The Vision of Mac Con Glinne Robin Flower called this tale, "an amazing composition... Mac Con J Glinne, it will be seen, is an example of the type of truant scholar, the scholars vagans of European literature, the happy-go-lucky vagabond who goes singing and swaggering through the Middle Ages until he finds his highest expression and final justification in Francois Villon" (1947, pp. 75-6). Indeed, this' eleventh-century composition is an amazing tale. Its hero is Mac Con Glinne who, at the beginning of the tale, is a clerical scholar or student at Armagh Dissatisfied with the life of a poor student, he decides to take up poetry. His success in that profession is explained by his nickname, Aner or Anier, meaning that, because of his powers of praise and satire, he could not be refused whatever he desired. As Jackson points out in his edition of the work (1990), there are two major themes governing the story. The first is the widely-known practice of curing a tape worm by starving the victim and then drawing out the worm by holding food in front of the victim's open mouth. The second is the voyage to the otherworldly land of plenty. The otherworld is often depicted in early Irish and Welsh literature as a land reached by sea voyage, and the literature abounds in descriptions of the particular beauty and sumptuous provisions of such a place. In our story both of these themes are parodied: the tape worm turns out to be the devil (demon of gluttony) and the otherworld is depicted as a place made entirely of foods, mostly milk products and fatty meats. Jackson also discusses in some detail the elements that are specifically mocked by the author. He makes fun of monks, especially of the monastery at Cork, the chief monastery of Munster. He is blasphemous in claiming that the angels are all waiting for him, and that his position in Heaven is assured. He parodies the sacraments, the use of relics and religious amulets, even the Passion of Christ. The literary methods of the monastic scribes are mocked, e.g., opening the story with reference to the four things required of compositions, a device originally reserved for ecclesiastical literature of a very serious kind. Then there is the gross exaggeration that one expects to find in the heroic sagas, such as the Ulster Cycle tales. Genealogical lore is parodied brilliantly in the recitation of Manchin's pedigree. And so on. Whatever of the identity of Mac Con Glinne, Cathal mac Finguine is an historical figure, king of Munster from 721-742; see "The Battle of Allen." Bibliography: Flower 1947; Jackson 1990; Meyer 1892 Poets on Tour I The Vision of Mac Con Glinne The four things that are asked of every literary composition are asked of this one as well, to wit: the place, the person, the time, and the reason for it. The place was Cork City in Munster, and the person was Aner Mac Con Glinne of the Eoganachta of Glennamain. It was composed in the time of Cathal mac Finguine son of Cu cen Gairm or Cti cen Mathair. The reason it was composed was to expel the demon of gluttony that was in Cathal's gullet. How the demon came to be Cathal mac Finguine was a great warrior-prince who ruled Munster. He was hungry as a dog and could eat like a horse. Satan, the demon of gluttony in his throat, used to consume all of Cathal's food. A pig, an ox, a good-sized bullock, sixty loaves of the best wheat, a vat of new ale, and thirty eggs from grown hens - that was for starters, along with side dishes, until his main meal was ready for him. As for the main meal, there isn't room enough to enumerate it all. The reason the demon of gluttony dwelt in Cathal's gullet was because Cathal fell in love, sight unseen, with Ligach daughter of Mael Duin, the king of Ailech, and sister of Fergal son of Mael Diiin, another king of Ailech who was Ireland's defender against Cathal at that time. This is clear from the contention of the two hags who exchanged these verses in Achad Ur: There in the North Across the rocks, is Mael Diiin's son Beyond the Barrow, Though he rustles, he won't remain. He will! He will! (said the hag from the south) And be grateful to get out! I swear by my father, If Cathal comes, Fergal won't get cows! The Celtic Poets Ligach daughter of Mael Dúin would send nuts and app]es ^ other goodies to Cathal out of love and affection for him. Fergal heard about that and summoned his sister to him. He promised he would oW her for telling the truth but curse her if she lied to him. His sister saj<§ that, whatever of her love for Cathal, she feared her brother's curse, So she told him the whole story. Her brother told her to bring him some apples. Then h| summoned scholars and promised them great rewards if they would put spells on those treats in order to destroy Cathal mac Finguine. So the scholars infused those tasty things with magic and spells and gave them to Fergal, who sent servants to bring them to Cathal. The servants urged him, in the name of the eight elements of the world, to wit, the sun and moon, fresh water and salt, heaven and earth, day and night, to eat the apples, since it was out of love and affection that they were sent from Ligach daughter of Mael Duin. So Cathal ate the apples, and they turned into magical creatures in his guts, and those creatures in turn gathered together and grew into a single beast which became the demon of gluttony. And the reason that demon of gluttony was created to dwell in the gullet of Cathal mac Finguine was to destroy the men of Munster in a year and a half, and it's likely it would destroy all of Ireland in another half year. Mac Con Glinne introduced I have heard of an eight-some tonight, In Armagh, after midnight; I swear with all my might, Their other names are not so nice. Comgán was called 'Son of Two Arts,' Famous on the trail of quany; Noble Crítán was called Mac Rustaing, Women passed his grave a-farting. 'Black of Two Tribes,' a famous handle, The name of Stelene's son; 'Dark Raven'; the fair 'Hag of Beare'; 'Rough one of Oak,' Mac Samain's burden. Poets on Tour 'Non-refusal' Mac Con Glinne's name, From the banks of sweet-surfaced Bann; 'Little man,' 'Little woman,' bellows for slaughter, Father and mother of Marban 'dead man.' My King, King of heavenly glory, Brings victory in battle to hosts, That one may not die, Son of modest Mary, These eight, gathered together, I have heard. One of these eight, Aner Mac Con Glinne, was a famous scholar with a great deal of knowledge. The reason he was called Aner is because he used to either satirize or praise folks. A good name, too, for there was never before him nor will there be after him anyone whose praise or satire was more troublesome. So that's why he was called Aner or 'Non-refusal,' because no one could refuse him. A great desire seized this scholar: to take to poetry and abandon learning, for learning made for a wretched life. He thought about where he should go to practice poetry first, and he decided to visit Cathal mac Finguine, who was on royal circuit at Iveagh in Cork. The scholar had heard of the quality and quantity of dairy products to be found there, and he had a passion for such foods. Now all this occurred to the scholar one Friday evening in Roscommon, where he was