From medieval manuscripts to 19th century retellings.

I have found this story in four books, two of which are translations of medieval Irish manuscripts and the other two are 19th century retellings. (All of them are in the public domain.)

In addition to these sources, I colored my version with elements from other stories of the genre: tragic deaths unintentionally accomplished by the lovers themselves, travels to surreal islands, and a supernatural precognition of the arrival of Christianity in Ireland.

Annals of the Four Masters

A chronicle of Irish history, spanning from 1519 B.C. to 1616 A.D., though the first entry was probably written in 550 A.D. It was actually a compilation of chronicles from different sources, collected in 1632-1636 and written in Irish by Franciscan monks. (link to Wikipedia) The annals contains a very short entry about the event.

M558.2 (second entry for the year 558 A.D.)

In this year was taken the Mermaid, i.e. Liban, the daughter of Eochaidh, son of Muireadh, on the strand of Ollarbha, in the net of Beoan, son of Inli, the fisherman of Comhgall of Beannchair.

Book of the Dun Cow

A collection of historical stories and legends written on the hide of a dun (a type of cow) in Irish. The oldest surviving copy dates from the 12th century. (link to Wikipedia) It meanders like old texts often do, as though they were written off the top of the author’s head, with no consideration for the flow of the story.

A good king that ruled over Munster: Mairid son of Cairid. He had two sons: Eochaid and Ribh. Guaire’s daughter Eibhliu, from the brugh of the mac óg, ’tis she was wife to Mairid. Upon his son, on Eochaid, she pitched her fancy (now from this Eibhliu it is that slaibh Eibhlinne or “Eibhliu’s mountain” is named). For a long time she solicited the young man, and at last pressed him hard that privily he should fly with her. Ribh told his brother that rather than disgrace himself he ought to carry off the woman, and that he would himself quit the country with him.

With Eibhliu therefore Eochaid eloped, and Ribh went with them. Ten hundred was their complement of men, and the manner of their travel was with bringing of flocks and herds. Their soothsayers told them that not in the one place it was fated for them to effect a landed settlement, and they parted accordingly at bealach dá liag or “the way of two flagstones.”

Ribh went westwards to “the country of Midir’s game with the mac óg, “otherwise magh finn” or “the white plain.” Here Midir, who previously had killed their horses, came to them leading by the halter one that bore a pack-saddle. On him they loaded all their stuff, and he conveyed it to Airbthiu’s plain: the place where loch Ree is to-day. At this point the garran lay down with them, then stood up again, and in that spot burst forth a spring which in the event overwhelmed and drowned them all: the same is lock Rí or “loch Ree.”

Eochaid on the other hand went on till he reached the brugh of the mac óg. A tall man came to them and would have turned them out of the country, but they went not for him. That night the man killed all their horses. On the morrow he returned to them and said: “unless ye quit the land on which ye stand, to­night I will slay all your people.” Eochaid answered: “great mis­chief hast thou wrought us already, to have killed all our horses; without which we could not, even though we desired it, depart.” Angus [or the mac óg, for he it was] gave them a great horse, and on him they clap all their gear; he enjoined them moreover not to unload the horse [on the way], nor [at any time] to let him make a halt, lest where he stood there happened that which should be to them an occasion of their death. Upon a Sunday then in “mid-harvest month,” or September, they set out and so to liathmuine or “grey bramble-bush” in Ulidia, where the whole of them gather to the horse and with one motion relieve him of all their impedimenta, but never a one of them turned his head back along the way by which they were come. The animal stood with them therefore, and here too there was a spring well. Over this Eochaid had a house made, with a flap to cover the well and a woman to tend it continually; and against Muiredach son of Fiacha he in the sequel made good his claim to the half- rule of Ulidia.

But once on a time that the woman had not shut down the well, linn muine or “the bramble-bush water” rose and covered liathmuine above; there Eochaid was drowned with his children, all but Liban and Conaing, and Curnan the half-wit from whom are the dál mBuain and the dál Saline, which latter indeed ever and anon had foretold to them how that the loch would overrun them, saying:

Come ye, come ye, grasp edged tools and hew you vessels out: with a grey flood linn muine shall whelm liathrnuine; in the broad water Aire and Conaing shall be drowned; swim east and west and up and down through every sea!

And this was true for him; for by the space of three hundred years Liban ranged the sea, with her lap-dog in form of an otter close after her whichever way she went and never parting from her at all. Herself it was that to Beoan son of Innle when he caught her in his nets told all her fortunes, on which occasion she chanted these words which follow:

Beneath loch nEchach I have my dwelling now: high above me is the once solid surface which troops of horses trod; under ships’ rounded hulls is my appointed place; the wave it is my roof, the shore my wall…

This then was what most contributed to disperse the Ulidians throughout Ireland: the eruption of lock nEchach or “loch Neagh” namely. After her baptism another name was conferred on Liban: muirghein or “sea-birth,” that is to say [a compound meaning] gem mara or “birth of the sea.” As for one half of her ’tis a salmon it was, the other being human; and for her it was that the sennachie sang these quatrains:

A sea-birth that is a birth fraught with special virtues the daughter of haughty Eochaidh is…

Liban and Airiu were Eochaidh Finn’s two daughters; Airiu wife of Curnan was drowned there, and he died of grief for her: hence carn Curndin or “Curnan’s cairn” has its name, and that is “the invention of Curnan.”

