The Golden Spears

Once upon a time a little old woman lived with her two children, Connla and Nora, in a little house under a hill. In front of the door lay a pleasant meadow, and beyond the meadow a mountain rose to the sky with a peak as sharp as a spear. More than halfway up it was covered in heather, and when the heather bloomed, it looked like a purple robe falling from the mountain’s shoulders to its feet. Above the heather the rock was bare and grey, but when the sun was sinking into the sea, its last rays rested on the bare peak and made it shine like a golden spear, and so the children always called it the Golden Spear.

On summer days they played in the meadow, picking the sweet wild grasses, and often they scrambled up the mountain knee-deep in heather, hunting for frechan berries and wild honey. Sometimes they found a bird’s nest, but they only peeped in. They never touched the eggs or let their breath fall on them, for after their little mother they loved the mountain best, and after the mountain they loved the wild birds whose songs made spring and summer musical. Sometimes a soft white mist crept through the glen and up the mountain and hid it completely, and the children would tell each other, “Our mountain has gone away.” When the mist lifted and floated off into the sky, they clapped their hands and cried, “Oh, there’s our mountain back!” Through the long winter nights they chattered about the spring and summer to come, when the birds would sing for them once more, and not a day went by without their throwing crumbs outside the door and along the edge of the wood. When spring came, they woke with the first light, and they knew the very minute the lark would start singing, and the thrush and blackbird, and when the robin’s song would set the tender green leaves trembling.

One day, as they rested in the noonday heat in the scented shade of a flowering hawthorn, they saw a speckled thrush crouching terrified in the grass at the edge of the meadow.

“Oh, Connla! Connla! Look at the thrush, and look, up in the sky there’s a hawk!” cried Nora.

Connla looked up and saw the hawk hovering on quivering wings, and he knew it would swoop on the thrush in a second. He leaped up, fitted a stone to his sling, and before the whirr of the stone had died away, the hawk came tumbling headlong into the grass. The thrush shook out its wings, flew up joyfully and perched on an elm in sight of the children, and there it sang so sweetly that they left the hawthorn and went to stand beneath the elm. They listened and listened, and at last Nora said, “Oh, Connla, did you ever hear a song so sweet?”

“No,” said Connla, “and I do believe nobody ever heard sweeter music.”

“That’s because you never heard the nine little pipers playing,” said the thrush. “And now, Connla and Nora, you have saved my life today.”

“It was Nora who saved it,” said Connla, “because she showed me you and the hawk that was about to pounce.”

“It was Connla who saved you,” said Nora, “because he killed the hawk with his sling.”

“Then I owe you both my life,” said the thrush. “You say you never heard anything as sweet as my song, but wait till you hear the nine little pipers. Sit outside your door tomorrow evening and watch until the shadows have crept up the heather. Then, when the mountain top shines like a golden spear, watch the edge where shade and sunlight meet on the heather, and you will see something worth seeing.” Then it sang a song even sweeter than the first, said goodbye and flew off into the woods.

All night the pair dreamed of the thrush and its pipers, and at the first birdsong they went out into the meadow to watch the mountain. The sun shone in a cloudless sky, and there were no shadows on the mountain. All day they watched and waited, until at last, as the birds were singing farewell to the evening star, they saw the shadows marching out of the glen and trooping up the mountainside, dimming the purple heather. When the peak shone like a golden spear, they fixed their eyes on the line between shadow and sunshine.

“Now,” said Connla, “the time has come.”

“Oh, look! Look!” said Nora. Just above the line of shadow a door opened, and out stepped a little piper dressed in green and gold, followed by another and another until there were nine, and then the door swung shut. Down through the heather marched the pipers in single file, playing so sweetly that birds already asleep in their nests hopped out onto the branches to listen. The pipers crossed the meadow and marched on and on until they vanished into the leafy woods. While they passed, the children were spellbound and could not speak, but when the music had died away among the trees, they said, “The thrush was right. That is the sweetest music ever heard in all the world.”

The fairy music came to them in their dreams that night. But in the morning, when they looked at the mountain and could see no sign of a door above the heather, they wondered aloud whether the pipers had been real or only a dream.

That day they went into the woods and sat by a stream that pattered along under the trees, where the sun flashed down through the tossing leaves and shadow and sunshine danced on the water.

“Oh, Connla,” said Nora, “did you ever see anything so bright and clear and sparkling?”

“No, I never did.”

“That’s only because you have not seen the mountain fairy’s crystal hall,” said a voice above their heads, and there was the thrush perched on a branch.

“Where is the crystal hall of the fairy?” asked Connla.