engaged in learning. He sold what little wealth he had for two loaves of wheat bread and a piece of streaky bacon, which he put into his book bag. That evening, he made a pair of pointed, leather shoes for himself from brown hide folded seven times. He rose early the next morning. He put on his tunic, hitched it up over his buttocks, then his white cloak, tucked up in folds and secured by an iron brooch. He threw his book bag over his shoulder, grabbed his well-balanced staff (five hands long in each direction) by the middle in his right hand, and went clockwise around the graveyard. He bade his teacher - that is, his tutor, farewell, and a copy of the gospels is hung around his neck for good luck. He set out on his journey and travelled across Connaught, to Slieve Aughty, then to Limerick, Cam Fheradaig, Berna Tri Carpat, Slieve Cain, Fir Fhene (called Fermoy these days), past Poets on Tour Mom Mor, and came to rest a little before vespers in a Cork guest house All the way from Roscommon to Cork on Saturday. This is how the guest house, standing open before him, looked It was a day of three things: wind, snow, and water standing in the doorway. There wasn't a piece of thatch or trace of ash that hadn't been swept past the other door, under the benches and beds and along the walls of the royal house. The blanket there was rolled up on the bed, foil of lice and fleas. And no wonder, for it was never aired in the sun by day nor taken up at night, because it was never out of use long enough for that to happen. The bathtub had water from the night before in it, and the heating-stones were lying beside the door. The scholar found no one who would attend to him and wash his feet. He kicked off his sandals and put his feet into the fetid water. Then he rinsed his sandals in it. He hung up his book bag on his staff, against the wall, hung up his sandals, took hold of the blanket and wrapped it around his legs. But the lice and fleas nibbling at his legs were as numerous as the sands of the sea or the sparks from a fire or the dew on a May morning or the stars in the sky, and he grew weary. No one came to enquire about him or to see to his needs. So he took down his book bag and got out his psalter and began chanting the psalms. The scholars and books of Cork say that the sound of his voice was heard for a thousand paces beyond the city, singing the psalms in their spiritual mysteries, in hymns of praise, commemorations, in categories, with pauses and choral singing, groups of ten, with paternosters and canticles and hymns at the end of each group of fifty psalms. Every man in Cork no doubt thought that those sounds were coming from his next-door neighbor's house. What caused that was the primal guilt, his original sin, his own obviously working ill-luck, so that Mac Con Glinne was kept from food and dnnk and a bath until everyone in Cork had gone to bed. After he had gone to bed, Manchin, the abbot of Cork, said, "Lad, have we any guests tonight?" "No," replied the servant. "I saw someone," said another servant, "boldly and impatiently crossing the green a little before vespers a while back." "We should find out who he is," said Manchin, "and bring him his food." Mac Con Glinne was reluctant to retrace his steps for his food, and besides it was a terrible night. They brought his provisions out to him, and this is what it was: a small bowlful of oatmeal porridge made with whey water from the church, two mbers of fire in the middle of a wisp of seed husks of oat, and two nieces of undried peat. The servant came to the door of the guest house. Fear and terror seized him at the prospect of the darkened structure standing wide open. He didn't know whether anyone was inside or not. ^s he put his foot across the threshhold he called out, "is anyone here?" "Someone is," answered Mac Con Glinne. "It is breaking taboo to arrange this house for just one person." "If its taboos have ever been broken, they've been broken tonight; they were destined to be broken, and it is I who have done it." "Come forward and have your meal," said the servant. "I swear," he replied, "since I have been kept waiting until now, I will not come forward until I know what you've brought me." The lad put the two embers in the middle of the wisp of oat husks into the hearth and added another wisp taken from the bed. He arranged the two pieces of fresh peat around them, blew on the ember until the wisp caught, and presented him with his meal. Ut dixit Mac Con Glinne: Lad! (Mac Con Glinne said,) Let's trade verses; You sing some lines about bread, And I'll do the same for the spread. Cork with its sweet bells, Its sand is hungry And its soil is sandy; It grows no food at all. Unless a famine should happen, Never would I indulge In a bowl of the pon'idge of Cork, A bowl full of Cork porridge, Take back this piece of bread Over which you just now prayed; For him who would eat it, woe! The Celtic Poets And that's my story, my boy. The scholars memorized the stanzas, for their minds were sharp. They returned with the food to where Manchin was, and thev' recited the stanzas to him. "Hmm," said Manchin, "smart-alecky words are the work of a boy. And little boys will be singing those verses unless the one who composed them is punished." "What are you going to do?" said the servant. "I'm going to go to the culprit, strip his clothes from him, take whips and sticks to him until his skin and his flesh are split and torn off' his bones - but his bones won't be broken. After that, soak him in the ; muddy waters of the river Lee, then put him over there in the guest house without any covers." (And, of course, there was nothing there anyway except the blanket, with fleas and lice as thick as the dew of a May morning!) "Lock him in the house until morning so he can't escape, so that my judgment regarding him and the judgment of the monks of Cork can be implemented before the Lord and before St. Barre, whom I serve. There is no sentence for him but hanging, for the sake of my honor, St. BaiTe's, and the church." That's how it was done then, and it's there that his primal guilt, his original sin, his own obvious sin came against him. As you shall see, his clothes were stripped from him and he was beaten and whipped and put into the River Lee until he had more than enough of its muddy waters. Then he spent the night in the guest house. Manchin rose early the next morning and summoned the monks of Cork to the guest house. It is opened for them and they go in and rest on the benches and beds. "Well, you wretch," said Manchin, "you were wrong to mock the church last night." "The church folk were no better," replied Mac Con Glinne, "not giving me food, and I but a party of one!" "You were not without food, as long as you got even a small loaf or a drink of whey water in the church. There are three things that one ought not to complain about in the church: fresh fruit, new ale, and the Saturday evening meal. For even though there's little on Saturday evening, the next day we have psalm singing, then the bell, preaching, celebrating mass, and satisfying the needy. Saturday evening's lack is made up on Sunday and Sunday evening. You complained too soon." Poets on Tour "We confess," said