Now for a full year Liban had been in her bower beneath the loch and her lap-dog with her there, God preserving her the while from the waters of loch Neagh, when she said one day: “O Lord, happy the one that should be in the salmon’s shape, scouring the sea and swimming even as they do!” Then she was turned into salmon’s form, and her lap-dog into an otter’s, so that whatever the course she took, and into what airt soever, he was immediately in her wake under the waters and the seas. In which wise she continued from the time of Mairid’s son Eochaid to that of Comgall of Bennackar or “Bangor.”

From tigh Dabheoc the same Comgall despatched Beoan mac Innle to have speech of Gregory and to bring back canonical order and rule. As Beoan’s people therefore navigated the sea, from under the currach they heard a chant as of angels and Beoan qnestioned, “whence this song?”

“It is I that make it,” answered Liban.

“Who art thou?” Beoan pursued.

“Liban daughter of Mairid’s son Eochaid am I.”

“And what causes thee to be in this fashion?”

She said, “for now three hundred years I am beneath the sea, and the purpose for which I am come is to tell thee that I will go westwards to meet thee at innbher Oiorba. On this very day twelvemonth then, and forsake of the saints of Dalaradia, be my tryst kept by you; all which tell thou to Comgall and to the other saints as well.”

“That will I not unless its price be paid me,” said Beoan.

“What is the price thou askest?”

“That I have thee buried in mine own monastery.”

“Verily thou shalt have that,” she replied.

Beoan subsequently returned from the eastward, and to Comgall with the rest of the clergy told all the story of the muirgheilt or mermaid.

Thus the year ran out; [at the place appointed on the coast] the nets were made ready, and she was taken in that of Fergus from Meelick. She was brought to land, her form and her whole description being wonderful. Numbers came to view her and she in a vessel with water round about her.

Like every one else the chief of the úi Chonaing was there, and he wore a crimson mantle. This she eyed persistently, and the warrior as it were enquired of her, saying, “if it be that thy mind is bent on the mantle it shall be thine.”

“Nay,” she answered, “by no means is it to that end I observe it, but because on the day in which he was drowned it was a crimson mantle that Eochaid wore. Nevertheless,” she added, “in guerdon of this thine offer to me good luck be upon thee and on ‘the man of thy place’ [i.e. thy successor]; neither in any convention where he shall find himself be it ever needful to ask which is thy repre­sentative.”

There came up a great swart larech, uncouth of aspect, and killed her lap-dog. To him and to his ribe she bequeathed that never should they triumph over any but ignoblest foes nor, till such time as they should fast at her shrine, avail to take vengeance for ills done to them. Hereupon the óglaech made genuflexion to her.

Now arose a contest for her possession: Comgall saying that, since it was in his country she was caught, she was his; Fergus maintaining that, since it was into his net she had chanced, she must be his; while Beoan again affirmed her to be his property, for that so she herself had promised to him. Accordingly those saints fasted all, in order that concerning this their dispute God should deliver judgment as between them.

To a certain man there an angel said, “from ‘cam Airenn’ or ‘Airiu’s cairn’ will come two stags; upon these yoke ye the chariot [in which she is], and whatever be the direction in which they carry her let them be.”

On the morrow the deer came as the angel had proclaimed, and bore her away to tech Dabheoc. Then the clergy gave her her choice: whether to be baptised and then and there presently go to Heaven; or to be continued in life for the same length of time again [300 years], and so to go to Heaven after life prolonged beyond many ages. The election she made was to depart then. Comgall baptised her, and the name that he conferred on her was Muirghein or “sea-birth,” as before; or perhaps Muirgheilt, i.e. “sea-prodigy,” that is to say, “geilt in mhara” or “the prodigy of the sea.” Fuinche too was another name for her.

In that place wonders and miracles are wrought through her, and there she (after the manner of every other sainted virgin) enjoys honour and reverence even as God hath bestowed them on her in Heaven.

Old Celtic Romances,

by P.W. Joyce

This book, published in 1879, is a collection of legends translated into English with the intention of proving that Irish mythology is as fascinating and epic in scope as Greek mythology. The language is therefore intentionally grand and stiff. The chapter called, “The overflowing of Lough Neagh, and the Story of Liban the Mermaid,” is a smoother version of the Dun cow story above.

In the days of old a good king ruled over Mumha, whose name was Marid Mac Carido. He had two sons, Ecca and Rib. Ecca was restless and unruly, and in many ways displeased the king; and he told his brother Rib that he had made up his mind to leave his home, and win lands for himself in some far off part of the country. Rib tried hard to dissuade him; but though this delayed his departure for a while, he was none the less bent on going.

