Post by bran_sinnach on Jan 6, 2007 16:08:58 GMT -5
Manannan Mac Lir sprang from the ancient Irish race, the Tuatha de Danann, who, long before history began, retreated into invisibility, leaving the country to mere mortals. Manannan’s special domain was the sea, where his power was supreme, and innumerable legends surround his name. He had, it is said, a boat that knew his destination without prompting and traveled there without the help of sail or oar. In armor that shone as brightly as the sun, he rode his horse over land or water, the mere sight of his sword caused the strength to drain from his enemies. And when he cloaked himself or any other person in his magic mantle, it extinguished them from view.
As long as he lived- many say he is living still- his kingdom was invulnerable. When enemies approached, he enveloped the island in mist, and they sailed by unaware. He could raise storms if he wanted, and if he needed to, he could toss wooden chips into the water and make each grow into a warship. He could conjure 100 armed men from each of his troops.
In peace he was a provider of prosperity. He cultivated fish as if they were cattle, and when the pigs from his herd were slaughtered, the bones re-formed themselves into plump, living beasts. He was the happiest and most generous of men, and he made happy those about him.
Manannan had a fatherly fondness for the Irish, a race he kept under a watchful eye. He trained the country’s young warriors, provided them with powerful weapons and healed their battle wounds. Those who had acquaintance with him usually came out of it better, wiser men.
There was, for instance, the lesson he taught Cormac Mac Art. Cormac was a wise if somewhat pettish Irish king. The chink in his wisdom, however, was his opinion of women. “Crabby, haughty, lewd, bird brained, and disrespectful,” he described them. “Greedy, vindictive, spiteful, squabbling, quick to insult, eloquent in trifles,” and still more in this vein.
One day as Cormac walked the ramparts of his wooden fortress at Tara, seat of Irish kings, he saw a young man approaching, carrying a silver branch from which nine golden apples hung. The young man shook the branch, and the apples tinkled a sweet music. The delicate melody of the apple bells made Cormac straightaway forget all cares. He hailed the young man and asked whether he would sell the apple branch.
“Surely,” came the reply. “There is nothing I have I would not sell.”
“And what is the price?” Cormac called down to him.
“I will tell you when you undertake to by,” answered the young man.
The King agreed. “And what is the price?” he asked again.
“Your wife and daughters.”
And whether it was the effect of the music or irritation with his wife and women in general, Cormac let her and his two daughters go without protest.
A year later, despite the music of the apple bells, he found himself pining for his family. Driven by his loneliness, Cormac set out along the road they had taken. As he walked, a mist arose around him, and when it cleared, he found himself in a strange, dreamlike land, where buildings of satin and of feathers stood crookedly in green meadows. He walked until the day drew in, and finally he came to a brightly lighted palace. A man at the palace gate greeted him with high good humor and invited him to dine and rest.
Inside, a pig was ready for the spit. Cormac’s host cut a quarter from the pig and set it to cook at a blazing fire. “Now,” said the host with a smile, “How shall we entertain ourselves? I’ll tell you. Give us a tale. And mark this fact: If your tale is a true one, this quarter of the pig will be cooked by the end of it.”
“I would sooner you told one first,” said Cormac, “and then your wife, and I shall happily tell mine afterward.”
“Very well,” said his host gaily. “Guests must have their will and way. Here is my tale. I own seven of these pigs, but with those seven I can feed the whole world. When one is killed and eaten I put the bones back in the sty, and when the sun comes up it is live and whole again. Now, if I have told you the truth, the quarter will be done.” He pierced the meat with his knife, and indeed it was.
His wife’s turn came. “I have seven white cows,” she said, “and the milk in them never runs dry. If all the people in the world were gathered in the plain, I could give them all to drink. And if I speak the truth, the second quarter will be done.” And it was.
Now Cormac knew who his host was, for only Manannan owned such pigs and cows. He said so, and the man nodded, but called for Cormac’s story without delay. Cormac told how he lost his wife and daughters and how he missed them, and by the time he finished, tears rested within Cormac’s eyes and the third quarter of the pig was cooked. Manannan laughed, soothing the troubled King.
“You are King Cormac,” he said, “and I’ll tell you the truth. It was I in that young man and I who took your family- fairly, remember, and according to the agreement we made. But you’re here now, and thinking differently and wiser it seems, and I’m happy and honored to see you. As for your wife...” Here he jumped up, strode to a darkly curtained door, threw it open and called the three inside to come out. They were Cormac’s wife and children.
After the embraces and tears, they all sat down at a long oak table. Manannan took up a golden goblet. “Now here’s another curious thing,” he said. “Speak a lie before this cup and it will break in a hundred pieces. Tell the truth and it’s whole again. Let mer show you, Cormac,” he said with a chuckle. “Since I took your wife away, I’m sorry to tell you, she has found a new husband.” Cormac felt steel binds tighten in his chest and about his heart. But Manannan laughed, and as he did, the noise was drowned by the clatter of golden fragments on the boards.
“I’m afraid,” said Manannan’s wife demurely, “that my husband has lied.” The pieces of the goblet then instantly flew back together.
