As the banfennid and her retinue made their way to the sunlit, windy pinnacle, Felann put a hand upon the woman’s shoulder. ‘Never before have I seen the likes of you, banfennid. I must know who you are!’ Removing her helmet and standing before the Fian na Coirí Filíochta was Flidais, Rian of Inver Colpa!

“From that day forward, Felann knew that the end of the Coirí Filíochta was near. A new star shone in the heavens and her name was Flidais Foltchainn, the May-begot daughter of the Niafer! Her standards for excellence and commitment to the code of the Fianna inspires and enraptures fennidh who would become the elite of Eire’s warriors. I offer Fainic ár bua na filíochta! to Flidais as the warcry for the Fian na Filidh Rua, commanding all to Beware our poetic prowess!”

I look through the faces in the hall, searching for the banfennid…my Rigfennid. She, Aine and Fenian are somewhere in the crowd, I know. Before I can leap down from the oaken platform, I hear someone cry out, “What became of the treasure of Sliabh Buile?”

I pull my spear from its lodging place in the ground and smile. “Ah, a truly remarkable tale…for another night.”

Slán abhaile.


X. The Triple Goddess

Three virtues of the Maiden:
A merry heart, fleet feet, a quick wit.

Three virtues of the Mother:
A gentle hand, a yielding breast, a soothing voice.

Three virtues of the Crone:
An open ear, a patient gait, a wise word.


XI. The Green Man: A Samhain Séadna

Imbolc sees me Brigid-bidden.
By good Lugh, I'm Tailtiu-tasked.
'Tis the time, now, I stay hidden --
Happy hunter, midnight masked!

Mask of many leaves yew-bearing,
Browning alder, orange oak.
Ornaments the Wildwood’s wearing,
Worn on we wayfaring folk.


XII. The Revels: A Samhain Rannaicheacht Mhór

Moonlit races through the green
Go unseen in darker places!
Bach'lor chases maid and queen --
Steal between their masks and faces!


XIII. The Threefold Bard

The threefold makings of a Bard:
A memory immemorial, a vivid imagination, a limber tongue.


XIV. A Song for An Caidreamh Suiri

A casket of music,
A barrel of laughter,
A rose in fair Katlyne's hair;
The jigs will come first
And the ballads soon after
Down at the ol' Love Affair.

A warrior's bragging,
A young maiden's giggling
May both be heard uttered there.
Lovers of all sorts
Are dancing and wiggling
Down at the ol' Love Affair.

A mug for ol' Conall,
A horn for brave Aine,
And Cuillean and Ruadri share,
For this day, my friends,
Is as perfect as any
To spend at the ol' Love Affair!


XV. An Epilogue for An Caidreamh Suiri

I say to you, clansmen -
You Aine the Silvertongue
And you most witty Valeria -
Roam where you will,
But return to Kate's mill,
For she'll always take extra good care o' ya!


XVI. Crannog Niall

The island country calls me home.
Dana's bower greets her son.
Garden lake of moss and loam,
Your will guides this wand'ring one.

Crude outlander, wake me not!
A while longer let me dream,
Here upon my lake-borne cot,
Servant of the lough and stream.


XVII. Lullaby of the Cú-Sídhe

Gather ravens, son and sire,
Slumber in your nest of fire,
Rest yourselves in crimson gore,
Lulled into the task of war.


XVIII. Nine Songs of Gormflaith

Another man may not call you his bondsman.
The sídhe shall never do you ill.
The river's rage will calm at your crossing.
The hearts of your enemies will turn ere delivering you a felling blow.
Goibniu's Fire will burn the fetters that hold you.
Manannan will ever be your servant.
The bitter cold will not claim your life.
Your path will appear even along the darkest of roads.
When you sing before kings, it will be with the the fair tongue of Angus Og.


XIX. Gormflaith's Geis

Enter not the house of a laughing lord, for there is weakness in his integrity.


XX. Fand's Oath

Here me, Amlaidh of the Ford!
Sword and shield your friends will be;
Free you are, by Pictish plan.
Manannan your solace is,
His white waves, your ocean road.
Woad and carnyx, Brude and crew -
You will take them to Cean Tir!


XXI. The Song of Amlaidh

I am the gem of moonlight in a wanton's eye.
I am the laugh of an eagle on the prevailing wind.
I am the wayward spark of a Beltaine bonfire.
I am the wily whisper in a king's shadow.
I am the passionate peal of Herne's hunting-horn.
I am the golden arrow among sunlit sheaves.
I am Amlaidh.


XXII. A Song for Verica

Of darkest sea-borne stone I sing,
Which speaks the name of Pictland's king.
Of darkest eye and darkest hair,
The darkest queen, so darkling fair.
From Celyddon her dark blood courses
Rowan-root, at Cruithne's sources.
Quicken Tree of branches famed --
All leaves were heroes nobly named.
Each shoot and twig and berry and bloom
Made good its birthright till its doom.
The sap, the blood, red royal mead
Through vital pulp and bark did bleed.
Leaves and blossoms, berries fell,
And winter froze the rowan's well.
One seed survived the winter's chill
And came upon the Sons of Mil.