At last, Ecca, being wrought upon by his stepmother Ebliu (from whom Slieve Eblinne (Slieve Eblinne, now Slieve Eelim or Slieve Phelim, in Tipperary, sometimes called the Twelve Hills of Evlinn. “Eblinne” is the genitive of “Ebliu.”) was afterwards named), did a grievous wrong to his father, and fled from Mumha with all his people; and his brother Rib and his stepmother Ebliu went with him. Ten hundred men they were in all, besides women and children; and they turned their faces toward the north.

After they had traveled for some time, their druids told them that it was not fated for them to settle in the same place; and accordingly, when they had come to the Pass of the two Pillar Stones, they parted.

Rib and his people turned to the west, and they journeyed till they came to the plain of Arbthenn. And there the water of a fountain burst forth over the land, and drowned them all; and a great lake was formed, which to this day is called the Lake of Rib (Now Lough Ree, on the Shannon.)

Ecca continued his journey northwards; and he and his people fared slowly on till they came near to Brugh of the Boyne, the palace of Mac Indoc, where they were fain to rest. No sooner had they halted, than a tall man came forth from the palace, namely, Angus Mac Indoc of the Brugh, son of the Dagda, and commanded them to leave the place without delay. But they, being spent with the toil of travel, heeded not his words, and, pitching their tents, they rested on the plain before the palace. Whereupon, Angus being wroth that his commands were unheeded, killed all their horses that night.

Next day, he came forth again, and he said to the, “Your horses I slew last night; and now, unless ye depart from this place, I will slay your people to-night.”

And Ecca said to him, “Much evil hast thou done to us already, for thou hast killed all our horses. And now we cannot go, even though we desire it, for without horses we cannot travel.”

Then Angus brought to them a very large horse in full harness, and they put all their goods on him. And when they were about to go, he said to them—

Beware that ye keep this great steed walking continually; not even a moment’s rest shall ye give him, otherwise he will certainly be the cause of your death.

After this they set out again, one Sunday in the mid-month of autumn, and traveled on till they reached the Plain of the Grey Copse (The Plain of the Grey Copse, according to the legend, was the name of the plain now covered by Lough Neagh.), where they intended to abide. They gathered then round the great steed to take their baggage off him, and each was busy seeing after his own property, so that they forgot to keep the horse moving. And the moment he stood still, a magic well sprang up beneath his feet.

Now Ecca, when he saw the well spring up, was troubled, remembering Angus’s warning. And he caused a house to be built round it, and near it he built his palace, for the better security. And he chose a woman to take care of the well, charging her strictly to keep the door locked, except when the people of the palace came for water.

After that the King of Ulaidh (i.e. Ulster.), that is to say, Muridach, the son of Fiaca Findamnas (who was grandson of Cornal Carna of the Red Branch (look up Connor Mac Nessa)) came against Ecca to drive him forth from Ulaidh. But Ecca made a stout fight, so that he won the lordship of half of Ulaidh from Muridach. And after that his people settled down on the Plain of the Grey Copse.

Now Ecca had two daughters, Ariu and Liban, of whom Ariu was the wife of Curnan the Simpleton. And Curnan went about among the people, foretelling that a lake would flow over them from the well, and urging them earnestly to make ready their boats.

Come forth, come forth, ye valiant men; build boats, and build ye fast!
I see the water surging out, a torrent deep and vast;
I see our chief and all his host o’erwhelmed beneath the wave;
And Ariu, too, my best beloved, alas! I cannot save.
But Liban east and west shall swim
Long ages on the ocean’s rim,
By mystic shores and islets dim,
And down in the deep sea cave!

And he ceased not to warn all he met, repeating this verse continually; but the people gave no heed to the words of the Simpleton.

Now the woman who had charge of the well, on a certain occasion forgot to close the door, so that the spell was free to work evil. And immediately the water burst forth over the plain, and formed a great lake, namely the Lake of the Copse. And Ecca and all his family and all his folk were drowned, save only his daughter Liban, and Conang, and Curnan the Simpleton. And they buried Ariu, and raised a mound over her, which is called from her Carn-Arenn.

Of Conang nothing more is told. But as to Curnan, he died of grief after his wife Ariu; and he was buried in a mound, which is called Carn-Curnan to this day in memory of him.

And thus the great Lake of the Copse was formed, which is now called Lough Necca (now Lough Neagh), in memory of Ecca, the son of Marid. And it was the overflow of this lake which, more than all other causes, scattered the Ultonians over Erin.

Now as to Liban. She also was swept away like the others; but she was not drowned. She lived for a whole year with her lap-dog, in her chamber beneath the lake, and God protected her from the water. At the end of the year she was weary; and when he saw the speckled salmon swimming and playing all round her, she prayed and said—

O my Lord, I wish I were a salmon, that I might swim with the others through the clear green sea!

And at the words she took the shape of a salmon, except her face and breast, which did not change. And her lap-dog was changed to an otter, and attended her afterwards whithersoever she went, as long as she lived in the sea.

And so she remained swimming about from sea to sea for three hundred years; that is to say, from the time of Ecca, the son of Marid, to the time of Comgall of Bangor.

