# McClure's Magazine/Volume 30/Number 2/Patrick of the Bells

from McClure's Magazine, December 1907, pp. 211–222. Accompanying illustrations may be omitted.
PATRICK OF THE BELLS
BY
HERMINIE TEMPLETON
AUTHOR OF “DARBY O'GILL AND THE GOOD PEOPLE,” “KILLBOGGAN AND KILLBOHGAN,” ETC.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY HENRY McCARTER
IT'S many's the fine tale concerning the stormy disputes that raged between great Patrick of the Bells and Oisin, the mighty son of Finn MacCumhull, that the learned clerics of Ireland used to be writing down in their thick leather books; and it's many's the account of the wonderful deeds wrought by Patrick that these same ancient clerics used to be putting there, too for it's given up by every one that Patrick of the Bells was the greatest saint that ever lived in the whole world for the working of miracles.
Wasn't it he that, by the ringing of his bell, drove the seventy-times-seven demons from the bald top of Cruachmaa and put them prisoners in the bottom of the Well of the End of the World? And wasn't it he that banished into the depths of the green, shuddering ocean the writhing serpents, and crawling vipers, and every kind of venomous thing that infested the pleasant land of Ireland? And wasn't it he, as well, that stopped the black famine there, by making the grass to grow again in the blighted fields, by putting the swift-gleaming fish into the gray, silent streams, and by filling with sweet milk the dried udders of the kine? But greater than all these marvels, I think, was the miracle Patrick wrought upon the pagan chieftain Oisin, and that is what I am going to tell you about now.
Hundreds of years before St. Patrick first came to Ireland and it's hundreds and hundreds of years ago entirely that was—Finn MacCumhull and the warriors of the Fianna ruled from their king's dun at Almhuin, over the pleasant province of Leinster. Threescore captains there were of the Fianna. and fivescore champions followed every captain when he went to the wars; and the like of them for heroes the world has never seen before nor since.
There was among them there Caol, the hundred-wounder, who, from the rising to the setting of the sun, on each one of five days fought with the giant Cathaeir of the speckled ships, and killed him after; and there was Faolan the manly, who slew in one combat the seven brave sons of Lochlin; and Goll the mighty; and Diarmuid the brown-haired, beloved of women; and mighty Oscar of the strokes, son of Oisin, who slew the King of Munster and Cairbre of the silken standard on the same day.
There were among the captains, too, Glas; and Gobha the generous; and Caolite of the flaming hair, whose feet could outrun the west wind; and Conan Moal, the giver of curses, whose words were more biting than the east wind in winter; and Feargus the nimble; and Conn of the sharp green spears; and Ronan, who with his well-tempered blade could pierce in oak-tree; and there were many others, too, of renown, of whom I have not time to be telling you. But the like of them all for heroes the world never saw before nor since. Seven feet tall was Minne, the smallest of them all, and the handle of his spear was just a young ash-tree. By that you may know what the others were like. Many's the grand song has been made up about them by the ancient bards of Ireland.
For grace and courtesy, for strength in battle, for swiftness in hunting, for skill in making melodious music, there was not the like of the Fianna in all Ireland, and if not in Ireland, why, then, of course, never by any chance at all in any other country of the world.
And, as it's one above the others there must always be whenever three men come together, so, among the Fianna, next in favor and in merit to the great chief Finn there was always standing comely Oisin of the strong hand. Son of Finn MacCumhull himself was he, and his mother was the goddess Sadb, daughter of Rodb the Red. Great was the beauty of Oisin and his fame was over the four kingdoms of Ireland. He could jump over a branch as high as his forehead, and stoop under one as low as his knee, and he running at full speed; and he could pluck a thorn out of the heel of his foot at the same time without hindrance to his flight.
On a day at the court of Teamhair, in the presence of the five kings and the five queens of Ireland, the three caskets of honor were given without lessening to Oisin by Cormac, the high king. The first casket held the five silver lilies of courtesy, which meant mercy to the conquered, hospitality to the stranger, charity for the poor and distressed, gentleness to old men and children, and white homage to women; the second casket contained the five bronze nuts of learning, which signified skill in fighting, sleight in wrestling, swiftness in hunting, caution in chess-playing, and sweet cunning in the making of melodious songs; and the third casket held three golden apples, which signified courage in danger, faith in friendship, and truth in speaking. And no other man before or since ever got those three caskets at one time without lessening.