Verica! came the Sea King's cry.
Across the storm-swept sea and sky.
The rowan seed, through wind and rain,
Returned to take root once again.
As our curragh neared the land,
The Son of Lir, with rein in hand,
Ordained the ancient Cruithne's daughter,
Calling forth, from deep seawater,
Sovereign Stone of Pictland's Brude.
The rule of Quicken Tree renewed!
With surest step and anam brave
Came Verica through crashing wave!
Upon the stone she firmly placed
Her noble foot and proudly faced
Lord Manannan, of foamy mane.
He bade us bless our new queen's reign --
A kiss upon her hallowed feet,
A song with voice and harpstring sweet.
The Lord of Waves and Ocean Deep
Bade Aonbharr take him to his keep.
The ocean broke 'neath hoof and fin,
Through fathoms, to the lair within.
Our eyes and ears still filled with wonder,
Carnyx sounded august thunder.
Land was touched by Verica's foot
And Cruithne's seed again took root.

So be it.

XXIII. The Princes of Lochlann

In the days that Cormac was newly made High King at Temhair, there were two heroes of the Fir Dea in his service. They were called Abhlach and Tuathmar, and they were princes of Lochlann. It is from Lochlann that the Men of Dea first came to Eire, and for their heritage Abhlach and Tuathmar were highly esteemed and lavished with great tributes.

In fact, the brothers were so richly treated that it was not difficult for Cormac to heed his cattle lords when they argued the demands on their seasonal render. "Why must we pay tribute to the Men of Dea, when they do nothing but eat at the High King's table, drink his mead and make love to our women?" the lords would say to one another in private. These whisperings quickly reached Cormac's sympathetic ear, and the High King could not remain deaf to them.

With the wisdom of his druids, Cormac made a reasonable request of Abhlach and Tuathmar. "You are two wise and powerful men of Lochlann, whence the Four Hallows and all the druid arts of Eire came. And for that reason, I am honored to have you among us in the city of Temhair. But if you are to remain in my house and continue to receive tributes, you will prove yourselves to the lords whose faith in you is shaken." Cormac spun words into golden silk, and so gently upon the brothers' ears they fell that no insult was heard. The brothers of Lochlann gladly accepted.

"It is into Díthreabh Domhain that you will venture," the High King continued. "Within that dense wood dwells an unknown evil. Many warriors, Fir Bolg and Fir Míl, have ventured into that dreaded forest, but none have ever returned. I expect the Fir Dea will fare better and emerge with either the lost men or with news of their fate. You will make this journey in the morning."

And so it was that Abhlach and Tuathmar came to Díthreabh Domhain the next morning, with a band of lords and ladies to bid them farewell. Cormac's druids blessed the two princes, and upon them each was placed a geas. To Abhlach a druid declared, "May you never be defeated in battle, so long as no man is ever slain by your hand." And so it was that Abhlach would only meet his end if he were to bring another man to his doom. To Tuathmar another druid declared, "May you never be defeated in battle, so long as you draw your sword only to slay a man." And so it was that Tuathmar would only meet his end if he were to draw his sword and not bring another man to his doom. The Princes of Lochlann were well pleased with their geasa, confident that no harm could befall them within Díthreabh Domhain.

By the time Abhlach and Tuathmar made it though the thick underbrush and low, dense branches at the edge of Díthreabh Domhain, night had already fallen. After fighting the barbed thorns, branches and brambles that tore at their brats and scratched at their faces, the two heroes of Dea found themselves in a glade. The clearing was canopied by the entwined branches of yew, oak and hawthorn, but starlight stole through the gaps in the leaves and gave the brothers enough aid to guide their way. "Welcome, Men of Dea!" cooed an owl who alighted on Abhlach's arm. "Clearly, the High King at Temhair intends to send every race of Eire into the gloomy fate of Díthreabh Domhain."

"And why is it that the men do not return, Owl?" asked the rash Tuathmar.

"Truthfully I tell you, they cannot," answered the owl, flapping his russet wings for emphasis.

"And how is it that they cannot?" asked Tuathmar, growing red in the face.

"Truthfully I tell you," the owl answered calmly, "Díthreabh Domhain will not let them. The wood is under a mallacht of eternal midnight. While the sun rises and falls beyond its borders, within there is only darkness. The wood welcomes any and all, but the mallacht will allow none to leave." The golden owl clucked and cooed, seemingly content with his fate.

"How is it this dreadful mallacht may be removed from the wood?" Abhlach finally spoke.

The owl shook head rapidly, ruffling his oily feathers. "Only at the death of Lord Fiodh will the shadow pass over Díthreabh Domhain." With that, the owl released Abhlach's arm and took flight, soaring deep into the branches overhead.

The Princes of Lochlann had never before heard of any Lord Fiodh, but they decided then that it would be Tuathmar who would slay him, for Abhlach would not be permitted to do so, under the geas of Cormac's druid.