Now on one occasion, Comgall sent Beoc, the son of Indli, from Bangor to Rome, to talk with Gregory concerning some matters of order and rule. And when Beoc’s curragh [boat] was sailing over the sea, he and his crew heard sweet singing in the waters beneath them, as it were the chanting of angels.

And Beoc, having listened for a while, looked down into the water, and asked what the chant was for, and who it was that sang.

And Liban answered, “I am Liban, the daughter of Ecca, son of Marid; and it is I who sang the chant thou hast heard.”

“Why art thou here?” asked Beoc.

And she replied, “Lo, I have lived for three hundred years beneath the sea; and I have come hither to fix a day and a place of meeting with thee. I shall now go westward; and I beseech thee, for the sake of the holy men of Dalriada [the old name of a territory which included the southern half of the county Antrim and a part of Down], to come to Inver Ollarba [the inver, or mouth of the river Ollarba, which was the ancient name of the Larne Water, in Antrim], to meet me, on this same day at the end of a year. Say also to Comgall and to the other holy men of Bangor, all that I say to thee. Come with thy boats and thy fishing-nets, and thou shalt take me from the waters in which I have lived.”

“I shall not grant thee the boon thou askest,” said Beoc, “unless you give me a reward.”

“What reward dost thou seek?” asked Liban.

“That thou be buried in one grave with me in my own monastery,” answered Beoc.

“That shall be granted to thee,” said Liban.

Beoc then went on his way to Rome. And when he had returned, he related to Comgall and to the other saints of the monastery at Bangor, the story of the mermaid. And now the end of the year was nigh.

Then they made ready their nets, and on the day appointed they went in their boats to Inver Ollarba, a goodly company of the saints of Erin. And Liban was caught in the net of Fergus of Miluc [or Meelick, the name of an ancient ecclesiastical establishment in the county Antrim]: and her head and shoulders were those of a maiden, but she had the body of a fish.

Now the boat in which she was brought to land was kept half-full of sea water, in which she remained swimming about. And many came to see her; and all were filled with wonder when they saw her strange shape and heard her story.

Among the rest came the chief of the tribe of Hua-Conang, wearing a purple cloak; and she kept gazing at him earnestly. The young chief, seeing this, said to her—

Dost thou wish to have this cloak? If so, I will give it to thee willingly.

But she answered, “Not so: I desire not thy cloak. But it brings to my mind my father Ecca; for on the day he was drowned, he wore a cloak of purple like thine. But may good luck be on thee for thy gentleness, and on him who shall come after thee in thy place; and in every assembly where thy successor sits, may he be known to all without inquiry.”

After that there came a large-bodied, dark-visaged, fierce hero, and killed her lap-dog. Whereupon she was grieved; and she told him that the heroism of himself and his tribe should be stained by the baseness of their minds, and that they should not be able to defend themselves against injuries till they should do penance, by fasting, for her sake.

Then the warrior repented what he had done, and humbled himself before her.

And now there arose a contention about her, as to whom she should belong. Comgall said she was his, forasmuch as she was caught in his territory. But Fergus urged that she belonged to him by right, as it was in his net she was taken. And Beoc said he had the best right of all to her, on account of the promise she had made to him.

And as no one could settle the dispute, these three saints fasted and prayed that God would give a judgment between them, to show who should own Liban.

And an angel said to one of the company: “Two wild oxen will come hither to-morrow from Carn-Arenn, that is to say, from the grave-mound of Liban’s sister, Ariu. Yoke a chariot to them, and place the mermaid in it; and into whatsoever territory they shall bring her, she shall remain with the owner thereof.”

The oxen came on the morrow, as the angel had foretold. And when they were yoked, and when Liban was placed in the chariot, they brought her straightway to Beoc’s church, namely to Tec-Da-Beoc.

Then the saints gave her a choice— either to die immediately after baptism, and go to heaven; or to live on earth as long as she had lived in the sea, and then to go to heaven after these long ages. And the choice she took was to die immediately. Whereupon Comgall baptized her; and he gave her the name of Murgen, that is, “Sea-born”, or Murgelt, that is, “Mermaid.”

And she is counted among the holy virgins, and held in honor and reverence, as God ordained for her in heaven; and wonders and miracles are performed through her means at Tec-Da-Beoc.

A book of Saints and Wonders,

by Lady Augusta Gregory

This version, written in 1906, includes additional episodes and details. In the preface, the author explains that her stories were “put down here according to the old writings and the memory of the people of Ireland.”

The time Angus Og sent from the plain of Bregia that was his playing ground, he gave them the loan of a very big horse to carry all they had northward. And Eochaid went on with the horse till he came to the Grey Thornbush in Ulster; and a well broke out where he stopped, and he made his dwelling-house beside it, and he made a cover for the well and put a woman to mind it. But one time she did not shut down the cover, and the water rose up and covered the Grey Thornbush, and Eochaid was drowned with his children; and the water spread out into a great lake that has the name of Loch Neach to this day.

But Liban that was one of Eochaid’s daughters was not drowned, but she was in her sunny-house under the lake and her little dog with her for a full year, and God protected her from the waters. And one day she said, ‘O Lord, it would be well to be in the shape of a salmon, to be going through the sea the way they do.’ Then the one half of her took the shape of a salmon and the other half kept the shape of a woman; and she went swimming the sea, and her little dog following her in the shape of an otter and never leaving her or parting from her at all.

