Episode 60 – Brain Food – Myths Your Teacher Hated

Episode 60 Show Notes

Source: Celtic Mythology

This week on MYTH, we’ll celebrate the luck of the Irish in a more authentic way than green beer. You’ll discover why salmon is good for you, why you should never play sports, and why druids make bad fathers. Then, in Gods and Monsters, you’ll meet the mischievous inspiration behind Shakespeare’s most famous trickster. This is the Myths Your Teacher Hated podcast, where I tell the stories of cultures from around the world in all of their original, bloody, uncensored glory. Modern tellings of these stories have become dry and dusty, but I’ll be trying to breathe new life into them. This is Episode 60, “Brain Food”. As always, this episode is not safe for work.
Saint Patrick’s Day is just behind us, so it seemed like a good time to go back to the Emerald Isle (although they don’t really give much of a fuck about Saint Patrick there from what I understand). So instead of talking about that asshole, we’re going to talk about a well-loved story from Celtic mythology – Fionn Mac Cumhaill and the Salmon of Knowledge.
Fionn Mac Cumhaill (Finn McCool) is a mythical warrior/hunter from Celtic mythology of both Ireland and Scotland. He has an entire cycle of tales known as the Fenian Cycle (with a Celtic name that I’m not even going to try to butcher), and today’s story is just a piece of this larger epic.
Finn’s father, known as Great Cumhaill, was the head of Clan Bascna and the leader of Fianna, a group of small, semi-independent warrior bands. He had fallen in love with Muirne, the daughter of a Druid named Tadg mac Nuadat who lived on the Hill of Allen, in County Kildare. Muirne loved the warrior in return, but her father did not, and he refused to grant his permission for Cumhaill to marry his daughter. With the impetuous ‘fuck the world’ attitutude of youth, the couple decided to run away together and elope in spite of the old man. The druid was, naturally, furious at being disobeyed and refused to let such a thing happen without consequence. As soon as he got word of what had happened, he raced to see King Conn of the Hundred Battles, who raised a small army of chiefs and soldiers from Clan Morna to take Muirne back from Cumhaill and Clan Bascna by force.
The two clans met at Cnucha, near Castleknock and braced for battle. Cumhaill and his warriors fought bravely, but they were severely outnumbered by the king’s forces and were eventually overwhelmed, and Cumhaill died a hero’s death in battle, slain by Goll mac Morna. In honor of his victory over Cumhaill, Goll, the leader of Clan Morna was given the honor of taking his place as leader of Fianna. The tragic news soon reached his young widow, and Muirne fled back to her father’s castle on the Hill of Allen. Tadg was still furious with his errant daughter for defying his will, and he refused to allow her inside, instead banishing her from his home and ordering his men to have her burnt alive for her crime of thinking for herself.
Afraid, alone, and newly pregnant, Muirne turned to the only other person she could think of who might grant her refuge – the king, Conn, who had never had anything against her personally and had only raised the army in the first place to keep her powerful father happy (and who didn’t particularly want to see a young woman burned alive for no good reason). Taking pity on the poor girl, Conn agreed to let her stay in his castle. She soon gave birth to a bouncing baby boy and called him Deimne, which translates to ‘certainty’, but is also used to mean a young buck. Muirne knew that the son of the Great Cumhaill would always be seen as a threat (and she didn’t know if the king would have been as merciful if he’d known she was with child), so she sent the baby away to be raised by two of her closest and most trusted servants. These women knew how to survive in the wild, and agreed to raise the boy out beyond civilization where the daggers of jealous men couldn’t reach him so easily, hidden in a house made of branches and mud.
As he grew to boyhood, Deimne’s diligent caretakers (the druidess Bodhmall and the warrior woman Liath Luachra) taught him the ways of the wild, and he became an unmatched hunter and tracker when he was still a wee boy. As he grew, Deimne also grew more and more bold and adventurous. One day, he wandered away into the forest on his own and followed a sound that was, to him, quite unusual – the sound of other children. Curious at this unusual event, he followed the sound to a clearing in the woods where a group of children were competing at hurling, a traditional Irish game somewhere between football and lacrosse.
Without waiting for an invitation, Deimne left the safety of the forest to join the game. Even though he had literally never played this particular game before in his life, he’d spent his entire life training his strength and agility, so he picked it up quite easily. Before long, he proved himself to be the strongest and fastest boy on the field beating all comers. Even when the group of boys all ganged together to take him on, he beat them all single-handedly, channeling his inner Bugs Bunny and playing all of the positions himself. Victory secured, Deimne fled back into the forest, leaving behind a very confused group of boys.
