THE fisherman of Cairill, the King of Ulster, took me in his net. Ah,
that was a happy man when he saw me! He shouted for joy when he saw the
great salmon in his net.
“I was still in the water as he hauled delicately. I was still in the
water as he pulled me to the bank. My nose touched air and spun from it as
from fire, and I dived with all my might against the bottom of the net,
holding yet to the water, loving it, mad with terror that I must quit that
loveliness. But the net held and I came up.
“‘Be quiet, King of the River,’ said the fisherman, ‘give in to Doom,’
said he.
“I was in air, and it was as though I were in fire. The air pressed on me
like a fiery mountain. It beat on my scales and scorched them. It rushed
down my throat and scalded me. It weighed on me and squeezed me, so that
my eyes felt as though they must burst from my head, my head as though it
would leap from my body, and my body as though it would swell and expand
and fly in a thousand pieces.
“The light blinded me, the heat tormented me, the dry air made me shrivel
and gasp; and, as he lay on the grass, the great salmon whirled his
desperate nose once more to the river, and leaped, leaped, leaped, even
under the mountain of air. He could leap upwards, but not forwards, and
yet he leaped, for in each rise he could see the twinkling waves, the
rippling and curling waters.
“‘Be at ease, O King,’ said the fisherman. ‘Be at rest, my beloved. Let go
the stream. Let the oozy marge be forgotten, and the sandy bed where the
shades dance all in green and gloom, and the brown flood sings along.’
“And as he carried me to the palace he sang a song of the river, and a
song of Doom, and a song in praise of the King of the Waters.
“When the king’s wife saw me she desired me. I was put over a fire and
roasted, and she ate me. And when time passed she gave birth to me, and I
was her son and the son of Cairill the king. I remember warmth and
darkness and movement and unseen sounds. All that happened I remember,
from the time I was on the gridiron until the time I was born. I forget
nothing of these things.”
“And now,” said Finnian, “you will be born again, for I shall baptize you
into the family of the Living God.” —— So far the story of
Tuan, the son of Cairill.
No man knows if he died in those distant ages when Finnian was Abbot of
Moville, or if he still keeps his fort in Ulster, watching all things, and
remembering them for the glory of God and the honour of Ireland.