“Oh, it is where it always was and always will be,” said the thrush, “and you can see it if you like. All you have to do is follow the nine little pipers tomorrow evening, when they come down through the heather and cross the meadow.” And it flew away.

All the next day the children counted the minutes until the shadows came crowding from the glen and climbing the mountainside. At last the door sprang open and the nine little pipers marched down. The children waited until the pipers had crossed the meadow and were just entering the wood, and then they followed, and the pipers marched ahead of them, playing all the while. Soon they were through the wood, and there before them rose another mountain, smaller than their own but just like it, clothed more than halfway up in purple heather, with a bare, sharp peak shining like a golden spear. Up through the heather climbed the pipers and the children after them, and as soon as the pipers passed above the heather, a door opened, and in they marched with the children following, and the door closed behind them.

The light inside was so dazzling that the children had to shade their eyes, but after a moment or two they could bear the splendour. They were in a noble hall whose crystal roof rested on two rows of crystal pillars rising from a crystal floor. The walls were crystal, and along them stood crystal couches with coverings and cushions of sapphire silk and silver tassels. Across the crystal floor marched the pipers, and the children followed. When a door at the far end opened to let the pipers through, a flood of colours rushed in and stained the floor, the ceiling, the stately pillars, the gleaming couches and the shining walls with a thousand dazzling hues. Through the door went the pipers, and the children after them, and when they stepped over the threshold they were walking on clouds of amber, purple and gold.

“Oh, Connla,” said Nora, “we have walked into the sunset!”

All around them were soft, fleecy clouds, and overhead the glowing sky with the stars shining through it like a lady’s eyes through a veil of gossamer. The sky and stars seemed so close that Connla thought he could almost touch them. After a while the pipers disappeared, and where the children had seen the last of them, they found themselves at the top of a ladder whose steps were purple and amber clouds. It led down to what looked like a vast shining plain streaked with purple and gold, with soft, milk-white stars between the streaks, and the children thought the plain far below belonged to cloudland too. They could not see the pipers, but the cool, sweet air carried the fairy music up to them, and step by step it drew them down the fleecy stairway.

When they were a little more than halfway down, they heard mixed with the music another sound almost as sweet, the sound of water playing with pebbles on a sloping beach, and they smelled the salty tang of the ocean. Then they knew that what they had taken for a plain in cloudland was the sea, asleep without wind or tide and dreaming of the purple clouds and stars of the sunset sky above it.

On the shore they saw the nine little pipers marching out towards the sea, and they could hardly believe their eyes when the pipers stepped out onto the flat water as if it were land and marched away along the golden path the setting sun cast on the waves. As the music grew fainter and fainter in the glowing distance, the children began to wonder what would become of them. At that very moment a little white horse with a flowing mane and tail and golden hoofs came towards them out of the sinking sun, ridden by a little man in shining green silk. When the horse reached the shore, the little man took off his hat. “Would you like to follow the nine little pipers?”

“Yes,” said the children.

“Then climb up behind me, Nora first and Connla after.”

Connla helped Nora up and climbed on himself, and as soon as they were settled, the little man said “Swish!” and away went the horse, galloping over the sea without wetting a hair or a hoof. But however fast it galloped, the pipers stayed ahead, though they seemed only to be walking. When at last the horse came close to the hindmost piper, all nine disappeared, and the children heard the music playing under the water. The white horse stopped short and would not move another step.

“Now,” said the little man, “hold me tight, Nora, and Connla, you hold on to Nora, and both of you shut your eyes.” They did as they were told, and the little man cried, “Swish! Swash!” and the horse sank down and down until its hoofs struck the bottom. “Now open your eyes.”

Beneath the horse’s feet was a golden strand, and above their heads the sea hung like a clear cloud between them and the sky. They heard the fairy music, and marching along the strand ahead of them were the nine little pipers. “Down you get now,” said the little man. “This is as far as I may take you.” The children scrambled down, the little man cried “Swish!”, and he and his horse shot up through the sea and were gone.

The children set off after the pipers, and before long they saw a mass of dark grey rocks rising from the golden strand and pushing their heads up into the sea above. As they looked, the rocks opened and the pipers disappeared through them. The children hurried on, and close to the rocks they saw a mermaid sitting on a flat, polished stone, combing her golden hair and singing a strange, sweet song that brought tears to their eyes, and beside her lay a little sleek brown otter.