So, no wonder at all it was that Niahm of the golden hair, who was the daughter of the king of the Country of the Young, fell into conceit with the great fame of Oisin, and journeyed all the way to Ireland for love of him; and no sooner did Oisin set his eyes on Niahm of the golden hair than he loved her with every vein of his body, and it's what he said to her:
“From this day out I will have neither ease of mind nor peace of heart until your life ts the same as my life; and for me there's no other woman in the world but you, O woman of the deep-shining eyes!”
For answer, Niahm bent down from the white horse on which she rode, and kissed him on the forehead and on the eyes, and this is what she said:
“There is many a king's son has paid court to me, O Oisin of the comely brow, but it's to you I give my heart, and to no other. And it's to take you back with me to my father's country I have come, bringing the white horse of magic for our journey; and if you love me as you say, you will come up now and sit behind me here.”
So he did that, and the great white horse turned his face to the western sea. And when Finn saw this, he raised three shouts of sorrow: “My woe and my grief! O Oisin, my son, to be going away from me this way! for I know you will never return.”
But the white steed never stayed nor stopped, but rose to meet the green combing waves and leaped into them, and the people of the Fianna saw them no more. And Niahm and the warrior went their way together on the horse of magic over the high-tossing sea and under the dark-running waves toward the Country of the Young.
Illustration: “NIAHM AND THE WARRIOR WENT THEIR WAY TOGETHER ON THE HORSE OF MAGIC”
And as they were going along that way in the shining afternoon of the day, a hornless fawn leaped suddenly up on top of the waves before them, and a red-eared white hound was chasing it. And straightway Oisin, the great hunter, was eager to follow in the chase; but it's what Niahm told him, that these forms running before them were only the creatures of the Sidh, and what they were trying was to lure him from her, the way he would be destroyed in the strong green waves. So, hearing that, Oisin turned his eyes away. Presently, again, a young maid came riding by on a brown steed, and oh, it's she that was beautiful! Her chalk-white skin was like the swan's breast as he plumes himself on the clear waters of Loch Dearg; her lips were the color of rowan-berries; and her hair was just a golden cloud on her shoulders. In her right hand she held an apple of green gold; and it was fast she rode, throwing many a look of terror behind the while. Close after her a youth came riding on a slim white steed; from his shoulders floated a mantle of crimson-red satin, and he was holding a naked sword in his hand.
At that Oisin's hand was on the bridle-rein and his sword was almost from its scabbard, when Niahm quickly warned the champion to pay no heed, for no danger at all was on the maid, but it was she who was no other than the hornless fawn that went past them a minute before, and the youth with the naked sword was that same white hound with the red ear.
As Niahm was saying this, the maid with the golden apple turned, laughed mockingly, and then she and the youth sank together into the sea.
Many other things of wonder Oisin saw on that journey; but the white steed never changed his course nor stayed nor halted till at length and at last it reached the shores of the Country of the Young. There, in the great palace of that land, the king and the queen gave to their daughter Niahm, and to comely Oisin of the word, a hundred thousand welcomes.
Illustration: PATRICK OF THE BELLS
Some of the poets were saying that it was three hundred years that Oisin lived with his beautiful wife Niahm and their children, and other poets used to be saying that it was five hundred years that he remained there. But, however long it was, one thing is sure: that he didn't feel the time passing, nor did he dream how long he had been away from his own land. For in the Country of the Young there is neither age nor sickness nor wasting nor dying, but always feasting and music and hunting and warriors contending one with the other.
And so it was that presently all the recollections of green Erin and of the old life there were driven from his memory by the magic of his beautiful queen, and he was going on forever after, happy and contented with the feasting of to-day and the hunting of to-morrow. But, if Oisin had forgotten the house of of his father, the fame of the warrior still lingered on the misty hills and in the wide valleys of his own country; for the bards of Ireland never left off singing of the brave deeds of the exile and of his comeliness and of his high honor.
And this is the way it was with them when Patrick of the Bells came over to Ireland to preach the true faith to the people. And after a while it came about that Patrick loved to be listening to these old songs of brave deeds; for in his heart of hearts a great saint is neither more nor less than a warrior, only that it is against himself his arms are turned.