Mac Con Glinne, "that we have been humbled and have done more than enough of atoning for it." "But I swear before the Lord and St Barre," said Manchin, "that ou'll not satirize again! Take him away," he said to the monks, "and let him be hanged on the green for the honor of St. Barre and the church, and my own honor as well." "O Cleric!" exclaimed Mac Con Glinne, "don't hang me! Let a fair and just judgment be pronounced on me rather than hang me." So they set about bringing judgment on Mac Con Glinne. Manchin began to prosecute him, and each of the monks of Cork in turn did the same. But though they had a great amount of learning and knowledge and teaching, they did not find any passage in legal argument by which they might hang him. But regardless of the law, they brought him to Rathin Mac nAeda, a green on the south side of Cork. "Grant me a favor, Manchin and you monks!" cried Mac Con Glinne. "What, to spare you?" asked Manchin. "No, not that," said Mac Con Glinne, "though I'd be happy if that came of it." "Speak!" said Manchin. "Not until I have sureties for it," said Mac Con Glinne. Sureties, strong guarantors, and bonds were placed upon the monks of Cork for the fulfilment of the favor, and he bound those guarantors. "Now speak," said Manchin, "what do you ask?" "All right," said Aner, "I wish to consume a portion of the Host which is in my book bag before I die, for one should not go on a trip without receiving communion. Bring my book bag to me." It is brought, and he opens it and takes out two wheaten loaves and a piece of cured bacon. Duly and lawfully, he breaks off a tenth of each of the loaves and cuts a tenth of bacon. "Here's a tithe, you monks," he said. "If we knew someone more deserving or poorer than another, we'd give the tithe to him." The poor who were present rose up when they saw the tithe and held out their hands. Mac Con Glinne looked them over, then said, "By God, I'm not sure whether any of you need this tithe more than I do! None of you travelled more than I did today, all the way from Roscommon to Cork. I didn't eat a bite or drink a drop after I arrived, and I consumed nothing on the way. When I arrived I didn't find the The Celtic Poets Poets on Tour welcome due a rightful guest, rather I found misery and insult, you cursi robbers, dogshit, you monks of Cork! My clothes were torn from me ]H was beaten and whipped, dunked in the Lee, I was dealt with most* unjustly and given no true justice. As God is my witness," he continued 1 "there's one thing the Devil won't charge me with when I go down there I and that's giving fins lithe to you, for you don't deserve it." So thatwaj the first bit he ate, the tithe, and then he ate the rest - the two loaves and piece of bacon. Then he raised his hands and gave thanks to God. "Take me to the Lee now," said Mac Con Glinne. With men tol secure and guard him, he is brought toward the Lee. When he reached the well called Bithlan or 'Ever-full', he removed his white cloak andJ laid it down. He lay on his back on it, the book bag under him for« support. He stuck his finger through the ring of his brooch and, passing! it over his head, dipped the point of the brooch into the well. As the • drops of water trickled down the point he would hold it over his mouth. "The trick's on you, you curs, thieves, you monks of Cork! When I was in my cell at the monastery, I used to hoard whatever scraps ; of food would come my way over a five or six day period, then eat them 1 in a single night and drink my fill of water afterwards. That would last I me for several days without anything else, and it didn't bother me. I'll I last several days on what I ate just now, several days doing penance, and a few more days drinking water. I swear to God and St. Barre, whom I serve, that none of the monks of Cork, high or low, will leave the place where they are now, but will all die in a single night, Manchin above all, die and go to Hell. I am sure to go to Heaven, and I will be in the '; presence of God, on whom there is neither end nor decay." That harangue was conveyed to the monks of Cork, and they convened a hasty council. This is what was decided: to bless Mac Con 1 Glinne if he should go humbly to his hanging, or to guard him with a company of nine men until he died where he was so they could then hang him. That was told to Mac Con Glinne. "It's a dog-decision" (i.e., it is the decision of a cur, or the one by whom the decision was given is a cur), "but anyway, whatever may come of it, I will go humbly, just as our Master Jesus Christ went to his passion." He turned himself in to the monks, and that was during the time of vespers. "Manchin, a favor!" said the monks. "In God's name, what favor?" asked Manchin. "To delay hanging this wretch till morning. We haven't rung the bells haven't preached or said Mass, haven't fed the poor. And let us 0t go the entire Sunday without feeding ourselves! Grant us respite till morning?" "I assure you," said Manchin, "that I'll grant no delay; the day of the crime, that shall be the day of the punishment." Alas! Then and there Mac Con Glinne is taken to Wood of the Foxes. With people guarding him, he is given an axe. He cuts down his own passion tree and carries it on his back to the Cork green, where he himself set it up in the ground. Vespers being over, their only thought was to hang him right then. "A favor, Manchin and you monks!" cried Mac Con Glinne. "I swear you'll get no favors from us!" replied Manchin. "I'm not asking for a reprieve, for if I were it wouldn't be given of your own free will, you curs, thieves, dogshit, ignorant brutes, you know - you shifty, blundering, hang-dog monks of Cork! No, what I want is to fill up on fat, juicy foods and delicious, intoxicating, sweet drinks, with beautiful, lightweight, thin, dry clothes on me to keep out both cold and heat, and feast for a fortnight before I die." "I swear you won't get that," said Manchin. "But the day is done; it's Sunday and people are asking for a respite for you. Still, what clothing you have will be stripped from you and you will be bound to that pillar over there, and tomorrow there will be preliminary torture before the main event." So that was done; his few clothes were removed from him, he was tied to the pillar with ropes and cords. The monks returned to their house, Manchin to the abbot's residence. The poor and guests were fed by them, and they themselves ate too. The scholar, who had been sent by the Lord God to rescue Cathal Mac Finguine and the Munstermen and Mog's Half, the southern half of Ireland, as well, was left fasting at the pillar. He was given no justice. At midnight, an angel of the Lord came to him at the pillar and began to reveal a vision to him. When the angel was on the pillar-stone, it was too hot for Mac Con Glinne. When he was away on the ridge, it was quite tolerable. That's where 'Angel's Ridge' at the green of Cork comes from, that was never a morning without dew. When the night was done, the angel left him. Mac Con Glinne then composed a little introduction that would be appropriate for relating the vision that had The Celtic Poets been revealed to him. He worked solidly on that introduction to fl vision until morning. The