And one time Caoilte was out at a hunting near Beinn Boirche with the King of Ulster, and they came to the shore of the sea. And when they looked out over it they saw a young girl on the waves, and she swimming with the side-stroke and the foot-stroke. And when she came opposite them she sat up on a wave, as anyone would sit upon a stone or a hillock and she lifted her head and said, “Is not that Caolite Son of Ronan?”

“It is myself surely,” said he.

“It is many a day,” she said, “we saw you upon that rock, and the best man of Ireland or of Scotland with you, that was Finn son of Cumhal.”

“Who are you so girl?” said Coalite.

“I am Liban daughter of Eochaid, and I never showed my face to anyone since the going away of the King of the Fianna to this day. And it is what led me to lift my head to-day,” she said, “was to see yourself Caolite.”

Just then the deer that were running before the hounds made for the sea and swam out into it. “Your spear to me Caolite!” said Liban.

Then he put the spear into her hand and she killed the deer with it, and sent them back to him where he was with the King of Ulster; and then she threw him back the spear and with that she went away.

And that is the way she was until the time Beoan son of Innle was sent by Comgall to Rome, to have talk with Gregory and to bring back rules and orders. And when he and his people were going over the sea they heard what was like the singing of angels under the curragh [boat].

“What is that song?” said Beoan.

“It is I myself am making it,” said Liban.

“Who are you?” said Beoan.

“I am Liban daughter of Eochaid son of Mairid, and I am going through the sea these three hundred years.” Then she told him all her story, and how it was under the round hulls of ships she had her dwelling-place, and the waves were the roofing of her house, and the strands its walls. “And it is what I am come for now,” she said, “to tell you that I will come to meet you on this day twelve-month at Inver Ollorba; and do not fail to meet me there for the sake of all the saints of Dalaradia.”

And at the year’s end the nets were spread along the coast where she said she would come, and it was in the net of Fergus from Miluic she was taken. And the clerks gave her her choice either to be baptized and go then and there to heaven, or to stay living through another three hundred years and at the end of that time to go to heaven; and the choice she made was to die. Then Comgall baptized her and the name he gave her was Muirgheis, the Birth of the Sea. So she died, and the messengers that came and that carried her to her burying place, were horned deer that were sent by the angels of God.

On the web

I have found several references to this story online.

• Liban the Merrow: a retelling of the story which is part-essay, part-narrative. (direct link)
• A scholarly list of references
• The wikipedia entry
• A detailed discussion in Spanish, and the Google translation

This first story is an Irish legend, derived from medieval sources. It takes place in both golden ages of Irish mythology: the pre-Christian era of heros and giants and the early Christian age of saints and miracles. The story is retold in the same mixed-culture as the medieval sources.

This is my first experiment in the minimalist writing style I explain in the About page. It was written slowly and is meant to be read slowly.

And then a good king took the throne over Mumha, and he had two sons named Eochaid and Ribh. Eochaid was unruly and abandoned his father the king, and Ribh departed with him. Each took in train their households, druids, servants, and their champions, and set their faces to the North. When they reached the Pass of the two Pillar Stones, they took leave of one another, Ribh to the west, and Eochaid still north.

Ribh settled in the Plain of Arbthenn, and a spring burst forth and drowned his entire clan.

Eochaid came to the Brugh of the Boyne, whose king, the wicked MacIndoc, slew his horses at night while he slept. When Eochaid and company woke the next morning and saw that their horses had been killed, the king shouted from his palace walls, “Be gone, lest tonight I slay your people!”

Eochaid rebuked, “Ho, you have worked great mischief! How are we to leave without horses?”

MacIndoc, the wicked, gave him an enormous horse, forty hands high, on which he was to pile all of his belongings and depart. “Lo,” said that devious king, “you may never stop to rest, for the place this horse tarries is the place you shall die.”

With that, the megalithic horse slowly creaked and groaned and clomped one foot in front of the other, and trod north. Eochaid and his people followed.

In the month of August, the people of Eochaid entered a great grey plain: the ground was covered with smooth white rocks, the horizon was flat and featureless, and the sky was red and humming with a drone like a sick bagpipe. Every day they marched without stopping, and every night, they took turns walking the Horse in slow circles around the camp. One morning, Maol mac Morna grew tired of walking around and around with the Horse, and schemed to sleep an hour before the rising sun. He spied young Curnan, a simpleton, and pressed him into walking the Horse instead. Curnan led the Horse admirably at first, but in time his mind wandered, and he stopped to gaze at the sun as its first rays spider-stepped upon the plain. The Horse, meanwhile, wandered off its track and discovered a clover— the only plant in the white, stony desert— and stooped to eat its petals. As soon as the clover was out of the ground a gush of water sprung up, mounting into a geyser.

