The giants were building a causeway from Ireland over to Scotland. A great bridge it was to be: thousands of piles sunk in the sea, and over them such a road as would take ten giants abreast. All the giants in Ulster were working to make it, and Fin M’Coul was the head of them all. Whack, whack, whack! went their sledges pounding the piles; and roar, roar, roar! came Fin’s big voice telling how to place them.

Up came a little lad running. “Fin M’Coul! Fin M’Coul!” cried he. “The great Scotch giant Cucullin’s looking for you. He says he’s come to beat you; he says he’s come to treat you as he’s done every other giant in Ireland!”

At that there was not a giant but dropped his sledge. Some felt of their heads, some felt of their jaws, some felt of their backs, and some, of their ribs. Every one put his hand to the spot where Cucullin had touched him last. For the truth of it was, Cucullin was a terror and there was not a giant could stand before him. When he stamped his foot, he shook the whole county. In his pocket he carried a thunderbolt which he had flattened to a pancake with one blow of his fist. Many were the times he had come before, looking for Fin; but always it had happened that Fin was away, seeing after his affairs in some distant part of the country.

But Fin was the best fighter in Ireland and not the man to be frightened before his friends. So, though his knees set up a kind of swaying beneath him, he called out to the little lad in a voice to shake the whole township.

“And what is the Scotchman waiting for?” roared he. “Tell him here is Fin, ready this long time to thrash him,—although,” he added easily, “if it’s not hurrying he is, he may not find me here. For the truth of it is, I was just about to be starting to see my wife Oonagh on the top of Knockmany Hill. And fight or no fight, it’s there I must be going, for she’ll be ailing, poor woman, and low in her spirits, all for the want of her Fin.”

Now, Fin was not one to be slow in anything he had made up his mind to. So hardly were the words from his mouth when it was down with his sledge, up with his heels and off with him over the hills to Knockmany. At first it was a long, swinging step he took, with a stout fir-tree as a walking-stick. But the farther and farther from the Causeway he went, the faster and faster his legs began to move, until after all he was going not so much at a walk as a run.

Of all the hills in Ireland, the chilliest and windiest was Knockmany where Fin lived. Day or night, winter or summer, it was never without a breeze; and besides that, from top to bottom was never a drop of water. But little did that trouble Fin. “Why,” he would say, “ever since I was the height of a round tower, I was fond of a good prospect of my own. And where should I find a better than the top of Knockmany Hill?”

There were some who said though, that it was not so much the view itself that Fin liked as it was to be able to see when Cucullin was coming to visit him. For then he could be off in time on his distant travels across the country.

Be that as it may have been, there was no doubt now but Fin was glad to be at home again. There was his darling Oonagh waiting for him at the tiptop of the hill; and the smack they gave each other made the waters of the lake below curl with kindness and sympathy.

“But what brought you home so soon?” said Oonagh.

“And what should it have been,” cried Fin, “but affection for yourself?”

But Oonagh, who always had her wits about her, soon saw that something was troubling her good man. For it was nothing but into the house and out again, across the hill and back, looking and peering, looking and peering for something he didn’t seem altogether wishful to see.

Oonagh watched him for a while. Then, “Is there some one you’re expecting, Fin?” said she.

Now, Fin knew very well that Oonagh would have it out of him sooner or later. So he lost no time. “It’s that Cucullin,” roared he, “that earthquaker, that thunderbolt-flattener! He’ll be coming here to beat me; he’ll be coming here to treat me as—”

A pause came on Fin. Not a word more did he say; but into his mouth went his great thumb. It was a rare quality Fin’s thumb had that when he stuck it between his teeth it could tell him of the future.

“Thundering pancakes!” howled Fin. “He’s coming now! He’s down below Dungannon. My thumb tells me.”

“Well,” said Oonagh, keeping on with some knitting she had, “what if he is?”

“What if he is!” echoed Fin. “What if he is! So you’d sit there, would you, and never raise your eyes to see your good man made pulp before you! Cucullin’s coming, I tell you, that can knock a thunderbolt flat as a pancake; and I can’t be running away.”

“Well, well,” said Oonagh, “we might be stopping him a bit.” So she got up and turned toward Cullamore.

Now, Cullamore was where her sister Granua lived,—a hill, four miles across the valley, the twin of Knockmany. Many a pleasant chat Oonagh and Granua had together of summer evenings, one sitting outside her door on Knockmany, the other on Cullamore. For Granua was as ready-witted as Oonagh herself, and something of a fairy as well.