monks' assembly bell sounded early that morning, and th went straight off to the pillar. "Well, you wretch," said Manchin "h ^ are you today?" "Fine," said Mac Con Glinne, "if I am allowed to relate a brief word to you, a vision I had last night. If I am given a respite I'll relate the vision." "I swear," said Manchin, "if Adam's progeny were under m sway, they wouldn't give you a single night or day of respite. Norwjj|| "We swear," said the community, "that though it may anger you he will be given a respite so that he might tell his vision. Afterwards do whatever you want with him." Manchin's pedigree in food So then Mac Con Glinne traced Manchin's pedigree, on the food side, back to Adam: A blessing on us, O cleric, O famed fount of intellect, son of Honey-bag, son of Grease, son of Lard, son of Oatmeal, son of Broth, son of Fruit, bright, dappled and juicy, son of Cream, thick and smooth, son of Buttermilk, son of Butter, son of Beer, best of drinks, son of Bragget, sweet beer, son of Leek, leafy and green, son of Bacon, son of Butter, son of Sausage, plump and stuffed, son of Fresh-milk, very pure, son of Mast, son of Produce, son of Grease, son of Juice, Poets on Tour son of Lard, son of Kidney, son of Shortribs, son of Shoulder, son of Sausage, all sizzly, son of Tliigh, son of Gruel, son of Butt, son of Cheek, son of Cartilage, sleek, son of Gulp, son of Sip, son of Back, son of Belly, son of Drink, curdled and thin, son of Cheese, not yet pressed, son of Fish from Inber Indsen, son of Sweet-curds, son of Cheese, son of Wine, son of Mead, son of Ale, son of Meat, son of Wheat, hard and harsh, son of Tripe, son of Paunch. son of Gruel, bright and clear, made from sheep's milk pure, son of Stew, thick and tender, piping hot with steaming vapor. son of Oatmeal, thick and lumpy, son of Oat-bran, so lovely son of Thin-soup, sprouted, with some blackberries added. son of Kale, smooth tips only, son of Belly, white and soft, son of Nutmeat, thick and chewy, son of Abel, Adam's son. Good your fine food pedigree, sweet to the tongue like honey, The Celtic poets Poets on Tour O firm and steady of step -thanks to your pointed staff. "You can't hurt me with that, Mac Con Glinne," said Manchin "You think nothing of insulting me and the Church in composing j pedigree of food for me such as has never been composed for anyone before me or ever will be till the end of time!" "It's not an insult at all, O cleric," said Mac Con Glinne, "it's J vision that was revealed to me last night - that was the preface to ii It's not an unbecoming vision, and if I am given a delay and respite I will tell the rest of it." Again, Manchin said that he would grant no delay But Mac Con Glinne proceeded to tell the vision anyway, and they say; that what follows here is what the angel revealed to him. Ut dixit: The vision that i saw, a wondrous revelation, i tell in the presence of all. A little boat of fatty suet in the port of Lake New-milk, Above the sea of the smooth world. We went into the galley and bravely took the path across the billowing sea; we pulled in strong strokes o'er the great, heaving sea so that fish and dulse went flying, and gravel the color of honey. Handsome the encampment we found, with its ramparts all of custard, there, at lake's edge beyond; fresh butter the causeway's construction, inside a rampart of pure wheat fenced with a palisade of bacon. Cheerful and pleasant the arrangement of the strong and well-built house, to which afterwards we went; the door itself was of dried meat, the threshold dried bread, and its walls were soft cheese. Smooth columns of aged cheese, and joists of juicy bacon arrayed alternately each; lovely beams of old curds, holding up the house, and white posts of fresh curds. A well of wine just behind, and rivers of beer and bragget, every full pool tasty and fine; a sea of malt to make fine ale, at the brink of a well of whey, flows across its middle. A lake of kale so juicy, with greasy lard afloat on top was between it and the sea; it was ridged around by a butter dyke cloaked in the lard of a boar around the wall outside. A fragrant apple orchard, boughs topped in pink blossoms, between it and the hill, upward; a lush patch of fresh veggies, just of leeks and of carrots, behind, at the back of the house. A worthy and intelligent host were around a fire inside — red-haired, strong and vigorous youths; seven chains, inscribed with a hex, from cheeses and intestines, The Celtic Poets hung about their necks. I saw this fellow, their leader, wrapped in a mantle of corned beef, and his wife noble and dear; i saw the steward, the server, at the cooking spit of the cauldron with his flesh-fork over his shoulder. Noble Cathal mac Finguine: happy is he who has minstrelsy, telling tales of exotic delicacies; good the work of a single hour, and pleasant indeed to tell of sailing around in a galley over the sea of Lake New-milk. Then he told the entire vision in the presence of the monks of Cork to the very end, though this is not it here. The virtues of the vision] were revealed to Manchin. "Well, you wretch," he said, "go find Cathal mac Finguine and tell him the vision, for it has been revealed to me that the evil that is in Cathal will be healed through that vision." "What will you pay me to do that?" asked . "Not much," replied Manchin, "how about leaving you alive -body and soul?" "I don't care about that. The windows of heaven are open to me, and all the righteous, from Adam and his son Abel to the righteous of the present day who have gone to the kingdom of Heaven just now, are singing as one on behalf of my soul until I get to Heaven. The nine grades of Heaven, including Cherubim and Seraphim, are awaiting my soul. And I don't care if Cathal mac Finguine and the men of Munster and Mog's Half of Ireland, the monks of Cork, and, above all, Manchin, die and go to Hell in a single evening. I myself shall be in the union of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." "What payment do you ask?" queried the monks of Cork. "I don't ask for much," said Mac Con Glinne, "just the little cloak which the clergy of Mog's Half of Ireland were denied and which they fasted a single night to obtain: Manchin's hooded cloak." Poets on Tour 'That's not much to you," answered Manchin, "but it's a big thing t0 me' *te^ ^e contmued, "I swear before God and St. Barre tnat ^ * possessed all of Cork and its monastic lands, it would be easier f°r me *° ^° w^ou*- a^ than without that cloak alone." "It's a pity you won't give it," said the monks, "because saving Cathal and Mog's Half is worth more than that hood." "All right," said Manchin, "I'll give it on the following condition; and I never have and never will grant a request I find more difficult. I'll give it into the custody of the bishop of Cork to give in turn to the scholar - if he helps Cathal mac Finguine." So it was given into the custody of the bishop of Cork. The monks of Cork delivered the hood, and it was left in the bishop's hands. "Go now and find Cathal!" ordered Manchin. "Where is he?" asked Mac Con Glinne. "Not difficult," replied Manchin, "he's in the house of Pichan son of Mael Finn, king of Iveagh, at Dun Coba on the boundary of