Two Irish Legends

    Last time I posted, I promised two of my favorite Irish legends: Tír na Nóg (Pronounced as "teer na no-gh", not like "egg nog") and The Salmon of Knowledge. These are in my own words, as best as I can remember them from the times I heard them, with pronunciation guides so you know how to handle the names. Any imperfections or inaccuracies are of my own brain's make, but I'm not super worried about them because I figure that legends like these change and morph over time anyway.

    I got the story of the Salmon of Knowledge from a YouTuber known as Fandabi Dozi, who tells the story starting at about the 10:00 mark in this video. If you want a little more info on hazel trees than that, start at 8:39 or so. 

    As for the legend of Tír na Nóg, I don't actually remember where I first learned it. Perhaps the storyteller Claire Murphy told it and I got to hear a recording, but I honestly can't say for sure. I do highly recommend Claire Murphy if you like Irish stories, though, because she tells a fair few of them.

The Legend of Tír na Nóg

    Once, a long time ago, there was a great Irish warrior named Óisín ("oh-sheen").

    Now, Óisín, as many warriors have done, fought in a great many battles in his lifetime, and it was on his way back home from one of these battles that he met a beautiful maiden named Niamh (neev), riding upon the largest, finest horse he had ever seen.

    Immediately smitten with the lovely rider of this excellent horse, Óisín hurried after her, calling, 'Oh, beautiful maiden, where did you find such a fine steed?'

    The maid reined in her horse and turned to face him, her lovely face aglow with an ethereal light. 'Ah, Man,' Niamh replied, 'My land holds many wonders, of which my horse is only the least.'

    'What land, pray tell, do you come from, fair maid?' Óisín asked.

    'I come from the land of Tír na Nóg, searching for a man of valour to be my groom. Do you know where one might be found?'

    Óisín lifted a hand to his chest. 'One stands before you now,' he said. 'I am Óisín, leader of Ireland's greatest warriors. At risk of sounding boastful, I say that a man of greater valour has not been since the days of my father, Fionn MacCull.'

    Niamh laughed, for she recognized this name; Fionn MacCull was a man of renown in her own land as well as in Ireland. 'Come then, Óisín,' she said. 'Ride with me.' And she held out a hand towards Óisín.

    He took it without hesitation, and Niamh pulled him up and whisked him away to her own land.

    The two were quickly deep in love, and together they went to the Fae Queen to ask that they might be married. The Queen agreed, and much celebration followed among the inhabitants of Tír na Nóg.

    Time passed, and eventually Óisín found himself wondering after his own land. What had become of his warriors? His friends? His family?

    He set to begging Niamh to let him go, and she refused, saying, 'Dear husband, you cannot return to the mortal world now. 'Tis the nature of Tír na Nóg, that once one comes, one can never leave.'

    'But you left,' Óisín replied, 'When you came seeking me.'

    Niamh was forced to concede his point, and so they went to the Fae Queen to receive her permission. She reluctantly agreed, saying that so long as Óisín stayed in the saddle of the horse upon which he was sent, he could return to the land of his birth for a time.

    Óisín set off with a light heart toward Ireland, for his wish had been granted and he could now go to see his old friends again.

    But when he arrived, nothing was as he had left it. All the towns and cities had grown, the forests shrunk, and all his old friends long since laid down in the grave. The few years he had spent in Tír na Nóg had stretched into centuries in the mortal world, and everything and everyone Óisín had once known had passed away.

    His bright spirits dulled by this revelation, Óisín turned his horse's nose back toward the only home he had left, ready to leave this bleak mortal world behind for good and return to his wife for all eternity.

    As he neared the entrance to Tír na Nóg once more, he found an old, lame man hobbling beside of the road. 'Good sir,' the old man cried, 'Can you and your horse help me along my way?'

    'Of course,' Óisín replied, stretching a hand down to lift the old man onto his saddle.

    But as the old man took his hand to accept his aid, Óisín's foot slipped out of the stirrup, and with a terrified cry he slid off the horse. So long as you stay in the saddle of the horse upon which you are sent. The words of the Fae Queen echoed in Óisín's head, but it was too late.