And one evening, as Patrick sat listening to Cinnfaela, son of Oilill, and he singing the lay of “The Battle of Cnoc-an-Air,” a strange wish crept into the saint's mind, and then it grew into his heart; and the wish was no less than that he might bring Oisin back across the western sea from the Country of the Young and baptize him, and so save the hero's soul for heaven.
Illustration: “GAZING SADLY OUT TO WHERE THE RED SUN WAS SINKING INTO THE WESTERN SEA”
And so, for many a day, the saint prayed for this at matins and at vespers. But whether what happened was in answer to the prayer will never be rightly known; be that as it may, one thing is certain: On a day, as Oisin and his young men were coming home from the hunt, a great red cloud of Druid mist settled on the side of the hill before them, and out of the middle of the cloud a sweet-sounding harp began playing, and the heart of Oisin stood till, for he knew it to be Suanach, son of Senhenn, who was in it playing, and the song that Suanach sang was the lament for the death of car
And straightway a sudden famishing for a sight of the wide green hills of Ireland and a hungry yearning for the sound of the long-forgotten voices took the strength from Oisin's limbs, and the enchantment fell from his eyes. When he came up to Niahm, it's what he said:
“O Niahm, queen with the sweet voice, my breast is like an empty plover's nest, for the heart that was in it has flown over the seas to Ireland, and I think I shall die now of the lonesome sickness that is on me for a sight of my people.
And she answered him and she said: “Ah, then, it's the sorrowful word you're bringing to me this day, husband of my heart, going away that way, and it's maybe never coming back to me.”
“Haven't we still the white horse of magic,” he said, “to bring me back safe again to you? The thought of my people is like a burning coal in the middle of my brain.”
And it's what Niahm said: “There is grief before you where you are going, comely Oisin, for not one you ever cared for is alive this day to welcome you back to green Ireland. Great Finn and his champions are lying under the heavy stones these hundreds of years. Even the old gods have gone from there. A stranger from Rome with book and bell has banished them, and the faces of the hills are cold and strange. But I give you leave to go, for when the home longing comes into a man's heart, all the waters of the world will not quench its burning.”
And Oisin could not believe that the great Finn was dead, and it's what he thought, that it was only the tenderness and the love that was in the heart of Niahm for him that made her, after the way of women, speak what was not true. But it's what he did: he took Niahm, his queen, up in his arms and strove to comfort her, and it's she that cried her fill. By and by she spoke, and this is the warning she gave to him then:
“Remember, O Oisin, what I'm telling you now: if you but touch your foot to level ground you will never come back to me. And I say to you again—and harken with every vein of your body, my husband: it's danger there is for you in every blade of grass and in every leaf on the bough when once you leave the Country of the Young. And a third time I warn you: if once you leave the horse's back, or touch hand or foot to the ground of Ireland, from that moment out your magic youth will fall from you, and you will be old and shrunken and sightless, and there will be no strength in your limbs, and the blood in your veins will turn to water, and death's hand will be on your shoulder. Ochone, mavrone, my grief and my woe, it's well I know you will never come back to us!”
When Oisin fronted the white horse of magic to the sea, Niahm gave a great cry of sorrow; and when he leaped into the waves, it is kneeling on the white desolate sand she was, beating the palms of her hands and keening bitterly, like one crying over the face of the dead. And that is how it happened that a mortal brought the first sorrow into the Country of the Young.
Oisin never looked back, but went as swift as the wind over the high-tossing sea and under the dark-running waves till he came to his own fair country of Ireland. And when he came into that land there was great wonder on him, for the duns of the kings and of the chiefs had disappeared altogether, and the people had dwindled in size till the tallest man of them could walk upright under Oisin's arm. And they stared at him with round eyes, and the women gathered their children and ran from him as if he were a god and it were from the Tuatha de Danaan he was coming. And he asked a man of them: “Where is Finn MacCumhull hunting the day?”
And it's what the man said, he stammering with his wonder: “There is no such man in Ireland now; but hundreds of years ago there was a great champion named Finn MacCumhull, and he was the head chief of the Fianna; and the poets have songs about him, and they do be saying that he was the greatest hero that ever lived in Ireland.
And a cold dread came on and it's what he said: “And had he a son named Oisin?”