After that, the evening passed in stories that grew ever more fanciful. As Manannan elaborated, the cup, in pieces again, seemed to lose all will to attempt restoring itself. Eventually the company retired, but when Cormac awoke, he was in his own palace, his own dear wife asleep beside him and near the bed the golden goblet for truth and the silver branch of apples for delight. The King had been taught a very pointed lesson, and it was one he never forgot.”
As long as he lived- many say he is living still- his kingdom was invulnerable. When enemies approached, he enveloped the island in mist, and they sailed by unaware. He could raise storms if he wanted, and if he needed to, he could toss wooden chips into the water and make each grow into a warship. He could conjure 100 armed men from each of his troops.
In peace he was a provider of prosperity. He cultivated fish as if they were cattle, and when the pigs from his herd were slaughtered, the bones re-formed themselves into plump, living beasts. He was the happiest and most generous of men, and he made happy those about him.
Manannan had a fatherly fondness for the Irish, a race he kept under a watchful eye. He trained the country’s young warriors, provided them with powerful weapons and healed their battle wounds. Those who had acquaintance with him usually came out of it better, wiser men.
There was, for instance, the lesson he taught Cormac Mac Art. Cormac was a wise if somewhat pettish Irish king. The chink in his wisdom, however, was his opinion of women. “Crabby, haughty, lewd, bird brained, and disrespectful,” he described them. “Greedy, vindictive, spiteful, squabbling, quick to insult, eloquent in trifles,” and still more in this vein.
One day as Cormac walked the ramparts of his wooden fortress at Tara, seat of Irish kings, he saw a young man approaching, carrying a silver branch from which nine golden apples hung. The young man shook the branch, and the apples tinkled a sweet music. The delicate melody of the apple bells made Cormac straightaway forget all cares. He hailed the young man and asked whether he would sell the apple branch.
“Surely,” came the reply. “There is nothing I have I would not sell.”
“And what is the price?” Cormac called down to him.
“I will tell you when you undertake to by,” answered the young man.
The King agreed. “And what is the price?” he asked again.
“Your wife and daughters.”
And whether it was the effect of the music or irritation with his wife and women in general, Cormac let her and his two daughters go without protest.
A year later, despite the music of the apple bells, he found himself pining for his family. Driven by his loneliness, Cormac set out along the road they had taken. As he walked, a mist arose around him, and when it cleared, he found himself in a strange, dreamlike land, where buildings of satin and of feathers stood crookedly in green meadows. He walked until the day drew in, and finally he came to a brightly lighted palace. A man at the palace gate greeted him with high good humor and invited him to dine and rest.
Inside, a pig was ready for the spit. Cormac’s host cut a quarter from the pig and set it to cook at a blazing fire. “Now,” said the host with a smile, “How shall we entertain ourselves? I’ll tell you. Give us a tale. And mark this fact: If your tale is a true one, this quarter of the pig will be cooked by the end of it.”
“I would sooner you told one first,” said Cormac, “and then your wife, and I shall happily tell mine afterward.”
“Very well,” said his host gaily. “Guests must have their will and way. Here is my tale. I own seven of these pigs, but with those seven I can feed the whole world. When one is killed and eaten I put the bones back in the sty, and when the sun comes up it is live and whole again. Now, if I have told you the truth, the quarter will be done.” He pierced the meat with his knife, and indeed it was.
His wife’s turn came. “I have seven white cows,” she said, “and the milk in them never runs dry. If all the people in the world were gathered in the plain, I could give them all to drink. And if I speak the truth, the second quarter will be done.” And it was.
Now Cormac knew who his host was, for only Manannan owned such pigs and cows. He said so, and the man nodded, but called for Cormac’s story without delay. Cormac told how he lost his wife and daughters and how he missed them, and by the time he finished, tears rested within Cormac’s eyes and the third quarter of the pig was cooked. Manannan laughed, soothing the troubled King.
“You are King Cormac,” he said, “and I’ll tell you the truth. It was I in that young man and I who took your family- fairly, remember, and according to the agreement we made. But you’re here now, and thinking differently and wiser it seems, and I’m happy and honored to see you. As for your wife...” Here he jumped up, strode to a darkly curtained door, threw it open and called the three inside to come out. They were Cormac’s wife and children.
After the embraces and tears, they all sat down at a long oak table. Manannan took up a golden goblet. “Now here’s another curious thing,” he said. “Speak a lie before this cup and it will break in a hundred pieces. Tell the truth and it’s whole again. Let mer show you, Cormac,” he said with a chuckle. “Since I took your wife away, I’m sorry to tell you, she has found a new husband.” Cormac felt steel binds tighten in his chest and about his heart. But Manannan laughed, and as he did, the noise was drowned by the clatter of golden fragments on the boards.
“I’m afraid,” said Manannan’s wife demurely, “that my husband has lied.” The pieces of the goblet then instantly flew back together.
After that, the evening passed in stories that grew ever more fanciful. As Manannan elaborated, the cup, in pieces again, seemed to lose all will to attempt restoring itself. Eventually the company retired, but when Cormac awoke, he was in his own palace, his own dear wife asleep beside him and near the bed the golden goblet for truth and the silver branch of apples for delight. The King had been taught a very pointed lesson, and it was one he never forgot.”