As they ventured deeper into the wood, the brothers found that their path got narrower, and the underbrush got thicker. Bush, shrub and branch grew so entangled with one another, that the two Fir Dea found it nearly impossible to continue. With their arms they pushed aside leaves, branches and vines, as they could, and crawled through the tight spaces, across a thick wooden web of trees. The brothers found many adventures among great beasts of the forest, dark and wild creatures unseen by daylight.

Slain men were found in the high branches, run through by leafy spears of hawthorn and willow. Abhlach and Tuathmar swayed and swerved as angry trees strove to bring the Lochlann brothers to the same end. Up the thick, lattice of branches they climbed, scattering every variety of leaves in all directions. When they came upon the treetops, they found clear, cloudless night. And between the starry firmament and the green treetops was clustered a ring of stargazers, perched in leafy, dew-kissed cushions. The white-robed men did not stir at the sound of the brothers' voices, and they never once took their eyes from the unmoving stars, high above them.

"What is this?" Tuathmar asked the men, pointing to a tall, wide, hollow trunk of a dead oak tree. The men in robes remained silent, not even craning their necks.

"The door to Fiodh's sanctuary," the owl said, emerging from the darkness like a phantom and alighting upon Abhlach's arm. Without a thought, Tuathmar dove down the open top of the hollow tree, his deep warcry echoing behind him. His brother Abhlach faithfully followed, and the owl after him. While the brothers fell down the wide, crooked and winding passage, the owl soared with them, eventually passing them by. Their journey ended when the tunnel turned upwards and the three of them rolled out, across Díthreabh Domhain's leafy floor.

Abhlach and Tuathmar were greeted in a blue-lit grove by an old, bearded man, clothed in leaves, mossy bark and earth-tone robes. For a walking stick he gripped a rod of hazel. The brothers knew this man to be Fiodh. And with him was his pale, silver-haired daughter, lying upon the ground in a deep sleep. Fiodh explained the mallacht to them. "My daughter is a sacrifice to protect this wood. She sleeps for eternity, and so Díthreabh Domhain will dwell in eternal midnight. In this way, no forester may come and go as he pleases, tearing down our trees and hunting our fauna." Out of pity for the girl, and to break the curse, Tuathmar drew his sword and struck Fiodh's head from his shoulders.

When Abhlach woke the girl from her deep sleep, she cried out in horror and threw herself upon Fiodh's lifeless body. At the same time, the gold of morning came upon the forest, for the first time in ages, and the girl's hair turned, from silver, into a fiery gold. And, too, did a warm glow bloom in her fair complexion, her tears like rain upon a wheat field. The thick foliage at the edge of the wood parted, and a way out of the wood was shown to the brothers. Tuathmar wished to take Fiodh's head with them as a gift to the High King, but Abhlach insisted that he leave it out of respect for Fiodh's grieving daughter. Tuathmar then offered himself as husband to her, if she would have him, but she would not.

When the brothers returned to Temhair, they were greeted with praise and celebration. They told the throng of lords, bards, druids, ladies, warriors, farmers, maidens and children of their adventures, including their encounter with Fiodh and his daughter. They also told of the owl and the fate of the Fir Bolg and Fir Míl. "Some were slain by the trees," Abhlach told, "while others became mad stargazers, searching the skies for signs of morning." Cormac and his lord applauded the brothers' success and they were honored with a great feast that evening.

When summer came to an end, the two princes wished to return to Lochlann to have Samhain with their own clan. Cormac bid them a sad farewell, as the heroes set out in their boat, Airgeadragan. The sea was kind to them, as it is always for the Keepers of the Ford, but Tuathmar's sleep was seldom restful. Their first night at sea, Tuathmar was plagued by visions of the bloody head of Fiodh, who muttered a plot for revenge. In a fit, Tuathmar woke and drew his sword from his side. And it is in this way that Abhlach fell.

For as there was no other man in the boat but Tuathmar's sleeping brother, the cursed hero had no choice but to cut a felling stroke upon Abhlach. Ashamed and distraught, Tuathmar cast his brother's bleeding body from the boat and began to compose a tale to tell his brother's wife and child, upon his return. Meanwhile, Abhlach sank into the dark depths of the sea between Eire and Britain. What Tuathmar had forgotten was that Abhlach could not be slain unless he were to first kill a man, according to the druid's geas. So Abhlach would live, and Tuathmar would be doomed. But the treacherous brother's demise is another tale.

As for Abhlach, he was rescued by the King of the Sea, himself, Manannan mac Lir. The great Wielder of Fragarach recognized Abhlach, by the colors he wore, as a boatman of the Fir Dea. From the icy depths he pulled Abhlach and gave him a home upon an isle in the otherworldly realm. "Do not return to the world of the Sons of Míl," Manannan told Abhlach. "You will make your home here and live like so many of your ancestors, as one of the Sídhe." And so the island came to be called Emain Abhlach, and it is here, in an apple orchard, that the servant of Manannan made his home, never to see Lochlann or his family again.