“And the poets do be singing of him, too,” the man said, “of how he went with Niahm, the golden-haired, across the seas to the Country of the Young, and how he never came back. But I don't be giving much heed to those old pish-rogues, for I don't think they can be true.”
Illustration: “THE FIGURE OF A GIANT WARRIOR ... STOOD AT THE RIVER'S EDGE
Then Oisin asked about Caolite, and Daiarmuid, and Goll, and Lugaidh's son; but the man only stared and made a swift crossing sign on his forehead, and walked quickly away. And the people fled, every one, leaving the great, strange man and the white horse standing alone on the roadside
And a blast of loneliness, fierce as a sweep of storm from the ocean, smote Oisin, so that for a time he had no care to live. But presently from the moor a curlew began calling, and the bird's note put a thought of the great marsh about the dun at Almhuin into him, and it's to himself he said:
I will go up into Leinster; I will go up to the dun of my father at Almhuin.”
With that, he lifted the bridle-rein over the neck of the white horse of magic, and they went like the wind, without stopping, until they came to Leinster and to the hill of Almhuin. And when they came to the hill of Almhuin it was a sorrowful, woeful sight that lay before him; for the broad hillside was bare, the walls of the great dun had been leveled to the ground, and the tall weeds were blowing and nodding above the scattered stones. That is how he found the home of his people. But it's when he came to the wide, bare spot where the feasting-hall used to be standing, and to the great black hearthstones, long grown cold, that the wild grief overwhelmed him, and he struck himself on the breast with clenched fists, and it's what he said:
“Oh, isn't it the sorrowful day, Finn of the open hand, for your own son to be this way a stranger above your empty hearthstone! And you, Goll, and Caolite, and Diarmuid of the fair women, and my own son Oscar, is there never one of you will rise up to bid me welcome? Oh, where shall I turn my face, and who will cover me in my wide grave!”
And as he sat there mourning, his head drooped so low that the long yellow hair of him streamed upon the white mane of the horse, two red foxes came out of a hole and began fighting, one with the other, before him. So when Oisin saw that—the great sign of loneliness and desolation in the house of his father—the weakness of sorrow melted his bones and he sank from the top of the horse, and it's how he lay with his lips to the ground, his arms stretched wide, and he was the same as the dead.
Now, it chanced at that hour that Patrick of the Bells, son of Calphrun, with two of his clerics, was on his way to Ath Cliath to preach the new faith to the people. And some one told Patrick of the strange, beautiful man who looked like a god of the Tuatha de Danaan, and who had just gone riding on a wonderful horse up the hill of Almhuin, and who was now lying as one dead upon the ground.
But when Patrick went to that place, he saw no wonderful horse, and there was in it no god of the Tuatha de Danaan, but only a tall old man, and he lying moaning and mourning among the stones. For, as Niahm had foretold, the instant Oisin's foot touched the ground, the horse vanished, and the chill of the ages crept into his bones and into his heart, and he was a withered old man! Even the mind in him was old.
After Oisin told his wonderful story to the clerics, Patrick took him by the hand and led him the ways to Ath Cliath, where for three days Oisin listened to Patrick of the Bells preaching to the princes and to the people And every night, through the long hours till between the crowing of the cock and the full light cf day, Oisin would be telling Patrick and his clerics in the monastery the story of the Fianna and of the wonderful Country of the Young. And they would never be tired listening to him.
On the fourth day of the preaching, when Patrick was getting ready to baptize the people, it's what he said to Oisin:
“Come out now with the others, son of Finn, till I baptize you and save you from the torments of hell; for if you are not baptized you can never enter heaven.”
“But tell me first, Patrick of the white book, where are the Fianna—my son, Oscar of the strokes, Art Garriada, the victorious Caolite, son of Ronan, and Finn, my father—are they in your heaven?”
“No,” answered Patrick, “their likes would not be let into heaven; they died unbaptized. They are prisoners in deep hell, suffering the torments of fire.”
A spot of red anger burned on either cheek of Oisin, and it's what he answered:
“Then keep your heaven for yourself, O Patrick of the crooked staff, and for the likes cf these ill-singing clerics! As for myself, I want none of it. I will go to this hell you speak about to be with Finn, my father, and my son Oscar, and the friends of my youth.”
