Irish Celtic Myths.
Irish Celtic Myths.
Vol 4
The Salmon of Knowledge . Myth 1 Fionn
Long ago when Fionn mac Cumhaill, the great leader of the Fianna of Ireland, was still a young boy he was sent to live with a very wise man named Finnegas. Finnegas was a poet who lived on the banks of the river Boyne and was renowned throughout Ireland for his vast knowledge. As well as being renowned for his skills in composing and reciting poetry Finnegas knew more about the ways of the world, including the secrets of the birds and animals and plants and stars, than other man in Ireland. It was because of his vast knowledge that Fionn had been sent to learn from Finnegas. Fionn loved to listen to the old man's wonderful stories and his many words of wisdom which he too, in time, would learn to recite. In exchange for the wisdom Finnegas would pass on to him, Fionn would help about the house, cooking, cleaning and fishing for the old man.However, despite Finnegas' vast knowledge, he did not know everything and there were times when Fionn's endless curiosity got the better of him, and he was left unable to answer the young boy's questions. ' Is there a way to know everything?' Fionn asked him. This was a question that Finnegas had asked once too and was the very reason why he now lived next to the river Boyne. It had been told by the druids of old that living in a still, dark pool in the shade of the overhanging hazel trees was the Salmon of Knowledge. It was as result of eating the nuts of these magical hazel trees that the Salmon had acquired all the knowledge of the world. And so it was that, according to prophecy, the one who would eat the Salmon would gain the
knowledge for themselves. Finnegas had been living on the edge of the river for several years now, attempting to catch the Salmon and gain such wisdom. It so happened that one day, not long after Fionn had come to study under him, Finnegas went fishing and finally caught the Salmon. 'I've caught it! I've caught it!,' he cried happily. He immediately reeled it in and ran up to Fionn with the Salmon in his arms. 'You must cook it straight away!' Finnegas ordered Fionn, dancing and skipping with excitement. As Fionn began to set up the fire and spit in order to cook the Salmon, Finnegas warned him, 'Cook it, but whatever you do, do not eat a single bit of it!' Fionn nodded and went about cooking the Salmon while Finnegas went to fetch some extra firewood.Upon his return Finnegas found the Salmon laid out and ready to eat. He looked at Fionn and thought he saw something different about him, as though the light of wisdom now shone in his eyes. 'Have you eaten any of the Salmon?' he asked Fionn anxiously. 'I have not!' Fionn replied. 'Have you tasted its skin?' he continued to enquire. 'I have not!' Fionn replied, 'but when I was turning it on the spit I burned my fingers, so I put my thumb into my mouth to ease the pain.
Finnegas' heart sank. 'That's enough!' he told Fionn, 'You have tasted the Salmon of Knowledge; in you the prophecy is fulfilled. You are the one who has gained all the knowledge of the world.' He then ordered Fionn to eat all of the Salmon. However, when Fionn was finished he realised he didn't feel much different nor did he feel any wiser than before. When he told this to Finnegas, Finnegas replied, 'If it was your thumb you first burnt, then place it in your mouth.' Fionn did as Finnegas suggested and immediately all the knowledge of the world rushed into his head. 'You must go now! There is nothing more I can teach you,' Finnegas informed him, 'You are destined to become a wise poet, warrior and leader.' And so it was that when Fionn grew up, he did indeed become a wise poet, warrior and leader. He became a great leader of the Fianna, the greatest band of warriors Ireland has ever known.
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Irish Celtic Mythology.
VOL 6 Abhartach the Dwarf King - The Irish VAMPIRE
The Legend of Abhartach
In the shadowed valleys of ancient Ireland, where mist clung to the gnarled oaks and legends whispered through the heather, there existed a chieftain named Abhartach. His name, meaning “dwarf,” belied the darkness that consumed his heart. Abhartach ruled over a desolate realm, a land where the sun dared not linger, and the moon itself seemed to shiver.
Abhartach was no ordinary ruler. His eyes held secrets—secrets that danced between life and death. His malevolence knew no bounds, and he reveled in the suffering of his subjects. The villagers trembled under his iron-fisted rule, their lives drained by his insatiable hunger for power.
But it was not merely earthly dominion that Abhartach sought. He wielded forbidden magic—the kind that twisted the fabric of reality. His very existence defied the natural order. When the moon waxed full, he would vanish into the ancient woods, chanting incantations that echoed through the hollows. And when he returned, his eyes glowed like embers, and his thirst for blood remained unquenched.
Cathain, a neighboring chieftain, could bear it no longer. His people suffered, their souls crushed by Abhartach’s maleficence. Cathain, fueled by courage and desperation, rallied his warriors. They marched toward Abhartach’s fortress, swords gleaming with resolve.