When the mermaid saw them, she tossed her golden hair back over her snow-white shoulders and beckoned. Her large eyes were full of sadness, but her face was so tender that the children went to her without any fear. “Come here, little one, and give me a kiss,” she said to Nora, and in a moment she had her arms round her. She kissed her over and over, and tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Nora, my darling, your breath is as sweet as the wild rose in the green fields of Ireland, and happy you are, children, who have come so lately from that pleasant land. Oh, Connla, Connla! I can smell the dew of the Irish grass and the purple heather on your feet. You will both soon go home to Ireland of the Streams, but I shall not see it for three hundred years, for I am Liban the Mermaid, daughter of a line of kings. But I must not keep you. The fairy queen expects you in her snow-white palace among her sweet-smelling bowers. One more kiss, Nora, and one from you, Connla. Luck and joy go with you both, and all gentleness rest on you.”

The children said goodbye, and the rocks opened for them, and they came out into a meadow starred with flowers, with a sunlit stream running through it. They followed the stream into a rose garden, and beyond the garden, on a gentle hill, stood a palace as white as snow. In front of it a crowd of fairy maidens were pelting each other with rose petals, but when they saw the children, they stopped their game and came running. “Our queen is waiting for you,” they said, and led them to the palace door.

Inside, at the end of a long corridor, was a crystal hall so like the one in the mountain of the golden spear that the children thought it must be the same. But on every crystal couch sat fairies in silk robes of many colours, and at the end of the hall, on a crystal throne, sat the fairy queen, lovelier than the evening star. She came down from her throne to meet them, took them by the hands, led them up the shining steps and sat them beside her, Connla on her right and Nora on her left. Then she called the nine little pipers before her. “So far you have done your duty faithfully,” she said. “Play one more sweet tune, and your task is done.”

The pipers played, and at the first notes all the fairies rose from the couches, paired off and danced across the crystal floor as lightly as young leaves dancing in the wind. Listening to the music and watching the swaying dancers, the children fell asleep.

When they woke the next morning and got up from their silken beds, they were children no longer. Nora was a graceful, stately young woman, and Connla a handsome, gallant young man. They stared at each other in surprise.

“Oh, Nora, how tall and beautiful you are!” said Connla.

“Oh, not as tall and handsome as you, Connla,” said Nora, throwing her white arms round his neck and kissing him. They stepped back to get a better look at each other, and who should step between them but the fairy queen.

“Oh, Nora, Nora,” she said, “I don’t reach as high as your knee, and as for you, Connla, you look as straight and tall as one of the round towers of Ireland.”

“How did we grow so tall in one night?” asked Connla.

“In one night!” said the fairy queen. “One night, indeed! Why, the two of you have been fast asleep for the last seven years!”

“But what about our little mother all this while?” the two cried at once.

“Oh, she has come to no harm. She knew all along where you were, and she is expecting you today, so you must go and see her, though if I had my way, I would keep you all to myself here in fairyland under the sea. But before you go, here is a necklace for you, Nora, made from drops of ocean spray sparkling in the sunshine. My fairy nymphs caught them for you as they skimmed the sunlit waves in the shape of seabirds, and no queen or princess in the world has diamonds, dug with toil from the caves of the earth, to match them. And for you, Connla, here is a helmet of shining gold fit for a king of Ireland, and a king of Ireland you will be yet. Here is a spear that will pierce any shield, and here is a shield that no spear can pierce and no sword can split, as long as you fasten your warrior’s cloak with this golden brooch.” And she threw a flowing cloak of yellow silk round Connla’s shoulders and pinned it at his neck with a brooch of red gold.

“Now, my children, you must leave me. You, Nora, will be a warrior’s bride in Ireland of the Streams. And you, Connla, will one day be king of the loveliest province in all Ireland, but you will have to fight for your crown, and there are days of battle ahead of you. They will not come for a long time after you leave fairyland under the sea, and until they come, put away your helmet, shield and spear, your warrior’s cloak and golden brooch. But when you are called to battle, do not go into it without this golden brooch fastened in your cloak, or harm will come to you. Now give me a kiss, children. Your mother is waiting at the foot of the Golden Spear. But don’t forget to say goodbye to Liban the Mermaid, exiled from the land she loves and pining sadly under the sea.”

Connla and Nora kissed the fairy queen, and Connla, in his golden helmet and silk cloak and carrying his shield and spear, led Nora away. They went from the palace through the rose garden, across the flowery meadow and through the dark grey rocks until they reached the golden strand, and there sat Liban the Mermaid singing her strange, sweet song.

“So you are going up to Ireland,” she said, “up through the covering waters. Kiss me, children, one last time, and when you are in Ireland of the Streams, think sometimes of the exile under the sea.” The children kissed her and sadly said goodbye, and walked on along the golden strand.