That evening when the boys returned home, they told their parents about the strange wild boy who had been so shockingly good at hurling. One of the boys happened to be the chieftain’s son. No one knew the boy’s name, so the chieftain called him Fionn, meaning ‘fair-haired’ (some stories say that his hair had gone white at a very young age, prompting the nickname). True to form as the son of the most powerful man in the clan, the chieftain’s son hated being shown up by a nobody like Fionn and was jealous of his strength and skill. The next day, as soon as Fionn appeared to join their game, the chieftain’s son rallied the other boys to band together and attack Fionn, chasing him out of the clearing and away from their game. When he came back to his secret home bloodied and beaten (though still defiant), his caretakers knew that they would need to leave this forest to keep him safe from Clan Morna.
They sent the boy south, where he traveled until he reached Kerry, where he sought refuge with the King of Bantry and tried to join the king’s warrior band in secret. Unfortunately, as soon as the king laid eyes on this strapping, white-haired young man, he knew him to be Cumhaill’s son. Afraid of drawing the anger of the powerful Clan Morna, who still hated Cumhaill and would definitely try to murder the shit out of his son as soon as they found out he existed, the king refused to allow him to stay. He knew that his forces were not nearly enough to fend off Morna’s army.
The young Fionn traveled to the courts of several of the local kings, trying to serve as a soldier at each clan, but each time he was recognized and turned away. Eventually, Fionn made his way to the home of his uncle, who agreed to take him in and raise him in secret. Fionn was given shelter and told stories of the might and honor of his father, and of the glory of Fianna, which he had led. Fionn drank the stories in, and soon vowed that he would honor his father’s memory by reclaiming his rightful place as the head of Fianna, which meant that he would have to fight and kill his father’s killer Goll mac Morna. Fionn was no fool, however, and he knew that, as strong and swift as he was, he was no match for Goll’s long experience as a warrior. He would need training.
His uncle knew of only one man who would be a proper teacher for Fionn mac Cumhaill and allow him to achieve his ambition – the legendary poet and sage Finn Eces (Finnegas). This wise old hermit, who may have been a druid, a leprechaun, both, or neither (not a lot is really known about him for sure), was said to be the wisest man in Ireland and to live in a humble shack by a rock pool on the River Boyne. He was a great poet, renowned for his ability to compose verse, but was also rumored to know the secrets of the bird and animals and plants and stars, and Fionn hoped the old man would be willing to share his wisdom with the young man.
The old man agreed to take the exiled chieftain’s son under his wing, training him in war, poetry, and the druidic arts in exchange for cooking, cleaning, and hunting for the old man. Old Finn Eces knew more than any other man alive, but that didn’t mean that he knew everything, and Fionn’s curiosity was fierce and boundless, and he grew frustrated whenever he crashed into the limits of his teacher’s knowledge and had no one else he could ask and so had to settle for frustrating ignorance. After his questions had been answered by a frustrating shrug one too many times, Fionn asked Finn Eces if there was a way to just know everything. He was being rhetorical, but even so, Finn Eces had an answer. He too had wondered a long time if there was a way to know the things that he hadn’t ever been able to learn for himself, and had spent a considerable amount of time researching the question.
He told Fionn a story, and there are two different versions of what that story was. The first is that a salmon living in the river had eaten nine nuts from each of nine magical hazel trees that stretched over the edge of the Well of Wisdom, and thus gained all the wisdom of the world. The second was more complicated, and heavily influenced by the arrival of Christianity. Long, long ago, in the distant past, a seer named Fintan mac Bochra had journeyed with the granddaughter of Noah (yes, that Noah), Cessair on an expedition to Ireland. It’s unclear if Bochra was actually his mother, or just a poetic reference to the sea (for reasons that will become clear shortly). He was one of only three men to set out on an expedition with 50 women. Cessair’s father Bith, the pilot Ladra, and Fintan himself each had sixteen wives apparently, which I guess is a good way to start a brand new population since there were no people in Ireland at that time (though this is definitely too small a population to be sustainable, but whatever).
In time, Ladra had left the group to find his own way, and Bith had died, leaving Fintan alone with Cessair and his many wives. Being kind of a selfish asshole, Fintan was so grief-stricken at losing the only two other men around that he abandoned all of his wives to go and live on his own. Quite reasonably, Cessair became deeply depressed at the double blow of losing her father and her husband one after the other and she died of heartbreak. While all of this was happening in Ireland, the Abrahamic God had decided to destroy the world in a great flood, but had saved Noah and his family, who were the only good people left in a wicked world. Warning Noah ahead of time of the coming deluge, Jehova ordered him to build a great ark and fill it with a pair of each kind of animal alive. Everyone else was drowned along with the earth itself, and that definitely includes the Irish expedition (since Cessair, Noah’s only descendant in the area, was already dead). Jehova took pity on Fintan, but he wasn’t quite a good enough person to be allowed to live as a man, so he was turned into a salmon, allowing him to survive the flood.