“Granua,” called Oonagh, “are you at home?”

“No,” answered Granua, “I’m down in the valley picking bilberries.”

“Well, go up on top of Cullamore,” said Oonagh, “and tell me what you see.”

“Now I’m up,” said Granua; “and down below Dungannon I see a giant, the biggest I ever saw.”

“That’s what I was expecting,” said Oonagh. “That’s Cucullin on his way to Knockmany, coming up to beat Fin.”

“Would you want me to be keeping him a while?” asked Granua. “I’ll be having a party of giants and giantesses this evening, and we could give him some entertainment maybe that would keep him over night, and quite away from your house till the morning.”

“If you would,” said Oonagh, “I’d thank you kindly.”

So Granua made a high smoke on her hill and whistled three times to show Cucullin that he was invited to Cullamore. For it was in that way the giants of old times told a traveler that he was welcome to come in and eat with them.

As for Oonagh, when she turned around, there was Fin shivering and shaking behind her.

“Thundering pancakes, Oonagh!” said he. “And what have you done but made everything ten times worse than it was before? If Cucullin is coming, I’d wish it would be now while I have some heart left to fight him. What with thinking it over all day and dreaming it over all night, I’ll have no more courage by morning than a boiled rabbit.”

“If I were you, Fin,” said Oonagh, “I’d not be saying much about courage. The best thing for you is to do as I tell you, and trust me to get you out of this scrape as I’ve pulled you through many before.”

So Fin said no word more, but sat down on the hill and pitched cliffs into the valley to steady his quaking limbs.

Oonagh went about her plans. First she worked a charm by drawing nine threads of nine different colors. For this she always did when she wanted to know how to succeed in anything important. Next she braided them in three braids of three colors each. One she put around her right arm; one around her right ankle; and one around her heart, for then she knew that she could not fail in anything she tried to do.

“Now, Fin,” said she, “will you kindly go to the neighbors’ for me and borrow one-and-twenty iron griddles, the largest and strongest you can get?”

Fin was glad enough of something to do, and hardly were the words from her mouth when off he was, down the hill and over the valley.

Oonagh went into the house and began kneading a great mountain of dough. Into two-and-twenty parts she divided it, each a great round cake the size of a mill-wheel. Scarcely was she done when back came Fin again, clattering and clanking loud enough to be heard ten miles beyond Cullamore. Seven griddles he had in one hand, seven in the other, and seven strung about him in a noisy necklace.

Oonagh took them all, and each she kneaded into the heart of one of her great dough-cakes. Over the fire she baked them and set them all upon the shelf,—two-and-twenty fine loaves of bread, one-and-twenty with griddles inside and one with no griddle at all.

Next morning she was up before daylight; and so for that matter was Fin, fidgeting and fuming, and keeping a sharp lookout down the valley. As for Oonagh, she went about smiling and humming to herself as if it were a May morning.

First she took a great pot of milk and made it into curds and whey. “Fin,” said she, “when Cucullin comes—.” And she told him what he must do with the curds.

“And now,” she said, “help me while I pull out the old cradle.”

With that she put her hand to a cradle the size of an ark, and taking two quilts an acre square began spreading them out and tucking them up inside.

“Don’t be standing about, Fin,” said she, “but go and dress yourself up like a bit of a boy.”

By that time Fin decided that she was daft entirely. But he did as she bid nevertheless, for the fact was he was at his wits’ end, and thought that since Cucullin was to make pulp of him at any rate, it did not much matter how he was dressed.

Up the valley came a roar like thunder. Fin’s house on the top of Knockmany trembled and the cradle inside rocked to and fro.

“That’ll be Cucullin singing to himself on his way up from Granua’s to beat Fin,” said Oonagh.

As for Fin, he turned as white as the childish clothes he was wearing, and trembled from top to toe.

“Not a minute to waste quaking and shaking!” cried Oonagh. “Into the cradle with you, Fin, and a stout heart inside you! Lie quiet now; never forget you’re but a child; and not a word out of you till you see it’s the time.”

Into the cradle clambered Fin, stumbling and grumbling and barking his shins. Oonagh tucked him in.

“Fold up your knees under your chin,” cautioned she. “Not a move now, or you’ll burst the cradle! Close up your eyes; put your thumb in your mouth like an innocent babe fast asleep. Quiet now, and leave Cucullin to me.”

Oonagh smoothed out her apron and patted her hair. Down on the doorstep she sat and began to knit, as cool and airy as the dawn on Knockmany.