Iveagh and Corco Laigde. Go there tonight." Mac Con Glinne started out in all haste, boldly and without delay. He hiked up his five-pleated cloak and tied it around his shoulders. Then he tied his shirt up over his rear end and darted across the green like that, headed for the house of Pichan son of Mael Finn, at Dun Coba on the boundary of Iveagh and Corco Laigde. He sped on his way. When he reached the special assembly hall where the company was gathering, he paused to put on an ill-fitting hooded cloak and garment. The upper parts were too short and the lower parts were too long. In that get-up, he began to perform like a buffoon for the company in the hall, things unbefitting a person of his station: lampooning, farting, versifying. It was said that never before or afterwards was there anyone more accomplished in the arts of lampooning. As he was engaged in these activities in Pichan's house, Pichan said to him, "though your act is very funny, 0 son of learning, it doesn't cheer me up." "What's got you down?" asked Mac Con Glinne. "Don't you know, scholar?" replied Pichan. "Cathal mac Finguine and the nobles of Munster are coming here tonight, and though the great host of Munster is concern enough for me, Cathal himself is an even greater problem. He's hard enough when it comes to appetizers, harder yet for the starter course, and even harder for the main course. The Celtic Poets Poets on Tour That main course requires a bushel of oats, a bushel of crab apples, and J bushel of bread made from the finest flour." "What would you give me if I keep him away from you fr0ni now till the same time tomorrow so that those problems won't be visited on you or on your people?" asked Mac Con Glinne. "I'd give you a gold bracelet and a Welsh pony!" rejoined Pichan. "By God," exclaimed Mac Con Glinne, "you'll have to do better than that!" "All right," said Pichan, "I'll also give you a white sheep from every house and every sheepfold from Cam to Cork." "I'll take it," said Mac Con Glinne, "provided I have kings hospitallers, poets, and satirists as guarantors for the deliverance of the payment and so that it all might arrive in its entirety. The kings are for enforcing the fee, and the hospitallers for maintaining me in food and drink and caring for me while I'm enforcing the payment. If I and cheated out of my fees, then poets to satirize and lampoon them, and satirists to spread the word publicly and to sing against you, your"! children, and your people, unless my fee is paid." And he laid that legal obligation upon his guarantors. The arrival of Cathal mac Finguine Cathal mac Finguine arrived with the troops and mounted men of Munster, and they sat down on the benches, beds, and couches. Gentle, nubile maidens bathed the feet of the companies and hosts and attended to them. Cathal mac Finguine did not allow a single lace of his shoes to be untied while he was busy with both hands stuffing his mouth full of the apples that were lying in profusion on the tablecloth. Mac Con Glinne was there on the other side of the room, and he began smacking his lips, but Cathal took no notice. Mac Con Glinne bounded up, like one possessed, and leapt as if goosed by the war goddess, with a warrior's leap, across the room. There was a huge block, used to test the strength of warriors, who used to drive spears and rivets into it and sharpen the points and edges of their weapons on it. That stone had been the grave marker of a warrior. Mac Con Glinne hoisted it onto his back and took it to where he had been sitting on the couch. He put one end of it on his knee and the upper part of it into his mouth, and began chewing away at it. The learned and the elders, as well as the books of Cork, say there was no one, either near the fort, in the middle of it, or outside, *ho did not hear the noise of his teeth grinding against the stone, smooth though it was. That got Cathal's attention. "What makes you behave so trangely, O son of learning?" he asked. S "Two things," replied Mac Con Glinne. "Cathal, truly handsome son of Finguine, high king of great Mog's Half, arch-defender of Ireland gainst the descendants of Conn the Hundred-fighter, a man ordained by the Lord God, noble warrior of the fine race of fierce Eoganachta of Glennamain by paternal inheritance: it grieves me to see him eating anything alone. And if there should be folk from distant lands here in the house seeking boons or favors, they will complain that my jaw is not bobbing up and down in harmony with your own." "Good point," said Cathal, and he handed an apple to Mac Con Glinne as he stuffed two or three more into his own mouth. You must know that in the year and a half that this demon had been in his throat, giving that one crab apple to Mac Con Glinne was the only kind deed Cathal mac Finguine had done, and that only because he had argued so strongly for it. "Two things are better than one m learning!" exclaimed Mac Con Glinne. So Cathal tossed him another apple. "Number of the Trinity!" called out Mac Con Glinne, and Cathal added one more. "The four books of the Gospel according to the teachings of Christ!" he went on. Cathal threw him a fourth. "The five books of Moses, according to the ten commandments of scripture!" He got another one. "The first digit for reckoning which consists of its parts and of its own components, to wit, the number six - for three is its half and two is its third; give me the sixth!" Cathal flung another apple in his direction. "The seven things that were prophesied of your God on earth: His conception, birth, baptism, and so on!" He is given another. "The eight beatitudes of the Gospel, O high king of royal judgments!" Cathal gives him another apple. "Nine orders of Heaven, O royal warrior of the world!" He gets a ninth. "The tenth order here on earth, O defender of the province!" Another apple from Cathal. The Celtic Poets Poets on Tour "The incomplete number of the apostles after the betrayal!" tb hands over the apple. "The complete number of the apostles after the betrayal e though there was betrayal!" He supplies another. "Perfection of perfections and the complete number ~ ^ apostles and Christ!" "Enough!" shouted Cathal. "By St. Barre, y0U'ji be eating me if you keep this up!" and he flung the tablecloth with all it« apples at Mac Con Glinne. There wasn't a nook or cranny or anywhere on the floor or the couches where there weren't apples. They weren't any closer to Mac Con Glinne than they were to anyone else, but they were farther from Cathal. He was seeing red. One of his eyes leapt backward into his head so that a pet heron couldn't pluck it out. The-other eye popped out onto his face and was as big as the egg of a full, grown hen. He leaned back against the wall of the house so hard that not a stud or lath or thatching rod or thatch or post was left in its proper! place. Then he sat down. "Show a little humility, king!" said Mac Con Glinne. "Don't damn me and don't deprive me of Heaven!" "What made you do that, son of learning?" asked Cathal. "I had to do it," said Mac Con Glinne, "I had a nasty encounter with the monks of Cork last night, and they made a charge against me. And that's what caused me to do what I did to you." "Go to, Mac Con