This man-turned-salmon then swam up into the River Boyne and found a pool to rest and, like in the simple version, ate the nine nuts from each of the nine magical hazel trees. Thus did the seer Fintan become the Salmon of Wisdom, an Bradan Feasa. There is plenty of reason to believe that the former, shorter version is the original one, and that the later story, connected to the Christian story of the great flood, simply became conflated with the older story of the Salmon of Wisdom (especially since some tales of the man who became a fish later claim he turned into an eagle and/or a hawk before becoming human again to become an advisor to the Irish kings and fight in the Battle of Magh Tuiredh) Whichever version you prefer, the end result is the same. Stories soon spread of the Salmon of Wisdom (also known as the Salmon of Knowledge, along with a prophecy that the first man to catch and eat the Salmon would acquire all of the knowledge and wisdom currently imbued in this magical fish. Finn Eces had long ago vowed that he would be that man.
He had moved here, along the River Boyne, specifically to try and catch the salmon in fact. As you might suspect, a salmon with all the wisdom of the world was incredibly hard to actually catch, and Finn Eces had been trying for seven years now using all of the skills and tricks he had acquired in his long life, but so far he’d had no luck. The red-speckled fish was slippery, pun very much intended. Every day, without fail, Finn Eces cast his line into the river until one day, after he had been teaching Fionn for some time, he managed to hook a massive red-speckled salmon. From the glint of wisdom and fear in the fish’s eyes, the old druid knew that he had finally caught the Salmon of Wisdom!
Overjoyed, Finn Eces carried the fish back to his home and handed it to Fionn mac Cumhaill with instructions to cook the fish but, under no circumstances, to eat a single bite until his teacher returned. He honestly would have preferred to cook the fish himself, but the mighty salmon had put up one hell of a fight, and Finn Eces was a long way from being a young man. He was exhausted, and feared he would fall asleep while cooking and burn the fish, losing his one and only shot at becoming the wisest man ever.
Fionn swore to obey his teacher’s instructions, and Finn Eces knew him to be a man of honor, so he went to his bed without worry and dreamt of the glory that would await him when he awoke and ate the fish at long last. He was positively giddy at how close his dream was to finally becoming a reality, and he slept like a baby. In the meantime, Fionn gathered firewood, stuck the fish on a wooden skewer, and began to turn it slowly on the spit to roast the fish nice and even.
Soon, the entire clearing smelled deliciously of cooking fish. Fionn’s stomach rumbled, but true to his word, he restrained himself. The fish was just about done cooking, so he stepped away from the fire for a moment to wake his teacher and summon him for his supper. When he returned, he reached out to turn the spit a few more times and burned his thumb on a small droplet of burning fat from the cooked fish. If you remember the Welsh tale of Ceridwin and Taliesin from Episode 30, you already know where this is going. Without thinking, Fionn stuck his burnt thumb in his mouth to cool it off and ease the pain.
About this time, Finn Eces sat down at the fire and looked with relish at the fragrant fish placed before him. He smiled expectantly at his student, but his smile faded as he looked into the young man’s eyes. “Did you eat the fish, Fionn?” The fair-haired man shook his head emphatically. “Of course not, Finn Eces. I promised that I wouldn’t, and I keep my promises.” Finn Eces eyed the man suspiciously. “Come on, my boy, be honest with me. Did you have a little nibble?” Fionn again shook his head. “Absolutely not! I mean, I burned my thumb on some grease that spattered from the fish as I was cooking, and I stuck it in my mouth out of reflex, but I didn’t eat a single bite of the fish!”
Finn Eces sighed heavily. His suspicions had been confirmed, although he believed his young pupil’s story and knew that he had never intended to disobey. Clearly, fate had never intended for Finn Eces to become the wisest man in the world – that honor had been reserved for young Fionn mac Cumhaill. He had absorbed the eternal wisdom of the Salmon of Knowledge through a total accident that the old druid suspected had been meant to be. Clearly, this young man was destined for great things. And so he is, for Fionn mac Cumhaill would go on to live a life of adventure, and his shadow on the legendary history of Ireland would be long. We’ll have to come back to Fionn mac Cumhaill and his quest for revenge some other time though, because it’s time for Gods and Monsters. This is a segment where I get into a little more detail about the personalities and history of one of the gods or monsters from this week’s pantheon that was not discussed in the main story. This week’s monster is the pooka.
