Emerald Magic_ Great Tales of Irish Fantasy - Andrew M. Greeley [114]
“What is the name of your husband in Tír na Nóg?”inquir ed Fionn.
“I have no husband,”sh e said, and at her words there was a stirring among the Fianna like sudden gusts through a field of barley. “Many are the lords and princes of Tír na Nóg who have asked to wed me, but none have I accepted.”
“Then unfortunate indeed are the gallants of Tír na Nóg,”said Fionn. “It is a pity for such a beauty as you to withhold your love from all men.”
“Not from all men,”sh e replied. “Only from the immortals of Tír na Nóg.”
A hush descended upon the gathering, and even the wind faded to stillness. The gulls ceased their mewing, and the sound of the waves on the shore receded, as if to the farthest corners of a misremembered reverie.
“Lady, what is your meaning?”Fionn asked softly, emptying his words into the stillness like water into a profound well.
Once again the comely damsel bent her gaze toward Oisin. His sight was edged with shadow, and her beauty shone at the core of the shadow, and he could not look away.
“I love a man of Ireland,”Niamh of the Golden Hair said simply. “I have traveled here to ask if he will wed me, and return with me to Tír na Nóg.”
She smiled at the son of Fionn mac Cumhail. The embers of passion melted him as if he were a figurine of wax, and his sinews flowed with fire. Her smile had struck through him like a blade, straight to the heart. Then she leaned down from her saddle and kissed him on the mouth. He did not know whether he stood still or fell through some dizzying gulf, whether he had been smitten by outrageous bliss or unbearable torment. It came to him at that moment that he must go with her or die; that neither the love of his father, nor the friendship of his companions, nor the excitement and adventures of the Fianna were enough to keep him in Ireland.
“Ride with me on Capall Bán,”Niamh invited.
Without hesitation he vaulted onto the majestic horse behind the faerie damsel, and clasped his arms around her iris-stem waist. At the sensation of enfolding her in his arms, and the caress of her blowing hair across his cheek, his pulse surged. He looked down at his father and the warriors of the Fianna standing on the wave-rinsed shingle, and he saw them raise their hands in a valedictory gesture.
They understood.
“Farewell, my father,”said Oisin. “Farewell, my friends. I am sorrowful at our parting, but I would go with Niamh to Tír na Nóg, and make her my bride.”
A light of sorrowful acceptance shone in the gaze of Fionn. “You have chosen well, Oisin,”h e said. “She will make you a good wife. I am glad for you, yet sadness is on me, that we must part. It is long the clouds will be over me tonight.”
His comrades expressed their joy and their sorrow also, while the hounds gathered at their feet, and Oisin’s hound, Sceolan, stared beseechingly at his master.
“You must obey Fionn now,”Oisin bade the hound, “for I myself am going far away.”
Sceolan lifted his muzzle and howled his distress, but the great white horse turned toward the west, and after calling out a final farewell to his father and his comrades, Oisin galloped away with Niamh.
LIKE A VISION from a dream they looked, those two riders on the faerie horse—he the handsomest man in Ireland, she the fairest princess from the Land of Youth. For Oisin, the journey was more fabulous than any dream. The sea unrolled before them like polished onyx, not flecked with foam now, but patterned with reflections of the sky, the forces of currents and wind and restless tides. As clouds swept across the face of the sun, the sea colors shifted through jade and aquamarine to amethyst and indigo. Along the way they passed mountainous islands, upon whose slopes rose lime-white cities and courts, forts, and palaces. Once, Oisin and Niamh saw beside them a hornless deer running