Glinne," said Cathal. "By the holy monastery of Emly," he continued, "if it were my custom to kill sons of learning, either you would have had the good sense not to have come or you would never leave here alive!" The author's digression We digress here to explain that the reason Cathal would swear by the monastery of Emly is because that's where he used to get his fill of bread made from the finest flour. He'd be there, wrapped in his otter-colored, smooth cloak, with his hard, straight sword in his left hand, consuming portions of food in one monastic cell after another. One day, he went to the cell of a certain student and he got his ration of food from him. He looked at the food. The student kept his eye on the page he was reading. When he reached the end of the page, he stuck out his tongue and turned the page with it. "Why did you do that?" asked Cathal. ,„ h„ve very good reason," said the student. "I was sent on a wry hosting to distant parts, and for food they gave us a portion of Mis 01 WW" «------ ater from puddles, so that I was deprived of my strength and vigor, all nlllitar:i of a loaf of bread that was burned and had ashes in it, was dried ' A moky so that there was no nutritional value in it at all. We had • f bacon or butter or meat, no drink of any kind except muddy flO ^ - 1 ■ t r----- .1.-----i-L---.1 nil the out a because of the hosting. "Alas!" sighed Cathal, 'by St. Barre, as long as I'm alive the clergy will not nencefbrth go on hostings with me." You see, up till then the clergy of Ireland used to go on hostings with the kings of Ireland, so that Cathal was the first ever to excuse the clergy from hostings. He left his blessing, along with provisions for the pilgrims of Emly and for an abundance of bread of the finest flour. He left even more in the southwestern part, because it is there that he always got his fill. End of digression. "By your kingship, your sovereignty, and the service due you, grant me a small favor before I die!" Mac Con Glinne pleaded. Cathal summoned Pichan aside, and said to him, "This student is asking a favor of me." "Grant it," said Pichan. "All right," agreed Cathal. "Tell me what you want," he said to Mac Con Glinne. "Not unless there are guarantors to guarantee it," said Mac Con Glinne. "You'll have them," said Cathal. "On your sovereign word?" asked Mac Con Glinne. "You have my word for it; now name your boon." "It's just this; I had a quarrel with the monks of Cork last night, and they put a curse on me. That's what is causing the misunderstanding between me and you. Because we are kinsmen, I ask that you fast with me against God tonight, in order to free me from the curse of the monks of Cork." "Don't say it, student!" cried Cathal. "Listen, I'll give you a cow from every courtyard in Munster, an ounce of silver from every tenant, a cloak from every church, a steward to collect it all, and you yourself dining with me while he's out collecting it. Damn! I'd rather The Celtic Poets you have everything there is in Munster, North, South, East and W «J than me spend an evening without food!" "And damn me!" Mac Con Glinne responded, "you gave y0Ur sovereign word, and a king of Cashel can't go back on it! If everyth in Mog's Half were given me I would not accept it. And 1 have g00j cause not to, O high warrior and royal champion of all Europe, for m only wealth is in Heaven or the earth, in learning or in poetry. And la but not least, I will go to Hell for ever and ever if you do not free m. from the curse of the monks of Cork." "It will be done for you," sighed Cathal, "and nothing more repugnant than that has ever befallen me and never will till Doomsday " Cathal fasted with him that night, as did all the rest there. And the student closed up the house and settled into a bed beside the door. After nightfall, Pichan son of Mael Finn arose. "And why does Pichan get up now?" Mac Con Glinne said to him. "To prepare food for all these people," he replied, "and it were better had it been ready since yesterday." "Indeed, no," said Mac Con Glinne, "we fasted last evening, and the first thing we do in the morning is preach." So they remained there till morning. However many of them there were, not one of them stirred until it was time to rise on the morrow. Mac Con Glinne got up then and opened the house. He washed his hands, went to his book-bag, took out his psalter, and began to preach to the multitude. The historians, elders, and books of Cork say that there was neither high nor low there who did not shed copious tears listening to the scholar's preaching, When it was over, prayers were offered up for the king, that he might live long and that Munster would enjoy prosperity during his reign. Prayers were also offered up for the land, the people, and the province, as is the custom at the end of a sermon. "Well, now," said Mac Con Glinne to Cathal, "how goes it today?" "I swear!" said Cathal, "never worse - and never will be till the end of time!" "It's no wonder you're in a bad way," said Mac Con Glinne, "because a demon has been devastating and destroying you for a year and a half now, and you haven't fasted a single day or night on your own. But now you have fasted with a shameless, low-life wretch like me." Poets on Tour "What good is that, student?" asked Cathal. "Not difficult;" replied Mac Con Glinne, "since you fasted by elf with me last night, we can all fast tonight and you yourself can fa°st until some help comes from God." "Don't say that!" exclaimed Cathal. "If the first night was hard, the second night will be seven times harder!" "And don't you say that,' rejoined Mac Con Glinne, "just be brave." So Cathal and his company fasted that night till after nightfall. Mac Con Glinne got up then and said to Pichan, "Is Pichan asleep?" "To tell you the truth," Pichan answered, "if Cathal remains in his present condition till the brink of doom, I will not sleep, nor eat, nor laugh, nor smile." "Get up, then," commanded Mac Con Glinne, and he asked for bacon fat, tender corned beef, lots of mutton, comb honey, and English salt, on a beautiful, polished platter of white silver, with four perfectly straight spits of white hazel to hold the food. All that he asked for was brought. He put the great big steaks on the spits, and then put on a linen apron and a flat, linen chefs hat. He made a fine fire that had four ridges, four openings, four sections to it - of ash wood, without smoke, fumes, or sparks, and fixed a spit over each of the four sections. He was as swift about the spits and fires as a hind around its first-born fawn, or a doe, or a swallow, or the bare spring wind in the middle of March. He rubbed the honey and the salt into each steak. However big the steaks were, none of them lost enough of their juices to quench a candle, rather all of it sizzled inside. Pichan divined that the reason the scholar had come was to save Cathal. When the steaks were done, Mac Con Glinne commanded, "Get me some ropes and cords!" "What do you need them for?" asked Pichan. But it was a question in conscience, a rhetorical question, for it had already been revealed to him. That's where the proverb 'a question in conscience' comes from. Ropes and cords were brought to him, the