The pooka is one of the seemingly endless variety of fairies, fae, and wee folk from Celtic lore. Like many of its brethren, the pooka could be a bringer of good fortune or ill depending on how it was treated and it’s own capricious whims. Pookas are shapeshifting tricksters, typically appearing in the forms of horses, goats, cats, dogs, and rabbits, and even in human form at times, though typically with some animal feature to give the game away (such as horse’s ears or a cat’s tail). Some areas instead say the pooka is a twisted little goblin or a monstrous boogeyman. The most common form for the pooka, however, is a dark, sleek horse with a flowing mane and fiery red eyes (though some stories say they are a luminescent gold or sulphurous yellow instead), sometimes draped in chains.
Pookas tend to be rural spirits, and usually come only at night. They are one of the more feared spirits in the countryside because of their delight in mischief and mayhem. One of the most common tales of the pooka involves copious amounts of whiskey and beer (because it wouldn’t be Saint Patrick’s Day without someone getting blind drunk and doing something stupid). Picture this: you’ve been in the pub all night throwing pack pints of ale and shots of whiskey. The bartender kicks your ass out for being far too drunk, so now you have to find some way to stumble home. Your legs aren’t the most reliable form of transport right now, so getting all the way there seems an impossible task. Just then, you hear a voice in the darkness calling your name and offering you a ride home. Being drunk, you don’t question your good fortune. You follow the voice to a sleek black stallion waiting patiently in the night. It’s weird how the light is shining in the creature’s eyes, but you decide not to worry about it too much – you’re probably just imagining things. You’re not sure where the owner of the mysterious voice went either, but thinking right now makes your head spin.
You hop on the horse’s back and, for the first time, notice the odd chains wrapped around its body. Oh shit – you’re about to go for pooka’s wild ride. You know that you should climb back down, but before the thought can penetrate your booze-soaked brain, the horse is already racing off at a gallop, and you’re clinging on for dear life. If you fall off at this speed, you’ll break your damned fool neck and get yourself killed. The pooka (because you realize now what you’re riding) laughs in a disturbingly human way, then asks if you want to see something cool. You don’t but the pooka just laughs and runs faster. You scream in terror as the fairy horse starts to make death-defying leaps over rocks, hedges, rivers, anything it can find. It tears through fields and tramples fences, and you cling on to its back hoping against hope that you can survive the night. Finally, just as the light of dawn begins to brighten the horizon, the horse drops you back off where it first picked you up, dumping you unceremoniously from its back. You’re exhausted, shaking, and probably covered in some of your own vomit, but you’re alive and mostly unharmed (though your neighbors are probably going to have something to say about your swath of destruction).
As we’ve seen, the pooka is cunning and clever and capable of human speech. Indeed, pookas are known to be quite chatty, fond of shooting the shit with random passers by. If you’re lucky, you might get some good advice or even a prophecy or two (although many tales consider the pooka to be an ill omen, so that’s not always a good thing). Some homes in the rural parts of Ireland may have a bench on the right side of the main door or the gate post, and some sort of rock or other obstacle on the left since lore holds that helpful pookas will always sit on the right while vicious one prefer the left.
Some places even consider November 1, the day after Samhain (or Halloween for us heathens), to be Pooka’s day, a day which would traditionally coincide with the harvest. Custom says that, when bringing in the wheat from the fields, you must leave a few stalks behind, known as the pooka’s share, lest you incur its wrath. One sign of such wrath can be berries that have been killed overnight by the frost, which you should never ever eat – the pooka has probably spit on them, which is gross, and this could make them poisonous, which is dangerous.
The most famous pooka is probably Puck from Shakespeare’s A MIdsummer Night’s Dream, though the 6 foot 3 and half inch tall (counting the ears) rabbit from the 1950 Jimmy Stewart film Harvey is probably a close second. So if you find yourself talking to Mr Ed (who I think might be a secret pooka), don’t let him convince you to hop on his back unless you want to become a daredevil equestrian.
That’s it for this episode of Myths Your Teacher Hated. Keep up with new episodes on our Facebook page, on iTunes, on Stitcher, on TuneIn, and on Spotify, or you can follow us on Twitter as @HardcoreMyth and on Instagram as Myths Your Teacher Hated Pod. You can also find news and episodes on our website at myths your teacher hated dot com. If you have any questions, any gods or monsters you’d want to learn about, or any ideas for future stories that you’d like to hear, feel free to drop me a line. I’m trying to pull as much material from as many different cultures as possible, but there are all sorts of stories I’ve never heard, so suggestions are appreciated. The theme music is by Tiny Cheese Puff, whom you can find on fiverr.com.
Next time, it’ll be two different dancing stories from the inimitable Hans Christian Andersen. You see that new shoes are bad for you, that paintings can be very judgmental, and that you should never trust a redhead. Then, in Gods and Monsters, you’ll see that toy soldiers are unlucky in love. That’s all for now. Thanks for listening.