The battle unfolded—a clash of steel and ancient curses. Cathain fought with valor, each swing of his blade fueled by the collective anguish of the oppressed. Abhartach, however, was no ordinary foe. His wounds healed swiftly, and his laughter echoed across the blood-soaked moors.
Three times Cathain struck him down, and three times Abhartach rose again. The villagers watched in horror as the dwarf king emerged from his grave, his eyes aflame with hatred. The very earth seemed to recoil from his touch.
Desperate, Cathain sought the counsel of a wise druid. The old seer revealed the truth: Abhartach was one of the neamh-mairbh, the walking dead. To defeat him, Cathain needed more than mortal weapons. He required a yew-wood sword—anointed with moonlight—a burial upside down, thorny barriers encircling the grave, and a massive stone to seal it shut.
And so, Cathain faced Abhartach once more. With each blow, he drove the yew-wood blade into the dwarf’s heart. The earth drank Abhartach’s malevolence, and the villagers wept with relief. They buried him head down, thorns piercing the soil, and placed the colossal stone atop the grave.
Abhartach’s reign of terror ceased, but his legend endured. The laght—a sepulchral monument—still stands in the parish of Errigal, a grim reminder. Beware, for Abhartach’s thirst for blood may yet stir in the shadows, waiting for the next moonrise to break free.
And so, the tale of Abhartach echoes through the misty hills, a cautionary whisper to those who dare disturb the slumber of the undead.
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Happy Christmas
IRISH MYTHOLOGY
VOL. 12
The Goddess Macha
The Legend of Macha
In the ancient days of Ireland, when gods and mortals walked the same soil, there lived a goddess named Macha. Her name resonated through the hills, whispered by the wind, and etched into the very stones of the land.
Macha was not merely a goddess; she embodied the spirit of the wild. Her eyes held the secrets of forgotten ages, and her laughter echoed across the green plains. But it was her swiftness that set her apart—a grace that rivaled the fleetest of horses.
One day, as the sun dipped low over the royal court of Ulster, Macha found herself drawn to the racing grounds. King Emain Macha, curious about the tales of her beauty and speed, summoned her. The court gathered, their breaths held in anticipation.
Macha stood before the king, her belly round with child. Yes, she was heavy with twins, a secret she had kept hidden. But pride burned within her—a fire that would not be quenched. She declared, “I shall race against your finest horses, even with child.”
The court gasped. How could a pregnant woman compete? Yet Macha’s determination blazed brighter than any sun. The race was set, and the horses thundered forth. Their hooves kicked up dust as they galloped, but Macha matched their pace effortlessly.
Across the fields she flew, her hair streaming behind her like a comet’s tail. The crowd watched in awe as she outstripped the steeds, her swollen belly defying reason. And then, with a final burst of energy, she crossed the finish line, triumphant.
But victory came at a cost. As Macha collapsed, her labor pains began. She gave birth to twins—a son and a daughter—right there on the racetrack. Her blood mingled with the earth, and her cries echoed through the hills.
In her agony, Macha cursed the men of Ulster. “For nine generations,” she declared, “your warriors shall suffer as I have suffered. When the hour of need comes, their strength shall fail them.”
And so it was. The curse of Macha hung over Ulster like a shadow. When the great hero Cú Chulainn defended the kingdom against invaders, he fought with a pain in his side, weakened by the ancient goddess’s wrath.
But Macha’s legacy was not only one of vengeance. She became a symbol of endurance, of the indomitable spirit that defies all odds. Her name echoed through the ages, a reminder that even in our vulnerability, we can rise above and leave our mark upon the world.
And so, whenever the wind whispers through the grassy plains of Ulster, it carries the memory of Macha—the swift, the fierce, the mother who raced against destiny itself.
And there, my friend, ends the tale of Macha, forever etched in the annals of Irish mythology.
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Irish Myths
VOL 9. The SELKIE. An Irish Mermaid Story
The Selkie’s Secret
In a forgotten corner of the Emerald Isle, where cliffs stood like ancient guardians and the waves whispered forgotten lullabies, there dwelled a fisherman named Eamon. His cottage clung to the rugged coast, its thatched roof weathered by countless storms. Eamon was a man of few words, his eyes etched with the sorrows of a lifetime spent chasing elusive fish and memories.