Up the hill in three leaps came Cucullin. Such a giant Oonagh had never seen. Half again as tall as Fin he was, with muscles that stood out like small hills. But Oonagh was not one to let herself be surprised. So, while she saw all this beneath her eyelashes, she kept on with her knitting and pretended not to have noticed Cucullin at all.

“A fine morning!” roared Cucullin. “And might this be where Fin M’Coul lives?”

Oonagh looked up. “Indeed it is, my good man,” said she. “Won’t you be sitting?”

“Thank you kindly,” said Cucullin. “Is Fin at home?”

“The pity of it is, he’s not,” said Oonagh. “The fact is, he heard there was a big Scotch giant named Cucullin down at the Causeway looking for him; and nothing would do but off he must be over the hills to meet him. Indeed, for the poor giant’s sake, I hope Fin won’t find him. For with the temper Fin’s in, he’d make paste of him in no time.”

At that Cucullin threw back his great head as if it were some joke Oonagh had made. “Ho, ho, ho!” roared he. “Ho, ho, ho! Make paste of Cucullin, would he? Make paste of Cucullin! Why, why, why, my good woman, I’m Cucullin!”

Oonagh put down her knitting. “Can it be?” cried she. “You, Cucullin!” And with that she gave a clear laugh, as if he were but a wee bit of a man, hardly worth considering.

“Have you ever seen Fin?” asked she, all at once sobering down.

“Why, no,” said Cucullin, “thanks to all the trouble he’s taken to keep himself out of my way.”

Oonagh shook her head. “I thought as much,” said she. “I judged you could never have seen him, to speak as you did. And if you’re fond of your own skin, you’ll pray you may never. Not but what you’re a sturdy fellow of your size, but Fin—”

“Well, well,” cried Cucullin good-naturedly enough, “there’s been never a giant in Ireland could beat me yet. So, now I’ll be off to the Causeway to give Fin his chance.” And with that, up he got, laughing, and took one of his great strides down the hill.

Oonagh rose up too. “Begging your pardon, sir,” she said, “might I ask one favor before you go? The wind’s blowing in at the door, you see, and would you mind turning the house around for me?”

Cucullin stopped where he stood. “Turn the house!” cried he.

“Why, yes,” said Oonagh. “Turn it about, you know, so the wind won’t be blowing in at the door. It’s always what Fin does when he’s at home.”

“Indeed!” thought Cucullin to himself. “This Fin must be more of a lad than they’ve been telling me.” But never a word more did he say. Instead he pulled the middle finger of his right hand till it cracked three times. For it was from that finger all his strength came.

Up the hill he stepped, and putting his great arms around the house, gave a tug and a twist,—and there it was, faced about completely. Fin’s cradle, inside, banged back and forth; Oonagh’s great bread loaves bounced about; the dishes clattered. As for Fin himself, his breath left him entirely, and there he lay, tight squeezed in the cradle, gasping and spluttering, and quite blue with terror.

Cucullin turned to go down the hill again as if he had done nothing unusual at all. But Oonagh curtsied before him.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” said she. “And since you’re so obliging, maybe you’d do another civil turn for me. You see it’s a dry stretch of weather we’ve been having, and there’s scarcely a drop of water from here to Cullamore. But under the rocks hereabout, Fin says there’s a good spring-well; and he was just about to pull them apart to find it when along came the news that you were at the Causeway, and off he dashed. So here we are, still without water; and indeed if you’d take a minute to pull the rocks open for me, truly, I’d feel it a kindness.”

So, she led him to a place, all solid rock for a mile or so. “Now, here’s the spot,” said she.

Cucullin looked at it for a while without speaking. Then he cracked his middle finger nine times, and bending down, tore a cleft a quarter-mile long and four hundred feet deep.

When Oonagh saw that, her courage oozed down to the soles of her shoes. But she was never one to give up anything she had once decided. So, after a moment she said, “I’m much obliged to you, sir. And now, you’ll be coming back to the house with me to take a bite of such humble fare as I can give you.”

“Indeed,” replied Cucullin, mopping his large red brow, “that’s an invitation I’ll not be refusing. It’s warm work tearing up landscapes and moving houses, and I can’t say that I’m not hungry either.”

So into the house they went; and down before him Oonagh set a side or two of bacon, a mountain of cabbage, and ten or twelve loaves of the bread she had baked the day before.

Cucullin fell to with a will. He finished the bacon and cabbage, picked up a loaf of the bread, and took a huge bite of it. Down came his teeth on the griddle inside.