strongest the warriors had. They took hold of Cathal, and he was bound like that against the wall of the house. Mac Con Glinne spent a good deal of time securing the ropes with staples and fasteners. When that was done, he came in holding the four spits on high, his white cloak sitting lightly on his The Celtic Poets Poets on Tour shoulders, and went up to Cathal. He set the spits down on the couch iJ front of him, sat down, and crossed his legs. He took a knife out of his shirt and cut a hunk of the steak closest to him and dipped it in the honey that was on the white-silver dish, "The lively beast's first!" said Mac Con Glinne as he put the meat into his mouth. That saying has survived He cut off another piece, dipped it in the honey, and passed it under Cathal's nose before putting it into his own mouth. "Give us some, student!" Cathal begged. "I will," said Mac Con Glinne, and he cut a piece of the steak in front of him, dipped it in the honey as before, waved it past Cathal's Hps; and on into his own mouth. "How long are you going to keep this up, student?" asked Cathal. "I'll stop now," said Mac Con Glinne. "But there's this I you've consumed a great amount of excellent and incomparable foods up to now; what little remains I'll eat, and this will just be your 'food from afar.'" Another saying that has survived. Cathal hollered and carried on, and demanded the scholar be killed. But that did not happen. "Well, now, Cathal," said Mac Con Glinne, "I have been shown a vision, and I hear that you are good at interpreting visions." "Damn!" shouted Cathal, "If I would interpret anyone's vision, it wouldn't be yours!" "I swear," said Mac Con Glinne, "that even though you won't, I will tell it to you anyway." So he began to tell his vision, and he did it wafting two or three morsels of food past the mouth of Cathal before he consumed them himself. The vision proper A vision I had last night, that I set out with two or three, and saw a house brimming and bright where food was in abundance. I saw a Fresh-milk lake in the midst of a bright plain, and a house bustling and busy apace, thatched with pats of butter. As I walked all around it inspecting its arrangement, I saw sausages, newly boiled, used to form its wattle. The doorposts were of custard, its terraces butter and curds; couches of splendid lard, shields of pliant pressed-cheese. Men were holding those shields, of soft, delicious, cheese, men who'd never wound Gaels, armed with soft curd spears. A huge cauldron of gruel -I thought I could take it on -leafy, boiled, brownish-white kale, a copious vessel brimful of milk. Forty rafters made from rashers, roof-grid made of gut; every food a man might ask for, seemed to me they all were there. A vision I had. And he said further: I had a vision last night, it was most captivating, a potent force was shown to me: the kingship of all of Erin. I saw this arboreal court with palisades of bacon; coarse gravel formed its rampart, pregnant and rife with cheese. The Celtic Poets Poets on Tour From pigs' little intestines were made its handsome beds; pleasant the pillars and beams, wonderfully constructed of tripe. I was shown the vision of wonder there before my hearth; chessboard and men of butter, smooth, dappled, and capped. May God bless what I utter, festivity flawless and gay; after I went to Mount Butter servants saw to my needs. A vision. Though the pain of being two days and a night without food was great for Cathal, an even greater torment was this enumeration of sol many wonderful and unusual foods - and none of them for him. Afterwards, Mac Con Glinne began this fable: The fable "As I was lying there last night in my comfy, well-made bed with its gilt posts and bronze rails, I heard this voice saying to me, 'Get up, Mac Con Glinne, you wretch!' I didn't answer the voice. And why should I; my bed was so comfortable, my body so relaxed, and I deeply asleep. Then I heard it again: 'Take heed, beware, Mac Con Glinne, that the gravy doesn't drown you!' That is, take caution that the meat-juices don't inundate you. I rose early the next morning and went to the well to wash my hands. I saw this huge apparition coming toward me. 'Well, then,' it said to me. 'Yes, indeed,' I replied. 'Well, now,' continued the apparition, 'It is I who delivered the warning to you last night, about the gravy. But then, warning you was like a warning to a doomed man, mocking a beggar, a stone falling against a tree, a whisper to a deaf person, death to one who's depressed, putting a charm in a wall, putting a rope around sand or charcoal, hitting an oak tree with your fists, trying to suck honey from the roots of a yew, looking for butter in a doghouse, a diet of peppercorns, seeking wool from a goat, shooting an arrow into a stone pillar, keeping a mare from farting, keeping a licentious woman from being horny, holding water in the bottom of a sieve, trusting a tied-up dog, putting salt on rushes, paying a bride-price after intercourse, telling a secret to a foolish woman, expecting wisdom in a fool, exalting a slave, giving liquor to the reckless, telling a king how to act, a body without a head, a head without a body, a nun at the bell, a sinner in a bishop's chair, a kingdom without a king, sailing a ship without a rudder, hauling grain in a basket full of holes, spilled milk, housekeeping without a woman, berries on a hide, a vision of judgment day to sinners, defamation as compensation for insult, giving back without restitution, putting seed in bad soil, providing for a loose woman, serving an evil prince, cheating in trade, rigging the scales, Con The Celtic Poets going against a judgment, flouting the gospels, advising you about food is like advising the Antichrist, Mac Glinne!'" [The narrator takes up the fable here:] "Damn!" said Mac Con Glinne, "That was a very harsh admonition!" "Why?" asked the apparition. "Not difficult," replied Mac Con Glinne, "because I don't know where you came from or where you're going or anything about you so that I could interrogate you back or reply." "Not difficult there, either," said the apparition, "I arn Buarannach mac Elcaib Essamain, 'Loose-bowels son of Fearless1 Badmouth', out of the fairy mound of food, Sidh Longthe." "That being the case," said Mac Con Glinne, "I suppose you have many stories and therefore know tales of food and eating. D< you?" "I do indeed," said the apparition, "but it wouldn't do any goo< for someone whose capacity for eating didn't measure up to it." "In what way?" asked Mac Con Glinne. "Not difficult to say," replied the apparition. "If he didn't have a very broad stomach five hands wide, angular, very long, fourfold ful and four-sided, which would hold twenty-seven eatings and seven drinkings, with a quantity for nine men in each of those drinkings, seven meals and nine snacks, and food for a hundred in each of those eatings and drinkings, and meals and snacks." "Since I don't have that kind of belly, give me some advice because you've stimulated my appetite," said Mac Con Glinne. "I will," said the apparition. "Go to the retreat from which I myself have come, the retreat of Faithliaig, 'the Divining-Doctor,' and there your appetite for every food your stomach and