And Patrick was sore sorry to hear this, for he loved greatly the high loyalty and the white honor of the old Fenian; still, he could not keep back a quick surge of wrath, so he said:
“O witless old man, if you had been given but the quick peep of one eye into the place where the Fianna are confined, it is a different sort of wish that you would be speaking, and it's humble and frightened enough you would be at the same time!”
Then Oisin, striving hard to keep back the anger, asked of Patrick:
“But how big is this hell of which you all are so much afraid, O son of Calphrun?”
And Patrick was obliged to answer him: “I do not know how big the place is; but, be content, it is wide enough and deep enough and strong enough to hold forever the sinful Fianna of Ireland.”
Then Oisin burst forth: “Well, let me tell you, O stranger in the country, if hell were half the size of Ireland, my Finn and his champions would cut their way with their swords from one end of it to the other. And know, too, if it were heaven they were wanting to go into, it isn't the likes of your God that would be keeping them out. It's little knowledge you have of Finn, son of Cumhull, to be saying things like that. On the plain of Gabhra, Finn with his own hand slew two hundred fighting-men.”
“It isn't hundreds that Finn has against him now, O sinful old man, but thousands and tens of thousands and hundreds of thousands.”
“If there were as many against him as there are drops of water in Loch Dearg, O Patrick, who belittles the champions of Ireland, my Finn and his heroes would not leave a head on a neck, from one end of hell to the other.”
And Oisin was not baptized that day. And neither on the next, nor for seven days after that day, did Patrick even speak to the rough old warrior of heaven or of repentance or of any pious thing; but every night of the seven the two were together, it's only kindness and the deep flattery of long-reaching questions that the pagan got from Patrick. And the saint noticed with great grief that every day the old chief was fainter of voice and weaker than he was the day before, and the fear grew heavy on Patrick that Oisin would die unbaptized. And if the son of Calphrun grew fond of Oisin, it was fonder of the saint that Oisin himself became; and it's what he said at last:
“O Patrick of the long prayers, it's little liking I have for your clerics and their fasting and their singing and their sour faces; but you, O strange man with the pleasant word, it's great the warmth that's in my heart for you, and it's loath I'd be to part with you when we die. Maybe it's not much enjoyment you'll be having in heaven, |'m thinking, with all these wearisome persons fretting and keening from morning till night around you about their souls. Whisper! Do you, Patrick, give up heaven and come with me to the Fianna, where I promise there is plenty of eating and drinking, and singing, and hunting, and courting, and chess-playing, and warriors contending one with another. I'll speak the good word for you to Finn, my father, and it's a hundred thousand welcomes will lie before you.”
But Patrick answered him sadly: “O foolish man of the sword, it's little of those pleasures are allowed to the enemies of heaven.”
On another day Oisin said: “It's what I'm thinking sometimes, Patrick of the white cloak, that if Finn and the King of saints are enemies now, it must be the way that some other king is carrying jealous lies between the two of them. Couldn't you send word to your King that Finn was always the true-hearted man with the open hand?”
“Finn and the Fianna are overthrown; they are in the bonds of pain, being punished for their pride, their boasting, and their misdeeds.”
Then Oisin burst forth again: “It's easy for you to say that to me now, when the strength has gone from me, O soft-handed priest; but if Minne, the least of the Fianna, were here, it's few psalms your clerics would be singing in this house the night, and it's many's the sore head would be running about Ath Cliath looking for a place to hide itself. And now, don't be talking to me that way any more, O Patrick of the crooked staves, for it's little heed I'll be giving you from this out!”
“O witless old man,” cried Patrick, in great distress, “it's a bed of fire you are making for yourself this day, when you should be striving for the delights and pleasures of heaven!”
“Tell me, Patrick of the golden vestments,” the son of Finn asked again, “will Meargach of the green spears, who fought against us with his hosts at Cnoc-an-Air, enter heaven?”
And it's what Patrick answered then: “The unbaptized are enemies of my King; they can never enter heaven!”
And it's then that Oisin said: “It wasn't that way at all with my king, for the whole world might come to his door and get meat and shelter there; and they'd find a smith at a forge, too, that would be mending their arms while they stood boasting, maybe, that those same arms would be reddening the ground with our blood on the morning of the morrow. But tell me another thing, O Patrick: would my horse or my hound be allowed with me in that city?”
“Neither your horse nor your hound nor any soulless thing may enter that place.”
