By the Gods!

Saint Christopher

Alright, friends: hearken to the tale of Saint Christopher, the patron saint of the traveler! As it happens, I’m heading out on a trip to the UK and France for a few weeks as of tomorrow, and I hereby invoke the power of all mythic figures associated with brave pilgrims such as myself.

Back to Christopher. Born in Canaan (according to Western accounts) in the 3^rd century CE, Christopher was a mammoth of a man. Almost 7 feet tall and built like a tank, Christopher served the Caananite King as #1 hired muscle. After seeing the king in a few moments of weakness, Christopher decided that only the greatest king there was was worthy of his services, so he decided to bounce out of Canaan. He found a king who called himself the greatest (unnamed in the story), but this king kept crossing himself out of fear of the Devil.

“Now hold on a second,” Christopher thought aloud, “if you’re afraid of the Devil, that means he’s greater than you! I’m gonna go work for that guy!” And so he set out to give Satan his resume. Eventually Christopher stumbled upon some bandits, and their leader referred to himself as “the Devil.” Not being one worried about checking sources, Christopher took this boast at face value, and took up employment with desert-bandit-satan. The problem with this boss, as it turned out for Christopher, was the he was constantly avoiding any wayside crosses. Since the devil was evidently afraid of Christ, Christopher made the decision to serve the good ol’ King of Kings, Christ himself.

Now, Jesus having died some centuries before, Christopher asked a hermit-priest how he could best serve his Lord. The priest suggested prayer and fasting, which Christopher thought was a lame suggestion and refused to do. Taking note of his immense size and rippling muscles, the priest told Christopher to help the puny people in the area to cross a particularly deep river by carrying them across.

For a while Christopher worked as the ferryman-hulk, and then a little child asked him for passage across the river. As soon as the kid clambered up on his back, Christopher almost buckled under his deceptively crushing mass. Staggering to stand with the child on his back, Christopher slowly grunted to the river, and made his way across the water, his muscles screaming the whole way. As the infinitely heavy child dismounted, Christopher said “You almost killed me with your girth, kid. Not cool.” The child replied “You had on your shoulders not only the whole world but Him who made it. I am Christ your king, whom you are serving by this work.” The magic baby then disappeared in a flash, and Christopher was left with the greatest bar story to tell his friends in the history of the universe.

A little later, a king ordered him to be killed for not shutting up about it. Bad luck for river-hulk.

Phooka

Original art by myself, influenced by the work of Brian Froud. :)

The Phooka is an Irish demon. It takes many forms and demi-forms. The most common are that of a horse, a goat, an eagle and a cow with long horns. The Phooka tricks weary travellers into accepting an invitation of a ride. Once upon the back of a Phooka, the rider is taken on a wild ride through the countryside until the Phooka dumps the rider into a marsh into a ditch. The sound of manic laughter afterwards is the laughter of the Phooka as it runs away.

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The Children of Lir

An Irish Legend

There once was a man called Lir, who was happily married with three children. The eldest a girl and the two youngest boys. He loved his family with all his heart until one day, his wife passed away. Horrified at the thought of his children living without a mother, Lir married a beautiful woman named Aoife.

Aoife was terribly jealous of her new husband’s love for his children as he adored them far more than he did her. Consumed by jealousy, she ordered one of the servants to kill the children. When he refused, she used her magic instead to turn them into swans.

The children were doomed to wander until the spell could be broken if they were blessed by a monk. To stay together, their father fashioned a gold chain to fit around all three of their necks so they would not be tossed apart on the raging waters. They spent 300 years on Lough Derravaragh, 300 years in the Sea of Moyle and 300 years in Irrus Domnann Erris.

Eventually, the swans were found by monks belonging to a monastery on an island. They blessed the swans and they changed back into humans, but being 900 years old, they were withered and ancient. They three were buried together, the gold chain still linking their necks.

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The Cŵn Annwn, found in ancient Welsh folklore, were spectral hounds thought to be associated the Annwn, the Otherworld of Welsh folklore. Annwn was, unlike most modern Otherworld myths, a land of delights and eternal youth beyond the imagination of mortal man. 

The hounds were supposed to hunt only on specific nights of the year, roaming the Welsh countryside in packs. It was said that the hounds were louder at a distance, their growling and howling fading as the neared their target. At the moment they were no longer audible, it was said that your death was a certainty. 

(I would humbly suggest to the reader that they make no attempt to pronounce the Welsh words here. It’s just embarrassing for everyone involved.)

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The Churning of the Ocean

In Indian mythology, the demons were older than their half-brothers, the Gods. 

The Gods and the Demons knew that they could gain the Amrit, the Water of Life, if they churned up one of the seven oceans that, ring beyond ring, encircles the worlds. They came down to the Ocean of Milk. They took the Mountain Mandara for a churning-pole and the hundred-headed serpent Vasuki for a churning-rope.

