Mac Criomthann Tales

By G. R. Grove

Many are the tales which were once told of the Druid called Mac Criomthann and the adventures which befell him in the years he wandered Ireland – for it was not a man of Ériu that he was, but a Briton, and how he came by his name and his nature in that great island I have told elsewhere. Most of his stories are lost now, or attributed to other heroes and magicians, but these few I have salvaged. I learned them once from an ancient Storyteller, long ago in a distant land. Now I share them with you here…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781312794993

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Mac Criomthann Tales

Mac Criomthann Tales

Second Edition

Copyright © 2014 by G. R. Grove.

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-312-79499-3

Dedication:

To the ancient wise —

May they share with us their wisdom,

and may we use it well.

Introduction

Many are the tales which were once told of the Druid called Mac Criomthann and the adventures which befell him in the years he wandered Ireland – for it was not a man of Ériu that he was, but a Briton, and how he came by his name and his nature in that great island I have told elsewhere. Most of his stories are lost now, or attributed to other heroes and magicians, but these few I have salvaged. I learned them once from an ancient Storyteller, long ago in a distant land. Now I share them with you here…

Mac Criomthann

and the Language of the Birds

Long ago in Ireland, the Druid called Mac Criomthann was walking one evening through the oak woods which clothe the lower slopes of Mullaghmesha. He was neither young nor old in those days; his beard was still black, and his gray eyes saw all things clearly. In the Irish tongue his name means Son of the Fox, and in a little while you will see why he was so called.

As he walked, Mac Criomthann listened to the singing of the birds, for he understood their language, and he knew that their silence can be as important as their speech. And so when he noticed a patch of that silence in the forest around him, he became thoughtful. Not far ahead, his path crossed a deep river by means of a rough wooden bridge which leapt from one high bank to the other, and in the center of that bridge he saw someone who looked like a little old woman, muffled in gray-brown shawls. But the silence of the birds and his own magic told Mac Criomthann that she was not what she seemed, and he stopped before he set foot upon the bridge. Good evening to you, old mother, he said.

The little old woman peered up at him through her tangled gray hair. It is no mother of yours I am, she said in a creaky voice. And where would you be going this fine evening?

Far enough, and not very far, said Mac Criomthann. Where do you bide, grandmother?

Near enough, and not very near, said the old woman. Would you be for crossing over?

I would, said Mac Criomthann. But he did not move.

Read me this riddle aright, said the old woman, and I will let you pass.

And if I fail?

You will pay the price, said the old woman, and smiled a toothless smile.

Mac Criomthann stood and thought. It was far and far to any other bridge over this river, and there would be little moonlight