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- Herausgeber: Interactive Media
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
Mongan's Frenzy
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James Stephens
James Stephens
Mongan’s Frenzy
New Edition
LONDON ∙ NEW YORK ∙ TORONTO ∙ SAO PAULO ∙ MOSCOW
PARIS ∙ MADRID ∙ BERLIN ∙ ROME ∙ MEXICO CITY ∙ MUMBAI ∙ SEOUL ∙ DOHA
TOKYO ∙ SYDNEY ∙ CAPE TOWN ∙ AUCKLAND ∙ BEIJING
New Edition
Published by Sovereign Classic
www.sovereignclassic.net
This Edition
First published in 2017
Copyright © 2017 Sovereign
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN: 9781787242548
Contents
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER I
The abbot of the Monastery of Moville sent word to the story-tellers of Ireland that when they were in his neighbourhood they should call at the monastery, for he wished to collect and write down the stories which were in danger of being forgotten.
“These things also must be told,” said he.
In particular he wished to gather tales which told of the deeds that had been done before the Gospel came to Ireland.
“For,” said he, “there are very good tales among those ones, and it would be a pity if the people who come after us should be ignorant of what happened long ago, and of the deeds of their fathers.”
So, whenever a story-teller chanced in that neighbourhood he was directed to the monastery, and there he received a welcome and his fill of all that is good for man.
The abbot’s manuscript boxes began to fill up, and he used to regard that growing store with pride and joy. In the evenings, when the days grew short and the light went early, he would call for some one of these manuscripts and have it read to him by candle-light, in order that he might satisfy himself that it was as good as he had judged it to be on the previous hearing.
One day a story-teller came to the monastery, and, like all the others, he was heartily welcomed and given a great deal more than his need.
He said that his name was Cairide’, and that he had a story to tell which could not be bettered among the stories of Ireland.
The abbot’s eyes glistened when he heard that. He rubbed his hands together and smiled on his guest.
“What is the name of your story?” he asked.
“It is called ‘Mongan’s Frenzy.’”
“I never heard of it before,” cried the abbot joyfully.
“I am the only man that knows it,” Cairide’ replied.
“But how does that come about?” the abbot inquired.
“Because it belongs to my family,” the story-teller answered. “There was a Cairide’ of my nation with Mongan when he went into Faery. This Cairide’ listened to the story when it was first told. Then he told it to his son, and his son told it to his son, and that son’s great-great-grandson’s son told it to his son’s son, and he told it to my father, and my father told it to me.”
“And you shall tell it to me,” cried the abbot triumphantly.
“I will indeed,” said Cairide’. Vellum was then brought and quills. The copyists sat at their tables. Ale was placed beside the story-teller, and he told this tale to the abbot.
CHAPTER II
Said Cairide’:
Mongan’s wife at that time was Bro’tiarna, the Flame Lady. She was passionate and fierce, and because the blood would flood suddenly to her cheek, so that she who had seemed a lily became, while you looked upon her, a rose, she was called Flame Lady. She loved Mongan with ecstasy and abandon, and for that also he called her Flame Lady.
But there may have been something of calculation even in her wildest moment, for if she was delighted in her affection she was tormented in it also, as are all those who love the great ones of life and strive to equal themselves where equality is not possible.
For her husband was at once more than himself and less than himself. He was less than himself because he was now Mongan. He was more than himself because he was one who had long disappeared from the world of men. His lament had been sung and his funeral games played many, many years before, and Bro’tiarna sensed in him secrets, experiences, knowledges in which she could have no part, and for which she was greedily envious.
So she was continually asking him little, simple questions a’ propos of every kind of thing.
She weighed all that he said on whatever subject, and when he talked in his sleep she listened to his dream.
The knowledge that she gleaned from those listenings tormented her far more than it satisfied her, for the names of other women were continually on his lips, sometimes in terms of dear affection, sometimes in accents of anger or despair, and in his sleep he spoke familiarly of people whom the story-tellers told of, but who had been dead for centuries. Therefore she was perplexed, and became filled with a very rage of curiosity.
Among the names which her husband mentioned there was one which, because of the frequency with which it appeared, and because of the tone of anguish and love and longing in which it was uttered, she thought of oftener than the others: this name was Duv Laca. Although she questioned and cross-questioned Cairide’, her story-teller, she could discover nothing about a lady who had been known as the Black Duck. But one night when Mongan seemed to speak with Duv Laca he mentioned her father as Fiachna Duv mac Demain, and the story-teller said that king had been dead for a vast number of years.
She asked her husband then, boldly, to tell her the story of Duv Laca, and under the influence of their mutual love he promised to tell it to her some time, but each time she reminded him of his promise he became confused, and said that he would tell it some other time.