your heart craves will be satisfied. A place where your teeth will be exercised on the great quantity of unusual foods we have spoken of, where your hunger will vanish and your taste buds will be tickled, a place where your lips will smack from fine drink and fine delicacies, from eating and downing every delicate, tasty, smooth and sweet food your body desires - and you won't feel guilty! But you must go to Faithliaig and Becnat Belaide or Tattie,' daughter of Mac Baetain Brass-Longthig, 'Ravenous-eater', his wife. Poets on Tour "The day you arrive at the fort, that's the day their tent of 1 ill be set up around them on their seemly, compact fields of wheat: the Fatties, Sausage, and the good lad Little Food-pot, with his cowl of suet around him. You'll be pleased further on the day you arrive at the fort Mac Con Glinne," continued the apparition, "because that's the day the leaders of the Tribe of Food will be summoned there." "And what are their names?" asked Mac Con Glinne. "Not difficult," replied the apparition, "Sloe-ette son of Juicy-smooth-bacon, Loaf-ette son of Fruit-of-dried-meat, Empty-sides son of Sausage, Milkie son of Little-milking, Strong-arm son of Leather-head, and Lard-lover son of Side-of-bacon." "And what is your own name, may I ask?" "Wheatie son of Fresh-milkie son of Juicy-bacon is my handle; Honey-coated Butter the name of him who totes my bundle. Sheep-flank my dog's name, handsome in action; my wife is called Suet, she smiles at tops of kale. Sweet-curds is my daughter, her cooking feats enliven the hearth; my son is Corned-beef, his cloak covers his big arse. Vat-o-grease my wife's maid's name; in early morning she sailed over Lake Fresh-milk. The Celtic Poets My packhorse is Beef-suet: outstanding, tender jerky that urges horses onward; a saddle of soft cheese upon his back protects him from his burden. When a horse of soft-cheese is let after him, his running is speedy: fat for reins, food for ribs, shapely beyond all or any. A great collar of yummy hard cheese hangs around his neck, a halter whose parts are all of fresh butter. His bridle with reins of fat throughout, saddle-bags of tripe overfilled with bloody tripe. Saddle-horn is my horseboy, a pillar of battle; who calls him out - no boast -goes to certain death. My tunic of stew around me through and through, suet slice and tripe that does not bleed. "Off to the delightful and wonderful foods, Ghnne!" said the apparition. "You know, Poets on Tour Foods, many and mellow, juicy cuts of every meat, dark dishes, reddish-yellow, faultless, overflowing; corned beef to fill a fork, juicy, smooth suets, and thick joints of pork. then, Mac Con I So off with you to the suets and cheeses now!" said the apparition. "I'm off!" replied Mac Con Glinne, "and put gospels around »» me. "I will, gospels of dry cheese, evenly square," said the apparition, "and I'll put my own paternoster around you; no one who wears it suffers from either starvation or hunger." And he intoned: "Your protection by juicy, smooth bacon, Mac Con Glinne; your protection by oozing, yellow thick cream; your protection by a full pot of gruel; your protection by a caldron of gruel." "I swear before the Lord," said Mac Con Glinne, "I would love to go to that fort so that I could drink my fill of those sweet, filtered old liquors and eat my fill of those vast, wondrous foods." "If that would please you, you shall have it," said the apparition. "Go as I instruct you, and if you go, don't go astray." "How shall I manage that?" asked Mac Con Glinne. "Not difficult," said the apparition, "put yourself under the protection and safeguard of the bold and unrivalled warriors, the chieftains of the Tribe of Food, so that the gravy will not destroy you." "Well then," said Mac Con Glinne, "which of the chieftains of the Tribe of Food are most valorous in defence against the heavy waves of gravy?" "Not difficult," said the apparition, "lards and cheeses!" "I'm off, then," said Mac Con Glinne, "full speed, bounding, and with a high heart! The wind that blows across that land, may it blow past me, provided I keep my face into it. And that's as it should be, given the heaviness of the malady, the rarity of the remedy, and the longing of the healer. I'm off - swiftly, in haste, impatiently, impetuously, gliding smoothly like a fox slinking past a shepherd, or a commoner jumping a queen in her bed, or a hooded crow heading for dung, or a deer grazing a The Celtic Poets Poets on Tour field of winter rye in the middle of June. So, I tuck up my shirt over 18 butt, and my swiftness and agility are such that neither gnat, biting fly 9 midge will fly up my arse until I have crossed fields, forests ^% wilderness on my way to the lake of that fort. [Mac Con Glinne takes up the narration again:] "When I arrived at the lake, I saw before me a small, gravB soaked boat of corned beef, varnished with lard, with benches of curds » prow of lard, stern made of butter, sculling-oars of bone marrow, an3 oars made from sides of old boar-meat. The vessel into which we went was steady, and we rowed across the broad plain of Lake Fresh-mill over a stormy sea of curdled, thin whey drink, past estuaries of mead through terrifying, billowing storm-tossed waves of buttermilk, under constant showers of fat, past a forest of dewy meat-juice, past a little spring of greasy liquid, among islands of soft cheese, past tough rocks of' suety lard, past headlands of sour curds, past beaches of dry, pressed and I dry cheese, until we arrived at an attractive, solid landing spot between I Mount Butter, Lake Milk, and Curd's Peak, at the mouth of the pass to-; the territory of the Eager-eater folk, in front of the retreat of Faithliaig, the Divining Doctor. With every oar we dipped into Lake Fresh-milk, we brought up sea-sand of sweet curds." (It was there that Mac Con Glinne shouted out these words, "Ho ho! These are not walls to keep me out!") On hearing that, Faithliaig said to his people, "There is a company here coming to you tonight, people, none other than Aner Mac Con Glinne of the Munstermen, a noble satirist lad, with splendid poetry and minstrelsy. We need to attend well to him, for he's melancholy, wild, swift, frantic, and impatient; he's eager, a swift eater, greedy, immodest, and ravenous; he's gentle and true, very easy, a good jester, quick to express gratitude as well as reproach. And that's proper, too, for he is capable of both satire and praise in the banqueting hall of a mighty, noble, elegant and convivial house." "The retreat I was at was magnificent - surrounded by fourteen thousand posts of smooth, cured bacon. The woven blackthorn atop the posts was the greasy, boiled lard of a choice, fine boar, put there to defend against the Butter-pat and Soft-cheese tribes, who were on Lake Fresh-milk and at war with Faithliaig. The door was made of suet, secured by a sausage bolt. I climbed up out of my boat and went up to the door leading into the porch of the outer entrance to the fort. I took a 0f bread made from the leavings of coarse meal which was on my loa sjde] just outside the outer entrance, and delivered a blow to the rlg! Annr with the sausage bolt on it. I knocked it in as far as the outer diet Q0