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“The stag of the heather of quiet Cruachan,” whispered Oisin, turning his empty eyes toward the window he could not see. “The sorrowful croak from the ridge of the Two Lakes; the scream of the eagle on the edge of the wood, the voice of the cuckoo on the Hill of Brambles. The voice of the hounds in the pleasant valley; the early outcry of the hounds going over the Strand of the Red Stones. These are the sounds more delightful to Fionn and our fellowship.”

But after enduring Oisin’s nostalgic plaints for so long, Patrick was growing impatient. “It is a silly thing, old man, to be always talking of the Fianna. Remember, your end is come, and take the Son of God to help you.”

With some effort, Oisin rose to his feet, staggering a little and putting out his scrawny hand to steady himself against the chimneypiece.

Dismayed at his own weakness, he grieved anew. “This is not the way I used to be; without fighting, without playing at nimble feats, without young girls, without music, without harps, without bruising bones, without great deeds, without increase of learning, without generosity, without drinking at feasts, without courting, without hunting, the two trades I was used to: without going into battle and the taking of spoils. Ochone! The want of them is sorrowful to me.” As he spoke, he groped his way to the door of the cottage. “Without rising up to do bravery as we were used, without playing as we had a mind; without swimming of our fighting men in the lake; it is long the clouds are over me tonight!”

Oisin stumbled forth onto the path beside the weedy turnip patch, and turned his raddled face to the west. Bitter currents of air lifted and combed the last silver threads of his hair. Suddenly his eyes flew wide and he stabbed his finger at the horizon, gasping, “There it is! It lies ahead, where the sea meets the sky!” His eyes stared sightlessly into the distance; his scrawny hands reached out, but grasped only the wind.

“Tír na Nóg is gone,” said Patrick, not unkindly. “It disappeared when Christianity arrived at these shores.”

“That’s ridiculous!” snapped Oisin. “How could it disappear, when it exists forever?”

But he lowered his arm, and two clear drops budded beneath his lids. “Never more shall I see Fionn and the Fianna. Never again shall I behold my sweet Niamh, and my children playing on the hills of Tír na Nóg. For now I am a shaking tree; my leaves are gone from me. I am an empty nut, a horse without a bridle, a people without a dwelling place. I, Oisin, son of Fionn.” Lifting his blind visage, he shouted to the skies in cracked and accusing tones, “It is long the clouds are over me tonight! It is long last night was. Although this day is long, yesterday was longer again to me. Every day that comes is long to me!”

Whenever the booming stridor of the bells winged its way across the valley, Patrick would find Oisin in the cottage with his gaze fixed on emptiness. Once he heard him mourn, “I am the last of the Fianna, great Oisin, son of Fionn, listening to the voice of bells.”

“Come outside! Do not stay here staring at the walls,” urged Patrick.

“It is not walls I see,”murmured Oisin.

Despite himself, Patrick felt drawn to approach his guest, and ask, “What is it you do see?”

“I see a horse,” answered Oisin, “moving swiftly over the ocean.

And he is made of steam that is the color of snow, and his mane streams out along the wind like milk, and his hooves skip lightly across the waves.” He paused a moment, before continuing. “But it is without saddle he is, and without a rider. Alone he gallops into the west.”

On an impulse, the priest gently placed his hand on the shoulder of the old man. At this gesture of kindness, something inside Oisin seemed to break. As if finally defeated, he bowed his ancient head.

“And oh, Patrick, it is long the clouds are over me tonight.”

REFERENCES AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This work is inspired by Lady Gregory’s famous translation of the history of Oisin. In the interests of authenticity, the dialogue