When they had walked what seemed a long way and were beginning to tire, they saw a little man in a red jacket coming towards them leading a coal-black horse. “Connla,” said the little man, “put Nora up on this horse, then jump up in front of her.” Connla did so. “Now, Connla, take the bridle, and Nora, hold Connla round the waist, and both of you close your eyes.” They did as they were told, and the little man said, “Swash! Swish!” and the horse shot up from the strand like a lark from the grass, burst through the covering sea and went bounding over the flat water. When its hoofs struck hard ground, the children opened their eyes and saw that they were galloping towards a shady wood. On went the horse under branches that nearly brushed Connla’s head, and when they came out of the wood, there before them rose the Golden Spear.

“Oh, Connla,” said Nora, “we are home at last!”

“Yes,” said Connla, “but where is the little house under the hill?”

There was no little house. In its place stood a lime-white mansion. “What can this mean?” said Nora, but before Connla could answer, the horse had galloped up to the mansion door, and in the twinkling of an eye the two of them were standing on the ground outside and the horse had vanished. Before they could get over their surprise, the little mother came running out, threw her arms round their necks and covered them both with kisses.

“Oh, children, children! You’re welcome home, I knew it was all for the best, but my heart was lonely with you gone.” Connla and Nora picked up the little mother, carried her into the hall and set her down. “Oh, Nora,” she said, “you’re a head taller than me, and as for you, Connla, you look nearly as tall as one of the round towers of Ireland.”

“The fairy queen said exactly that, mother,” Nora told her.

“God bless the fairy queen,” said the little mother. “Turn about, Connla, and let me see you. Oh, with your golden helmet and your spear and your gleaming shield and silk cloak, you look every inch a king. Lovely as they are, though, take them off, my boy. I want to see my own brave lad without any fairy finery.” So Connla laid down his spear and shield and took off his golden helmet and silk cloak, and he caught up the little mother and kissed her and lifted her as high as his head.

“Don’t you know, little mother,” he said, “I’d rather have you than all the world?” And that night, as they sat together by the fire, you may be sure that nobody in the whole world was half as happy as Nora, Connla and the little mother.

About this telling

“The Golden Spears” is one of the stories Edmund Leamy wrote for his Irish Fairy Tales, turning to Ireland’s Gaelic past for children. The 1906 Dublin edition was republished in his memory.

Leamy’s notes tell the old story behind Liban the Mermaid, from Joyce’s Old Celtic Romances. She was the daughter of Ecca, son of Mario, King of Munster, whose people lived on the plain of the Grey Copse until a neglected magic well burst out and drowned it under what is now Lough Neagh. Liban lived a year in a chamber under the lake with her lap-dog, then prayed to become a salmon; she kept her own face and breast, and her lap-dog became the otter that followed her everywhere. Leamy’s note, printed in the 1906 edition, describes the copying into the Book of the Dun Cow as nearly eight hundred years earlier; that is his historical estimate, not a date measured from today.

Its preface notes that Leamy wrote for children, and that one can sense a child listening at nearly every line.

Read the original: Edmund Leamy, Irish Fairy Tales (Project Gutenberg #29311, The Golden Spears)

Suggested for ages 9–12: a dreamlike journey that includes a hawk killed with a stone, a long family separation and a promise of future battles.

Wonder has a cost in time

The thrush’s reward grows from music into an entire other world. Sound keeps leading the children onward even when they cannot see the pipers; at the cloud stairway, the sound and smell of the shore reveal that the shining plain is the sea. Leamy makes each discovery depend on the children revising what they first thought they saw.

The seven-year sleep changes the meaning of the gift. Their mother has been safe but lonely, while Liban faces centuries away from the home she loves. The reunion answers that sadness: the mother asks Connla to remove his splendid equipment so she can see her son. Affection is not dependent on his promised kingship. The opening rescue is also double-edged: the thrush lives because the hawk is killed, although hunting is what a real hawk does to survive.

Make a map of sounds

Trace the thrush’s song, the pipers’ music, water on pebbles and Liban’s song. Beside each sound, write where it leads the children and whether it brings delight, new knowledge or sadness. What changes when the final scene gathers the family around a familiar fire?

Talk about it

• How did Connla and Nora save the thrush, and how did it repay them?
• Describe the journey the children took to reach the fairy queen’s palace.
• Why did Connla and Nora find that seven years had passed?

Related stories

• The Fairy Tree of Dooros — another of Edmund Leamy’s Irish fairy tales
• The Enchanted Cave — another of Edmund Leamy’s Irish fairy tales
• Princess Finola and the Dwarf — another of Edmund Leamy’s Irish fairy tales