The Oak of Culleen - The Bile Rath

This is a story of Ireland, and of trees.  We in our time do not much think of trees in relation to Ireland, though Erin is not without them.  In days past there were great, sturdy forests in Ireland, few of which remain today, many having been decimated in the 17^th Century.  There are significant efforts being made by environmentalists  to replant and restore the forests of Ireland.  But not unlike peace, such efforts will take time and patience. One person at a time.  One tree at a time.

Poets and artists; scientists and historians; all look to the tree, yet none can create one. The tree inspires; it has long given shelter. In common with stone (which abounds in Ireland), it remains the supreme, silent witness of all that happens. It personifies beauty, romance, rebirth and mystery, and for those who heed superstition, it can summon menace in the form of the revenge of the fairies, as well as the wrath of the gods.

This story happened long ago, while the great Irish forests still were a significant contributor to what make the greener-than-green of the Emerald Isle so unique. There was a fortress in Clare, just north of Kilmaley.  A humble fortress in a country that boasts great heroes such as Cucullaihn, Finn McCool, and Brian Boru.  But it was not without its share of heroes, this fortress of Culleen.  Not without its legends either, though they are only known among the local folk and spoken of but little around more distant hearths.  This fortress was edged by a great forest of mighty Oaks, and in a day long past there was born to the Master and Mistress of that house a wee lass named Moira.  The Mistress of the house used to take her small baby girl out of doors in the mornings, and often they would sit in the dappled morning sunshine beneath one large oak tree at the very edge of the forest, and the Mother would sing to the child and tell her stories of the ancient days, of the Tuatha De Dannan, and the coming of the sons of the Mil.

She was a curious child, and would seek out adventure and pummel anyone who would listen with a torrent of questions even faster than her father’s bowmen.  She sought out secrets, and she had one of her very own.  In the summer of her fourth year, there was a fortnight of close weather – very out of character for those living near to the Shannon, where the sea breezes from the Atlantic dance with the winds of the cool green Irish hills.  Little Moira would sneak out of bed at night, unable to sleep and creep out of doors.  She liked to find a quiet place in the battlements and look up at the stars, trying to count them, trying to capture the shapes and figures she saw there.  One such night she heard a sound like the distance piping of a flute, and she looked out and saw lights at the edge of the forest.  Tiny lights, small as the tip of your finger.  Lights that seemed to dance about the base of one particularly large oak tree.  She wanted to go to them and dance with them, but she had heard terrifying tales of the wrath of the fairies, so she contented herself to spy on them night after night for three nights, till she saw them no more, and the weather blithely changed, and cooler breezes began to blow.

Moira grew up a bright spirited little thing with twinkling green eyes, hair like ripe chestnuts and a continuing talent for mischief.  She always had a tendency to run, and dance, and sing.  Her father had many sons, and he loved each one, but there was something about his only daughter, young Moira, that made him pause and smile – the sort of smile that starts at your toes and embraces an entire being. He decided that the music of her feet, her voice, and seemingly, of her soul should be put to productive use, and though he might have made other choices and spent the coin on his sons, he hired a bard to teach the lass the harp.  It was beneath that very same oak tree that Moira sat, watched, listened and learned to play.  As her playing grew in skill and beauty, her father would often have her play for his guests in the great hall, but her favorite place was beneath the great oak, where it seemed to her the music sank into her very soul and she merged with the air and the turf beneath her, and with the mighty tree itself.  These were happy times for Moira and her family.

As is often the case with the wheel of time, and in Ireland most definitely, the good must be balanced with the bad, and there came a time of sadness to the people in the fortress of Culleen.  One day Moira’s father and her brothers went off to fight for the honor of allies and the safety of their own.  The moon waxed, was full, and waned many times before one day her father returned home.  He was alone.  His sons were gone, lost to that self same honor and freedom.  Moira and her Mother ran out to greet him.  It was at the great oak that they collided, and embraced.  Man and wife kissed, and looked deep into each others eyes, their gazes full of thoughts and feelings they could not put into words.  Moira never forgot that look.