“Well, then, take my answer, Patrick of the wheedling tongue: If in heaven you can never hear the song of the blackbird nor the linnet on the bough, nor the cry of the hounds on a frosty morning, nor the bellow of the stag as he comes leaping down the mountain, it's not the kind of a place I'd like to be spending the rest of my days in. No, no, Patrick of the Bells, don't be throwing up your hands that way, for, whatever happens to me, where I'd be is with my father and his people.”
And after that it's how Patrick marveled that while he and Oisin might be talking pleasantly forever about battles and adventures and wonders, still and all, if the two of them began speaking about religious things, then before one could walk five spear-lengths the saint would be losing his temper and the hot anger would drive all convincing arguments and all good discourse to the four winds. So Patrick made up his mind that 'twas an evil spirit that was coming between the two of them, and that for the future the old warrior might say what he liked and Patrick would keep his temper.
Often, toward the end of the day, Oisin used to be climbing with his staff up the green slope of Slieve Carman, and it's there he would stay, his chin sunk in his two hands and he gazing sadly out to where the red sun was sinking into the western sea.
On a day, the son of Calphrun followed him to where he was sitting that way on the hillside, and the two of them remained there awhile without talking together, until Patrick spoke up and said:
“I'm a-wondering, O Oisin of the brooding mind, what is the secret worry and long fretting that's on you. By virtue of our friendship, tell me what trouble it is that you are keeping hidden and covered.”
At that the old warrior shifted uneasily and turned away his face. “This is the trouble that's on me,” he said at last. “Here I am among strangers, without bread and without any pleasant food. Look you, my breast is beginning to slant inward like a nesting curlew's breast, and soon enough, I am thinking, the two legs of me will be sunk to the size of a robin's legs. My grief and my woe! I, that was used to living in such great plenty, to be spending my days now among a houseful of fasting clerics!”
“It isn't true at all, what you are saying,” the son of Calphrun replied. “Twoscore round wheaten cakes, with their share of wine and flesh, are what is given you every day except the fast-days. No, no; it isn't starvation at all that is on you, ungrateful old man.”
But Oisin wagged his gray head and spoke stubbornly: “It's little liking I have for these same fast-days, O priest of the contending tongue, and it's few other kinds of days are coming into your house, and it for my sorrow filled at the same time with praying and singing. It's well I know that if generous Finn and my brave son Oscar were here to-day we would not be without plenty of meat this night at the command of the bell of the seven tolls.”
And it's what Patrick, smiling, answered: “Have done, fond old man! Well I know that it's neither the fasting nor the prayers nor the chanting of the clerics that is on you, but only a long, deep yearning for the unblessed woman of magic in that far country, and for your children. And don't I know, too, why you come here day after day, staring across the white-ridged water?”
When Oisin heard that, he was silent for a while, but his two eyes dimmed with the tears, and when he answered it's what he said:
“Well I know what a shame it is for a great warrior to be mourning for the sight of a woman, or to be ochoning and sorrowing after little children. But over there beyond that measureless sea, on the white shore of the Country of the Young, Niahm, my beautiful queen without blemish, is every day standing waiting for me, and that is why I sit here from the red of the evening till the black of the night. O Patrick, the heart inside of me is dry and empty as a withered nut with the lonesomeness and the age and the longing.”
And Patrick spoke, comforting him: “Surely it is, as you say, a shame for a great warrior like yourself to be mourning and fretting after a woman, and she unblessed—a woman of magic, and not human at all. And you'll quit thinking of her now.”
And it's what Oisin said then: “O Patrick, who has traveled the world over, it is yourself has not seen, East or West, nor yet have any of your clerics seen the equal of that woman for beauty or goodness. Her voice was softer than the black birds of Derrycarn when she spoke my name; a gold ring was always hanging from each curl of her shining hair; and the kisses of her lips were sweeter than honey mingled through red wine.”
And Patrick said then: “Isn't it a pitiful thing to hear a withered old man with such silly words in his mouth? Isn't it fitter that you should be crying those hot tears for fear of the anger of God?”
And Oisin spoke from behind wet hands: “I will cry my fill of scalding tears, O Patrick of the white staves, though not for God, but for her and for Finn and for my lost people.”
But Patrick put down his anger, and he said: “It is a sin for you to be crying that way after the like of any woman, and I will tell you now of how a woman first brought all the sin and trouble into the world.”