The roar of water woke the entire camp, and all were distressed, for they knew that they would soon drown. Even the Horse staggered back, and dropped its load in fright. All the wealth of Eochaid washed away in the roaring waters. Only one among them had the presence of mind to calm the water, and that was Eochaid’s youngest daughter Ariu. She removed her shoes and waded, in small circles around the geyser, holding her right hand to its up-flowing column, praying. This quelled the torrent, reducing it to a gurgling spring. The people rejoiced, and Eochaid himself praised and blessed his daughter in their hearing. He then asked whose turn it had been to walk the Horse, and Maol the slothful servant, now awake, was accused. Eochaid sliced him with his sword, and the parts fell two ways.

As they could travel no further, the House of Eochaid was established on that spot. The waters of the spring nourished the land and made it fertile, and Eochaid raised a mighty castle from the smooth stones that they cleared away. He then ordered a house to be built around the spring, and set his daughter Airu as its keeper. Whenever the people wanted water, they approached her and she entered the gate, locking it behind her. She paced three times clockwise around the spring, and filled the buckets with water. Then she exited the gate, locking it again. Meanwhile, Curnan the Simpleton watched with adoration. Every day he would be first in line to request three buckets of water, just to be near her. As he took them away, he poured them out on the ground, having no need of it.

The lonesome camp grew into a village, and the village into a bustling town. Ariu became a young woman and Curnan a young man. One day, Curnan gathered the courage to express his love to Ariu, and she accepted it. Being in the habit of giving his daughter whatever she wanted, Eochaid joined the two in marriage.

Ariu still rose early in the morning to fetch the people their water. This left Curnan alone to wander the streets of town, waiting for her return. Soon, he got it into his head that the water gods would steal her away from him, so much more did they own her than he himself. Thus he lamented; from every street corner he could be heard crying,

Come forth, come forth, ye valiant men,
To build your boats, and build ye fast!
I see the water surging out, a plume! a torrent deep and vast,
Our chief and all his men o’erwhelmed beneath the wave,
And Ariu too, my best beloved: I cannot save!
I cannot save!

(But Eochaid’s daughter yet shall swim…
Long ages on the ocean’s rim,
By mystic shores and islets dim,
And down in the deep sea cave!)

When rumors of her husband’s conduct reached Ariu, she was greatly embarrassed and angered. She took his hand and brought him to the house of the spring, led him through the gate and showed him the trickling water. But he would not go near it; he pressed his back to the locked gate. Ariu demonstrated that there was no danger: she approached the spring with her shoes on, and walked around it counter-clockwise, but none of this would quell Curnan’s fear. Finally, she took her husband’s hand and set it in the bubbling waters, but he slipped away from her and ran from the house, breaking the lock on the gate. She followed, leaving the gate open and dangling behind her.

Curnan sprinted into Eochaid’s castle and flew up the stairs to the turret of the highest tower. Airu, exhausted, followed him as far as the courtyard, and there caught her breath. When Curnan saw her from the turret, he shouted with all his might, “Airu! <gasp> Airu! Hurry up the tower before the waters come!”

It was about noon, and nearly the whole town was in the courtyard, buying and selling. So when they heard Curnan’s shout, they all looked up and laughed. Ariu, overcome with anger, ordered him to come down.

Meanwhile, the spring waters were quickly rising, and soon a steady river poured from the gate. From his vantage point, Curnan saw this, and shouted again from the turret. This only provoked the town’s laughter and Ariu’s angry sobs. Again and again he called for her to climb, but she would not.

Finally, the full force of the water burst forth, flooding the countryside and filling the castle walls. The townspeople tried to shelter themselves from the heavy rain, and Eochaid himself appeared, wide-mouthed, on the balcony. Curnan was still on the turret and Airu in the courtyard, but they could no longer hear one another.

Meanwhile, Eochaid’s other daughter, Liban, was out in the rocky plain, sitting on the branch of a withered tree with her lap-dog, Pelt, sleeping in her hands. The distant burst of water sounded like the thud of a drum. She looked over her shoulder to see her father’s castle devoured by a little plume of white water, then quickly woke her lap-dog, and scampered out of the tree.

When she reached the ground, a great, round wave was already spreading out on the plain, roaring as it widened, so she ran for high ground. The closest hill was Hermit’s Mound, a hollow, solitary peak shaped like an up-standing finger. Before she was halfway there, the wave caught her and swept her along, miraculously into the mouth of a cave at its base and all the way up a narrow shaft to a cavern just below its summit.

That was the day that the Plain of the Grey Copse filled up and became known as the lake Lough Neagh, as it is today. Alone in the wide, flat waters poked the highest turret of Eochaid’s castle, and on it Curnan the Simpleton was preserved as in a boat anchored to the lake bottom. He splashed the waters around him, vainly trying to push it aside for any sign of Airu. There was none. For the rest of the day, wooden beams and other floating things drifted up and broke through the surface, and every time, Curnan’s hope reemerged and was dashed. As the sun set, he drew a few logs together into a raft. All night he drifted away from the castle turret, surrounded above and below by stars, but his heart was empty.