Her father was never the same after.  Oh for certain, he still was Master, still presented the face of a chieftain to those who depended on him.  It was in private moments that she saw that he had become somehow sadder and graver than she had remembered him to be.  He laughed less, never sang, never smiled but wanly at her Mother and herself.

Struggles for power often swing as a pendulum does: cycling for and against any one person or group.  Such was the case with Moira’s home as one day she woke to discover the fortress under siege, and life therein took on a new urgency, and a fearful anxiety seemed to hang over everyone and everything.  Moira was engaged in helping were and how she could, she was but 14 years old.  Her mother seemed to be everywhere at once, managing provisions, tending to the wounded, and giving gentle council and support to the Lord her husband.  She worked tirelessly, or seemed to.  Moira wondered quietly to herself how her Mother could do all that.  Then her Mother contracted a fever, became very ill and passed from the world.  Blessedly, no one else seemed to be stricken, but Moira felt as though a hole had been bored straight through her heart.  She found it hard to conceive of life without that quick smile, that gentle strength.

It was the very next morning that Moira looked out to see the oak forest ablaze, set to flame by the besieging force.  It burned for days and days, and Moira watched it burn.  The activity of the fortress became a distant blur around her: voices half heard, people hardly noticed.  It felt as if the hole in her heart was expanding with the hot firey winds and that soon she herself would be engulfed by them and be snuffed out all together. What was there left? The men at arms surrounding the fortress went away, and when the blaze finally died and cooled, there was only one tree remaining: the one great oak.  Moira went out to it at the first opportunity, walking amid the devastation of prolonged combat, and she placed a small, soft hand on the bark of the Oak.  It was warm.  She let the tears stream down her face, till there were no more tears to be shed.  Then she turned, raised her head, and walked back to the fortress to whatever there was to be faced.

It must now be said that as the wheel of time brings adversity, so time is also the ultimate healer, and life took on a strange new normality in the fortress of Culleen.  Incredibly, day followed day, night followed night, the sun rose and it set.  Moira and her father forged together a new life, and her father often asked his daughter to fetch her harp.  He would take her by the hand and they would walk outside to the great oak and sit there together.  Moira would play a bit, sing a bit.  Sometimes her father would simply ask her questions about anything and everything, and listen to her speak.  She spoke with candor and from the heart – she knew no other way. 

Finally, one day, he father invited a man to the fortress and he introduced him to Moira.  His name was Darragh O’Quillon, and he was the second son of one of her father’s oldest allies.  He was tall, quiet, thoughtful, and had a head of dark hair that seemed to want to curl any which way it pleased.  His eyes were often a sober and serious hazel but would, seemingly out of nowhere, light up with amusement or in utter joy.  Then those eyes sparkled and danced in an amazing array of Irish colors: green, deep brown, hints of gold.  His quietness covered a strength of character that was wise enough to see the grief still very much a part of the father and his daughter.  So he waited.  He slowly insinuated himself into their daily lives, oh so slowly and with such patient consideration, but never stopping his deliberate forward march.  He became part of the life of the fortress, just as though he had been born to it.  Her father began to occasionally include Darragh in their visits to the great oak, and it was there one autumn evening that he told them both of his intent to adopt Darragh as his own son and make him his heir.  It was not too much longer than that before, beneath the oak, emerald eyes looked openly into quiet hazel ones as Moira and Darragh pledged themselves to each other.

So the wheel continues to turn, and a new time came into the fortress: young love, marriage, children, new leadership ascendant.  When Moira’s father went to join his lady in the afterlife it was with the assurance that his lands and his daughter were provided for and happy. Day followed day, night followed night, the sun rose and it set.  The great oak continued to look on as Moira and Darragh’s family grew, fortunes and seasons came and passed.  Moira’s third daughter was taught the harp, and played it with all the vibrant skill of her Mother.  It was again beneath the sacred oak tree that the harp played and Moira held a cuddling bundle in her arms and looked down into the face of her first grandson.

The fortress has long since crumbled and been taken back into the earth, mounds of stone covered by plants and vines.  The great oak is till there: inspiring; giving shelter. Along side the stones it remains the supreme, silent witness of all that happens. It personifies beauty, romance, rebirth and mystery. Sometimes, too, the fairies still come and dance.

by Judy Cullen
2012 all rights reserved