“Thundering pancakes!” roared he. “What’s this? Here are two of my best teeth out! You call that bread, do you? You call that bread!” And he stamped about the room, howling with fury.

“Indeed, I’m sorry, sir,” said Oonagh. “I should have told you. That’s Fin’s bread that nobody else can manage but himself and the child in the cradle there. I’d not have given it to you, but you seemed a stout little fellow; and indeed since you’re bound to fight Fin, I thought you’d be scorning anything but his own food, too. Here, try this loaf. Perhaps it’ll be softer.”

Cucullin was still hungry, and besides, he was a little touched in his pride by Oonagh’s remarks about Fin’s bread. So he took the new loaf she handed him, and jammed it into his mouth, meaning this time at any rate to get a good bite out of it. Down crashed his jaw on the iron again, and up he jumped roaring.

“Take it away! Take it away!” he bellowed, twice as loud as before. “I’ll not be losing my teeth for Fin’s bread or any other. What kind of jaw has Fin got to crack—”

“Hush! Hush!” cried Oonagh. “Whatever you do, don’t be waking the child in the cradle there.... Oh, indeed, it’s too bad! There he is awake now.”

All this time Fin had been lying cramped up in the cradle. Never a move did he make, except now and then a flicker of his eyelashes just to be peering out at Cucullin sitting and eating up his bacon at the table. A terrible sight it was too: Cucullin’s great fingers as big as trees, reaching, reaching; Cucullin’s great jaws as big as millstones, crushing, crushing. Fin shut his eyes in a hurry, and his heart froze up inside him to think of fighting a giant like that. But when he heard Cucullin howling over Oonagh’s griddle-bread, he couldn’t, even for the terror in him, help a kind of smile creeping across his face. And so, when Oonagh spoke of the baby’s waking, he let out a yell almost as loud as Cucullin’s own.

Cucullin himself stopped his dancing, and turned to see what kind of child it might be that could make a noise like that.

“Boohoo! Boohoo!” howled Fin. “I’m hungry.”

“There, there!” said Oonagh. “Quiet now, my little man. Here’s some bread for you.”

And with that she handed him the one loaf that had no griddle in it. And Fin, grasping it in both hands, ate it down greedily.

Cucullin stared and stared. He forgot his lost teeth entirely, for wonder that such a youngster could devour bread he himself could not even bite. “If the son that’s yet in the cradle can eat bread like that,” thought he, “what must the father be? It’s perhaps as well for me after all that Fin’s at the Causeway.”

“I’d like,” said he to Oonagh, “to have a glimpse of that lad in the cradle. A boy that can manage that bread must be something to look at, too.”

“Indeed you may see him,” said Oonagh. “Get up, darling, and show this good man something that’ll be worthy of your father, Fin M’Coul.”

At that Fin, who was cramped and aching from lying so long bent double, gave a leap, and bounced out, nearly bursting his cradle. Up to Cucullin he went, and seizing him by the hand, started out the door.

“Are you strong?” bellowed he. “Are you as strong as my daddy?”

“Thundering pancakes!” exclaimed Cucullin. “What a voice for a little chap!”

Fin picked up a big white stone. “Are you strong enough,” said he, “to squeeze water out of this?”

Cucullin clenched his hand over it. He squeezed and pressed, and pressed and squeezed till his face grew black and his eyes stood out. But never a drop of water fell from the great white stone. He might rip up rocks and turn houses but to squeeze water from a stone was quite beyond him.

“Would you let me try?” asked Fin.

Cucullin handed it to him. Turning a little, Fin exchanged it for the curds Oonagh had made for him. Then holding them up, he squeezed till the whey, as clear as water, showered down upon the ground.

Cucullin’s face turned white. His knees were knocking; his hands were shaking. “If the son’s like this, what must the father be! And suppose Fin should be coming home!” thought he.

Over to Oonagh he went. “Indeed, indeed, ma’am,” said he, “I thank you kindly for your welcome. It’s a fine, strong son you have. And it’s sorry I am I can’t be waiting to see Fin. But I’ve out-stayed my time already, and it’s back to Scotland I must be going before the tide rises in the Channel.”

And with never a good-by more, the terrible giant Cucullin turned and ran over hill, over dale, through wood, through wave. And never again did he show his face in Ireland.

As for Fin and Oonagh, they never got over laughing in their little house turned wrongside foremost on the top of Knockmany Hill.

—From a Celtic Folk-tale.

Based on Wm. Carleton’s “Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry.”