    Between the time he left the saddle and the moment he touched the ground, the age of centuries came upon him, and he instantly turned to dust.

The Legend of the Salmon of Knowledge

    Once, long ago, before the days of Óisín, there was an old, greedy druid.

    At this time, there was a tale in the land that there was a mystic salmon living in an enchanted pool surrounded by hazel trees, and that anyone who tasted of this salmon's flesh would gain the wisdom of the ages. Every man, woman, and child able to wield a net or fishing pool went in search of this pool, each hoping they could catch the fish, cook it, and receive of its wisdom.

    This druid was no exception, but unlike everyone else, he had a servant--a young man named Fionn MacCull. Every day the druid and his servant went to every pool in every hazel copse they could find, seeking this incredible fish.

    For many days they searched, until at last Fionn's hook caught a bite.

    With a cry, Fionn started reeling his catch in, fighting back and forth, back and forth for hours until he finally pulled the fish from the water. When the poor beast stopped flopping about on the shore, the druid bent over to examine it, and soon found that it was indeed the fabled salmon of knowledge.

    'Quick,' the druid cried, 'Take this salmon back to our camp and cook it for me!'

    Though exhausted from his battle with the fish, Fionn obeyed, hurrying back to the coals of last night's campfire and stirring it up into a bright flame, filleting the fish and putting it in his frying pan to cook. He worked carefully but swiftly, seasoning it and flavoring it just as his master liked best, and finally, when it was ready, he lifted the tender meat out of the pan and onto a plate.

    'Hurry, boy!' the druid said. 'Bring it to me!'

    Fionn snatched up an eating knife and laid it on the plate, then rushed across the camp to deliver the salmon of knowledge to his master.

    As he did, the hot fish flesh slipped across the plate and smacked into his hand, burning it. Fionn yelped, instinctively lifting the injured appendage to his mouth to suck away the heat of the burn as he pushed the plate into the druid's hands.

   'Stop!' the druid tried to say, seeing what was happening, but it was already too late. Fionn's tongue touched the hot grease from the fish, and within the space of a moment, the light of wisdom shone in his eyes. No matter how much of the salmon the druid ate now, none of that wisdom would ever come to him--not now that this young servant boy had inadvertently stolen it from him.

    In a fit of rage, the druid drew his knife and went to attack the boy, but the wisdom of ages gave Fionn all he needed to escape the greedy man's clutches.

    That day was only the beginning of Fionn's adventures, the start of a life of legend, and this is only the first of the stories about that great Irish hero.

    Well, there you go. Two Irish folk tales, and there are a great many more. Do beware, though; a lot of Scots-Irish myths and legends are really, really dark--I could have told you one about kelpies that could very well give you nightmares, and virtually every legend about selkies ends with an angry selkie taking the life of a fisherman's child or leaving him permanently heartbroken. Pixies routinely lead people to their deaths in bogs, fairies and elves live in lands such as Tír na Nóg, which visitors can never leave, merfolk sing so beautifully that they drive sailors to insanity, and banshees are creatures of darkness that use their horrible screams to frighten their prey into submission--at least so far as I remember from what I've read.

    There are other legends, too, of the Tuatha de Dannan, which aren't nearly so dark as these, and plenty of stories and folk tales of average people dealing with relatively average, fae-less situations. For these, I again recommend that you look up Claire Murphy; her renditions of these folk tales are fantastic. Her telling of The Marriage Boulder, especially, is one of my favorites, and Half a Blanket teaches another powerful moral lesson.

    But for the most part, Irish fairy-stories are very much the sorts of things you tell children to get them to obey their parents and stay in their beds at night. The kelpie one I could have told deals with two sisters who didn't want to listen to their father and died a painful death by hungry kelpie as a result. I tried to keep the ones I told today relatively light-hearted, but even there I didn't totally succeed.

    Anyway. That's all I've got for you for now, so I'll see you soon!