And with that the saint began telling Oisin the true story of Adam and Eve. But when Patrick got to that part of the story where Adam was telling God that it was all Eve's fault, and that she had tempted him to eat, Oisin impatiently waved the saint to silence and wouldn't be listening any further, and it's what he said:
“Don't be telling me any more about your saints or of their doings! If I had Adam before me now, it's little breath I'd leave in his body to be carrying tales again that way on any poor woman!”
It was hard for Patrick to control himself then, but he put down his wrath and said: “Will you ever leave off with your empty words, O hoary old man? Shameful it is for me to be listening and you always talking in sinful mockery of the great saints.”
And Ojisin answered: “It isn't mockery. Were my own Oscar and your three greatest saints hand to hand on Cnocna-bh-Fiann, and if I saw my son down, I would say that your saints were strong men. Patrick, ask of God if he remembers when Finn fought with the king of the speckled ships, and if He has seen, East or West or in His own country, a man who was equal to my Finn.”
And Patrick strove in vain to answer with a soft tongue, but he cried: “O wicked old man, it's little you know of God, to be speaking such wild words. It was He who made the sun and the moon and the stars; it is He that gives blossoms to the trees and makes the grass and the flowers to grow in the fields.”
And Oisin spoke slowly and with scorn then: “It wasn't in making grass and birds and little flowers that my king took delight, but in spreading his banner in front of the fight, and in hacking at bones, and in leading his warriors where the danger was greatest, and in courting and swimming and hunting, and in beholding all in the house drinking. It was in such things as these, O son of Calphrun, that my king took delight. Now, Patrick, by virtue of the white book and the crozier that is lying there at its side, relate to me any great feat of strength or any great deed of fighting that was ever done by your King of saints; I haven't heard that He ever reddened His hands.”
At that Patrick rose hastily from the rock, and took his crozier and his white book from the ground, and he was very wroth. Twice he tried to speak, and twice he held his words. Then it's what he said:
“Cease your blasphemies, O withered old man! It is your ignorance and want of knowledge that saves you from the present anger of God. Your time of grace is dwindling into hours; before they have slipped away entirely, submit to Him who does all things well. Stoop your head and strike your breast and shed your tears.”
And it's what the warrior answered: “I will strike my breast, indeed, and shed my fill of tears, but not for God or for His saints, but for my Finn and the heroes.” And then Oisin was alone on the side of the bleak hill.
But that night Patrick brought his own share of wheaten cakes and gave them to Oisin.
And on another day Patrick was speaking of the day of judgment, when all the dead would rise, when all who fell in battles and all who were drowned in the waves, as well as those who died in their beds, would be coming together in one place for judgment. And the son of Finn asked of Patrick:
“Oh, tell me, priest of the pleasant speech, is it sure that Finn and my son Oscar will be there, and Luanan of the heavy spears, and Cruagan the mighty, and Mualan of the exploits?”
And Patrick answered: “Finn and all his host will stand before the judgment-seat on that day to take sentence for their sins.”
And Oisin asked again: “Do you think will Cairbre, the high king, with the hosts of the Clanna Moirne, be let within sight of the Fianna?”
And Patrick answered, as before, that all men that were ever born of woman must stand before the judgment-seat that day. And it's what Oisin said:
“Well, then, I'm thinking, Patrick, that if all Finn's champions come together again that morning with the hosts of King Cairbre, who fought against us at Gabhra, you may tell your God that since the world began He never saw, East or West nor between heaven and the grass, such grand fighting as He will see that day.”
And Patrick answered him sharply: “It's little fighting the Fianna will be doing there, and it's little they'll be thinking of battles; but it's mourning and weeping they'll be, and gnashing their teeth as they are being driven away into the burning pit.”
And it's what Oisin answered: “O stranger in the country, isn't it the great spite you have against the champions of Ireland, who never did you any harm, to be putting the heavy lies on them that way! But let me tell you that it isn't mourning or weeping at all we will go from that place, but free and unhindered, marching proudly together, one breast even with another breast, our slanted spears shining, our silken banners spread, our bards chanting the noble war-songs, and the soldiers of heaven running frightened and scattered before us.”