In the morning, Curnan’s raft tangled in weeds and reeds by the side of the shore. Under a bright blue sky with crisp, painfully white clouds, Curnan dug in the earth and raised a mound by the side of the lake. It was a burial mound for Airu, though her body could not be found to be put under it. At noon, under a pleasant breeze, he climbed the mound and hugged it. His heart broke, and he died.

Meanwhile, Liban awoke in a dim cavern under the lake. God was there. She called out to him and the cave filled with a ruddy, warm glow. The cave was round inside like a bubble in the rock, with a little sunny-house on one side and a pool of water on the other. The pool was the top of a long shaft through the center of the mountain, through which she had been remarkably thrust without harm. Pelt barked like a little bird and trotted all about, exploring his new home. Liban did the same.

All day she talked to God. Before the flood, she like to walk in the wilds beyond the village, since God was there. Soon she settled into a round of meditation, praying day after day. At first she was filled with warmth and assurance, but gradually she found herself shaking with dread. Beauty crawled upon the Earth, but something ominous behind him hid the stars in its rising. The man of beauty challenged the darkened form; he raised both fists and was tied to a pole. The unseen shape lunged forward and crushed him, splitting the earth all the way through. Up from the wound drifted the Dead. A battle had begun for dominion over creation, a battle waged deep in the bottom of every soul. Liban always rose from these meditations weary and sad, overwhelmed by nostalgia. Time was relentless and inhuman in its churning on and could not stop to for what was lost. Eochaid was lost, as was Airu her sister, and all her village in the unstoppable wave. Life itself, even a life of comfort in her sunny-house, seemed like an unbearable wave, grinding on with mechanical hooves.

Whenever she felt depressed, God sent salmon to swim up into Liban’s pool to sparkle and play in the light. The joy of their frolicking brought tears that sadness couldn’t, as did Pelt’s clownish attempts to catch them. She was so overjoyed once that she said, “Oh Lord, make me a salmon.” The fish swam away, and night came.

The next morning, Liban resolved to pray to God that she be turned into a salmon, that she might swim with the others through the clear green sea. She prayed all day. When she slept, she dreamed that she was a salmon, and in her dream, she had no distractions, made no judgements or any thoughts at all; she just felt and perceived, as a salmon would. She woke gasping for breath. And yet, the following day she prayed again, “Lord, make me a salmon, that I might swim with the others through the clear green sea!” There was again no response, and this time, she dreamed nothing. She fell asleep, and woke the next instant. Again she prayed that she might be changed into a salmon and be made innocent. At the end of the day, the light in her cave went out abruptly. It was utterly dark.

Unseen, something clutched Liban’s feet: she grasped at it and found nothing. What she did find was that her feet were not feet. They were thinner and flatter, stiff bristles, and her ankles were scaled. Terrified, she shook herself out of her dress. In the darkness, Pelt barked and growled at something. As the change crept up and fused her legs into a single tail, she wondered at the wisdom of her choice, but whispered nothing more than “a Dhia dhílis!” She dragged herself into the pool just as her arms fused to her side, her hands becoming little fins at her hips. With a violent flap of her tail, she splashed into the water and sank.

Listlessly, she descended; the water was cold around her. She found her new muscles with her mind and wriggled her body down into the depths. She tried to swim slowly. Several times a rock bruised her in the uneven shaft. She never knew if she was in danger of getting wedged in the cave or if she was in wide open water, visible to all that lurked in the depths.

So troubled, she failed to hold a shout in her lips, and for a brief moment, saw the shout around her, illuminating all the walls with a springy sound. She was near the bottom of the cave, in the final corridor where the fish swam in and the fish swam out. In terror, she slipped outside with a jerk of her tail and broke into a flying sprint. Water streamed along her body, and she opened her eyes to see shafts of green and blue light shimmering from the sky. She laughed and shouted again, becoming aware of thousands of salmon, swarming like a slow hurricane around her. Pelt flapped at her side as an otter, peering at the salmon with a greedy eye. Glancing back at her own body, Liban saw that she wasn’t entirely turned into a fish, but only half-changed— the Creator’s first mermaid.

For three hundred years, Liban swam with the salmon and her otter, Pelt. She returned to the castle of her father, now empty and poked through with holes. She breached the surface of Lough Neagh, and investigated its coastline, all busy with fishermen. She swam down the River of Rushes, Sixmilewater, to the Bay of Belfast, and out from there into the wide ocean. She had many adventures, visiting all the wonders of the earth: flying islands, creatures that spin around under their skin, and lonely hermits, each stranded on his little rock surrounded by miles of ocean.

Meanwhile, the Christians came to Ireland. They were austere and crazy for their love of God: they crept into the hollows of cliffs, living stooped and naked on the edge of the spitting sea, or sank themselves into cold forest waters and prayed. They were desert ascetics in a lush, green country, and they converted the people by their exuberance and by the purity of the sound of bells.

It was in this time that Comgall built his monastery at Bangor, restraining monastic excesses with rule and order. There, the whip of self-discipline was constrained by Roman bureaucrats. Sometimes, however, controversies broke out over the interpretation of the rules, and Comgall sent emissaries to Rome for clarification. On one such occasion, Comgall sent Beoc.