For a thousand years the Gods and the demons churned the Ocean of Milk. All the time Vasuki, the serpent, from his hundred heads spat venom. The venom bit into the rocks and broke them up; it flowed down, destroying the worlds of Gods and men. Then all creation would have been destroyed in that flood of venom if it had not been for the act of Shiva

Shiva took up the venom in a cup and drank it. His throat became blue with that draught of bitterness. 

Still they churned. 

And then there appeared the sage Dhanvantri, and in his hands was the cup that held the Amrit, the Water of Life. The demons strove to seize it. They almost overpowered the Gods in their efforts to seize the Amrit. Then Vishnu changed himself into a ravishing form; he seemed to be the loveliest of the nymphs of Heaven. The demons went towards where the seeming nymph postured for them. Even as they fought amongst each other for the maiden, the Gods took the cup, and, sharing it, they drank  the Amrit.

And now they were filled with such vigour that the demons could not overpower them. Many they drove down into hell. That was the beginning of the wars between the Gods and the Demons…wars that went on for ages.

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The Salmon of Knowledge - An Irish Legend

A young lad named Fionn (pronounced Fyun) was a promising youth. After his father died, his mother brought him to a poet named Finnegas to learn all he could so that in time, he could join the Fianna. The Fianna was a band of Irish warriors. But in order to join, a man needed to have wisdom and a wide knowledge of poetry, art and history.

Finnegas taught Fionn all he knew and the lad grew to be a fine young man. One thing that Finnegas talked about often was the myth of the salmon of knowledge. The salmon of knowledge was a fish that swam through the rivers of Ireland, the myth went that anyone who ate the salmon would gain all the wisdom of the world. Finnegas often sat by the river outside the hut where he and Fionn lived, fishing in hope to catch the salmon.

One day, Fionn heard Finnegas calling him from outside, running to the river, he saw that Finnegas had caught none other than the salmon of knowledge! Finnegas instructed the boy to cook it for him to eat, but warned him not to taste the fish at all, or he would gain the wisdom. Fionn did as he was told and began cooking the fish over a crude fire. he watched it carefully so as not to burn it. Suddenly, a bubble rose on the fish’s skin. Reaching out, Fionn burst it with his thumb. The bubble popped and burned his finger. Instinctively, Fionn stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked it to soothe the burn.

When Finnegas saw what the boy had done, he grew very sad that he would never gain all the wisdom of the world, but was cheered at the thoguht that Fionn would be the greatest warrior the Fianna had ever known.

Fionn grew to be the leader of the Fianna. It is said that they sleep in a cave beneath Dublin and will rise when Ireland is in his greatest need. Their coming will be alerted by the sound of his hunting horn.

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Beowulf vs. Grendel’s Mother

The celebration of Beowulf’s victory against Grendel was like an Anglo-Saxon rock star: it partied incredibly hard and died young.

The very next night, after Hrothgar’s people and Beowulf’s thanes went to sleep in Herot, Grendel’s mother crept in and slaughtered a good portion of the partygoers. After all the rewards that had been heaped on Beowulf for slaying Grendel, he felt obligated to help Hrothgar again, and in the morning everyone who could hold a sword set out to track Grendel’s mother to her lair.

Beowulf and the Geats and Hrothgar and his Danes followed her tracks to the water, frothing red with blood, and filled to the brim with monsters. Hrothgar himself shot and killed one aquatic-beast with an arrow, but no one was especially eager to follow Grendel’s mother into her wet home. Luckily, “bloody and full of monsters” is exactly how Beowulf gets his bath-time on. In he jumped, thrashing about with an ancestral sword lent him by one of Hrothgar’s men. His armour protected him from the claws and tusks of the sea-beasts, but once Grendel’s mother grappled him and dragged him into her own monstrous hall the game changed entirely; the gifted sword broke against her magic hide, and she hit him hard enough to send the hero sprawling. 

From his new vantage point on the ground, Beowulf spotted a magic sword among the hoarded treasure splayed around the hall. Lose one enchanted blade, find another; the universe never closes a door without opening a window, I guess. It was an ancient sword of the Eotens (giants) that Beowulf managed to lift with his vast strength, and in one mighty swing he finished the fight by decapitating his foe. His blade melted like ice under her corrupted blood, so Beowulf returned victorious with her head as his only trophy. In fact, it was a two-for-one head sale that day: the corpse of Grendel had been displayed by the late Grendel’s Mom in her cavernous abode as an attempt to brighten up the place, and it was just begging to have its head removed.

So finally, up comes Beowulf after nine hours to at last celebrate his victory and the safety of the Danes. There aren’t words in the English language to accurately describe how much mead was consumed that night, but most scholars estimate is was close to “a buttload.”