At that Patrick was in great trouble; and he went out of the house then, and shut himself up in the chapel, and it's there praying he was until evening; and he never stirred while the vespers were being read, and even long after the cloisters were still with the sleep Patrick was kneeling, with bowed head, like a statue of stone. But at the turn of midnight he arose and went to the cell where Oisin was sleeping, and it's what he said:
“Awake, Oisin of the stubborn heart! Arise, for my God has taken pity on your unbelief.”
Then Oisin, without a word, rose wondering, and the two went into the darkness and the silence of the night. It's by every short way they went over the hills and through the valleys until, by dusk of the evening of the morrow, they came to the ford of the river that flowed through the wide plain of Gabhra. And when Oisin saw that place a great weakness came on him, and he leaned his full weight on the shoulder of the saint, and it's what he said:
“My grief and my woe, O Patrick of the helping arm! it's well I know this sorrowful spot. It is the battle-field of Gabhra, where the bravest and the comeliest lie buried. I saw that stream before us run crimson red with the best blood of Ireland. Och, ochone, my grief! There at the hill's foot fell my son Oscar of the strokes, and just here sank down together the seven brave sons of Caolite, and there died Lugaidh's son; and never in this world before was there such loss of fighting-men. Why have you brought us to this sad place, O Patrick?”
And it's how the saint answered him: “It's because the dust of the Fianna lies buried all about us here that we came. Tell me, Oisin of the long years, if Finn and the Fianna were at peace with God, would you also be baptized, and so be prepared for the city of saints?”
“It's little use to be striving to hide it from you, Patrick; it's hard it is to be at odds with you, and gladly I'd be friends with God just for your sake. Besides, if there be need of fighting-men in heaven, the King of saints cannot do a wiser thing than to send for Goll and the mighty Oscar of the strokes and the soldiers of the Fianna.”
And Oisin could not understand at all the tears in Patrick's eyes nor the tremble in his voice as the saint answered him:
“The mercy of God is more wonderful than all His works; He has answered the prayers of the humblest of his servants. So, Oisin, this night you will be christened with Finn, your father, and with your loved comrades of the Fianna; your high loyalty to them has conquered heaven. Come with me now to the ford.”
At that he led the old pagan's faltering steps into the shallow stream and baptized him there. When that was done, he bade Oisin return to the water's edge and wait for him there. But Patrick remained in the water praying, and it's what it seemed, that his figure grew taller and his face glowed with a white light. Three times he raised his arms toward heaven, then bowed his head again and waited.
When he did that, a heavy, luminous mist settled on either bank of the stream. Presently the figure of a giant warrior with shield and sword, and two spears of ancient make, stood at the river's edge, outlined against the mist; and Patrick knew by the king's crown that was upon the warrior's forehead that it was no other than the great Finn, son of Cumhull himself, that was in it. And the warrior came into the stream and stately bent his knees before Patrick, and Patrick baptized him there. When that was done, the mighty son of Cumhull arose and passed on into the mist on the opposite shore whence he had come. Then followed Oscar of the strokes, and Cairrioll of the white skin, and Faolan the liberal, and Conan of the sharp tongue, and Caolite of the flaming hair, and his seven sons. And as each passed he bent his knee in the flood, and Patrick sprinkled the water on his forehead and spoke the words that changed him into a child of God. Thus captain followed captain, and host followed host, until the warriors came no more.
When the last figure melted away into the haze Patrick knew that his task was ended. But as he turned to regain the bank, a resplendent figure stepped forth to meet him. Of all the men Patrick had ever seen in the world, this one was the stateliest and comeliest. It's more than seven feet tall he was, and the hair of his proud head fell like burnished gold to his shoulders. Upon his brow was a golden fillet, and a collar of red gold encircled his neck. In spite of the youthful beauty of the man's face, Patrick knew that it was Oisin and no other that stood before him. As the saint gazed, the apparition raised its right hand high above its head, with the open palm toward Patrick. And it's how it stood there smiling a little minute, and then disappeared through the cloud, the way the others had gone.
As it did that the mists lifted, and Patrick went out to where the figure of the old man was lying, and it's how he lay with his lips to the ground, and he cold and dead.
Then Patrick made a wide grave of stones over against the hill's foot where Oscar fell, and he buried Oisin there.
Now, that was the greatest miracle of St. Patrick—bringing the Fianna of Ireland from the grave the way they would be baptized and saved for heaven.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1933, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 90 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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