When he was out on the sea with twelve companions, cramped in a boat made from a layer of ox hide, he and his company heard the sounds of angels. Or rather, while they thought it was angels, it was actually Liban singing under the sea. As soon as Beoc realized that the music was coming from below, he plunged his head over the side of the boat and shouted in the bubbling water, “Who’s there?”

Far off, a little head poked through the waves: it was Liban, her hair drenched and sticking to her face. The men in the boat became restless and shuffled to the other side. Only Beoc spoke. “Who are you?”

Liban swam nearer, tiny and rolling up and down on the swarming water. “I am Liban,” she called out, spitting hair from her mouth. “The daughter of Eochaid, son of Marid MacCarido. It was my song you heard, not that of angels.”

Beoc and his company could see that this was not a drowning woman, but something supernatural. “Why have you come to us?”

“I have lived three hundred years beneath the sea!” She swam a little closer. “And I have come here to fix a day and place of meeting with you. Go to Rome. When you return, bring Comgall and all the saints of Bangor to the mouth of the Larne River, one year hence, where you will meet me and draw me from the sea. Do not miss it for the sake of all the saints!”

“I— I won’t do it,” replied Beoc, leaning over the edge of the boat, his companions tugging at his robes. “Unless you grant me a reward.”

Liban threw her head back in laughter. “What do you seek?”

“For you to be buried with me in my own monastery.”

She laughed again and said, “It will be granted!” She swung around and plunged into the water, drenching Beoc with a clap of her tail.

Beoc and his companions continued in their little boat to Italy, and from there traveled on foot to Rome. The ancient city, filled with wonders of marble beyond imagining, held no amazement for Beoc, so distracted was he by Liban’s appearance. He brought his brothers’ complaints to an officer of the pope, had a brief audience, and all was settled in a perfunctory way: sleeping in brambles was to be limited to no more than three times a week, and should in no way be a source of boasting, but purely for focusing the mind on God. With a stamped letter to this effect, Beoc left Rome sooner than his friends wished.

On his return to Bangor, Beoc immediately informed Comgall of his vision, and a year later to the day, the mouth of the Larne Water was filled with fishing boats of all kinds. This river delta was so full that the boats tapped and bumped as they bobbed on the waves, like a sink full of saucers. Suddenly a great cry rose up from Fergus of Miluc and his friends, as they pulled aboard a huge salmon with the head, shoulders, and breast of a young woman.

For her comfort, they half-filled their boat with water, so that she could swim around as they pulled to shore in the midst of a crowd. Liban’s lap-dog was also swimming about, greatly enjoying the excitement. In the crowd were many monks from Bangor, but also villagers of the Chonaing clan and its chief. This war-champion noticed Liban eyeing him intently, and asked her why.

“It is your cloak,” she replied. He wore a purple mantle on his shoulders.

“Do you wish it? It is yours.”

“No— keep your cloak: it reminds me of my father. He wore a cloak like that.”

As she said this, another warrior leapt like a bird from post to post along the dock and hurled his spear at Liban. She thrashed to avoid it; the spear struck her otter instead, pinning him to the inside of the boat, killing him. When she realized what had happened, she cried in anguish, “Curse you!” and the warrior fell from his perch. “Your heroism will be stained by the baseness of your mind! You and all your clan!” She spat. “You will have no victories!” She grieved for her little otter, and all who were present were moved to grieve with her. Ashamed, she added, “Until you do penance. By fasting, at my shrine.” With that, the fallen warrior genuflected, and so did all present.

That night, a fight broke out over the mermaid. Early in Christian history, saints were not simply thought to be good for the world in an abstract sense, but were roughly sought by the common folk. John Cassian, for instance, only lived on top of a tall pole because when he lived in a cage, he was beleaguered by grabbing hands. This is the spirit in which Comgall, Beoc, and Fergus, the fisherman who drew Liban in from the sea, argued over her, to whom she belonged.

It was a brawl for holiness, so when they all caught their breath, they agreed that it should be settled by prayer. The three fasted and prayed before an altar, and waited until an angel appeared before them. The angel prophesied that two white stags would come charging from Lough Neagh. These should be yoked to a cart, and they will carry Liban to the house of the one the Lord chooses.

The next morning, a white mist rose up from the water, and all the village was stilled. Down-river from the mound of Airu came two oxen, so white that no one doubted these were the stags of the angel’s prophesy. They yoked the oxen to a cart, sealed the inside with skins and filled it with water. Four fishwives carried Liban on their shoulders amid children whispering in the fog, and slid her into the rolling tub. The oxen tugged and drew the cart, spilling water, before Liban was most of the way in. The whole village and the monks of Bangor followed it into open countryside, until it was clear that the procession was heading in the direction of Beoc’s country. Some followed him a little ways, but eventually all returned home.

Inside the chapel of Tec-da-Beoc, a white beehive of stacked stones, it is cool like a basement. Liban awaits her baptism, a tiny sprinkling from a clamshell, she on her side, fins almost touching in prayer. Beoc sees that she has a choice: to live on earth another three hundred years, and go to heaven, or to die immediately and go to heaven. Liban dies. The door opens, and she is received before God.