One tempest-laden evening, as rain drummed upon the windowpanes and the sea roared its defiance, Eamon stumbled upon a sight that would forever alter the course of his existence. There, nestled amidst the seaweed-strewn rocks, lay a treasure—a seal pelt of silver-gray, soft as moonlight and shimmering with otherworldly grace. Eamon’s gnarled fingers traced its edges, and he knew he held something more than mere fur. This was the skin of a Selkie—a creature of myth and melancholy.
The legends whispered of Selkies—of their dual existence, their fluidity between land and sea. By day, they swam as seals, their sleek bodies slicing through the icy depths. But when the moon hung low, they shed their skins, emerging as ethereal women, their eyes reflecting the mysteries of the abyss.
Eamon hid the pelt beneath his bed, its presence a secret shared only with the wind and the salt. Days turned into weeks, and his cottage became a sanctuary for the lost and the weary. Sailors sought refuge from raging storms, widows mourned husbands swallowed by the sea—all found solace within those walls. Yet Eamon’s gaze often strayed to the hidden pelt, wondering if the Selkie would return.
Then, one moonless night, as the stars blinked like ancient eyes, Eamon heard it—a melody that tugged at his heart, a lament woven from moonbeams and longing. He rushed to the window, and there she stood: the Selkie. Her skin was pale as foam, her hair a cascade of seaweed green. Her eyes held the wisdom of ages, and her lips curved in both fear and hope.
She was naked, vulnerable—a creature caught between realms. Eamon retrieved the pelt, its silvery strands slipping through his fingers like water. He held it out to her, voice barely a whisper. “Take it,” he said. “Be free.”
The Selkie’s tears glistened. She reached for the pelt, her fingers trembling. But then she hesitated, torn between love and duty. For Selkies faced a cruel choice: to remain with mortal lovers or return to the sea. Their hearts were bound by moonlight and salt spray.
Eamon understood. He had glimpsed eternity in her eyes, tasted salt and starlight on her lips. And so, with a bittersweet smile, he released her. The Selkie donned her pelt, her form shifting until she became a sleek seal once more. She nuzzled his cheek, a silent farewell, before slipping into the waves.
As the sea swallowed her, Eamon wept—for love unspoken, for a Selkie lost, and for the ache that would haunt him till his dying day. He walked the cliffs thereafter, eyes scanning the horizon, listening for her song—a melody carried by the wind, sung by a Selkie who danced beneath the moon.
And so, the legend of Eamon and the Selkie passed from generation to generation—a tale of sacrifice, of love that transcended realms, and of a fisherman who held the sea’s secrets close to his heart.
And there, my friend, ends our journey—a whisper of magic and longing that lingers in the salt-laden air, where Selkies still dance upon moonlit shores
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Christy's Electric Wheelchair Fundraiser,
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I created this Artwork as a way to raise funds for an outdoor Electric Wheelchair for myself.I've been trying to raise funds for 14yrs without success,My story is on the Buy me a coffee Website below.All I ask is if you could Like and Share and to please read my story.All my ARTWORK is genuinely FREE on BUY ME A COFFEE.You only donate to my Wheelchair if YOU choose to Donate.Artwork is FREE to download immediately.You can download as many images as you wish.No limits.1000's of images on different topics.With more images uploaded every week.
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Christy's Electric Wheelchair Fundraiser,
Hi Guy's.I created this Artwork as a way to raise funds for an outdoor Electric Wheelchair for myself.I've been trying to raise funds for 14yrs without success,My story is on the Buy me a coffee Website below.All I ask is if you could Like and Share and to please read my story.
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Christy's Electric Wheelchair Fundraiser,
Hi Guy's.I created this Artwork as a way to raise funds for an outdoor Electric Wheelchair for myself.I've been trying to raise funds for 14yrs without success,My story is on the Buy me a coffee Website below.All I ask is if you could Like and Share and to please read my story.
All my ARTWORK is genuinely FREE on BUY ME A COFFEE.You only donate to my Wheelchair if YOU choose to Donate.Artwork is FREE to download immediately.You can download as many images as you wish.No limits.1000's of images on different topics.With more images uploaded every week and new topics added to choose from.
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Christy,Husband, Dad, Family man, Friendly, Easygoing.Dad's [ Christy ]Electric Wheelchair Fundraiser.Please only help to support me if you can afford too.Otherwise please help yourself to my artwork.It'is genuinely FREE for everyone to download and enjoy.Just click the Buy me a coffee.It's my artwork Shop.1000's of Pics.New pic's added every day.FREE artwork drawings 3d images for all occasions.Buy me a Coffee https://www.buymeacoffee.com/myfrontdoor .Paypal donate https://www.paypal.com/donate/?hosted_button_id=UQD48H4SCEEPE .Patreon support https://www.patreon.com/MyFrontDoor
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