The Story of Tuan Mac Cairill and the Salmon of Knowledge

“I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread..”

 —from “The Song of Wandering Aengus” by W.B. Yeats 

The Salmon of Knowledge is a mythical creature in Irish folklore associated with poetry and knowledge of deep truths. Any person who ate a bit of the fish would become wise and know the essence of all things.

Which leads one to wonder: what is the nature of this wisdom?

The Story of Tuan Mac Cairill suggests an answer to this question. I love this story and hope you enjoy it too.

Transcript of The Story of Tuan Mac Cairill and the Salmon of Knowledge

Hello, and welcome to Myth Matters, storytelling and conversation about mythology and what myth can offer us today. I’m your host and personal mythologist Dr. Catherine Svehla. Wherever you may be in this wide, beautiful, crazy world of ours, you are part of this story circle. 

If you’re familiar with Myth Matters then you know that the stories that I share here come with an invitation, an invitation to notice the detail or moment in the story that captures your attention and allow it to be significant. Your response to a story is an opening into that story in your life. Most of the time– I suspect “always” but let’s allow for exceptions– your moment generates an image. You imagine that moment and what you imagine is compelling.

The myths and stories that I return to over and over again are a catalyst for my imaginings. They offer images that hold something important for me although I can’t explain the power. Trying too hard to force mysteries like this into words can kill the experience you know, as we can sense truth that lies beyond language.

Well, today, I have another Irish fairy tale from the collection by James Stephens, to share with you. It’s called “The Story of Tuan Mac Cairill.” This amazing fairy tale- I am in love with this story– evokes a potent image for me, one that I have entertained many times over the years– the mysterious salmon of knowledge. The salmon led me to the story and speaks to it. I have to share it with you.

Let me give you a tiny bit of background about the salmon. The salmon of knowledge appears in a number of stories about wisdom seekers and poets, these being one and the same in the old Irish culture, in particular the legends of Fionn. The salmon first appeared back in the time when the fairy folk ruled Ireland. They had a well below the sea where the nine hazel trees of wisdom grew. Seven streams of wisdom sprang from that well and returned back to it after appearing as rivers in the above world, crossing the green isle of Ireland. 

Now, the leaves and blossoms of these nine hazel trees would spring forth at the same time and fall onto the water of the well. Five salmon waited there to eat the nuts. Any person who ate one of those salmon would know all wisdom and all poetry. This person would comprehend the great truth. People of many arts have searched for the salmon– some with success– and all drank from that well.

Now, perhaps you are fascinated by the salmon too.

Onto the story, “The Story of Tuan Mac Cairill.” Stephen’s language is so eloquent that I’m going to weave some of it in to my more condensed version of the story. I’ll post the link to the full story with the transcript of this episode on the Mythic Mojo website. 

I invite you to let yourself relax and release any straining to understand. Let the current of the story carry you. Notice the details that resonate with you in this moment. They’re clues about your relationship to this story right now.

“The Story of Tuan Mac Cairill”

The Story of Tuan Mac Cairill” takes place in the time when many, but not all, of the people of Ireland had embraced Christianity, and it begins with a contest of wills between two men who have a strong faith and devotion to their gods. One of the men, Finnian, the Abbott of Moville, was determined to bring all the folks in his province into the Christian church. One day, he was told of a powerful gentleman named Tuan Mac Cairill, who observed neither Saint’s day nor Sunday.

“A powerful person!” said Finnian.“All that,” was the reply. “We shall try this person’s power,” said Finnian. “Tuan Mac Cairill is reputed to be a wise and hardy man,” said his informant. “We shall test his wisdom and his hardihood.” “He is,” that gossip whispered—“he is a magician.” “I will magician him,” cried Finnian angrily and proceeded to Mac Cairill’s home without delay. 

He demanded admittance in order that he might preach and prove the new God. But Tuan refused Finnian admittance. He barricaded his house and  shuttered his windows, and continued the practices of ten thousand years.

Now Finnian could not abide that any person should resist both the Gospel and himself, and he proceeded to force the stronghold by peaceful but powerful methods. He fasted on the gentleman, knowing that to a hospitable heart the idea that a stranger may expire on your doorstep from sheer famine cannot be tolerated. 

Tuan did not give in right away. He thought that when Finnian had grown sufficiently hungry he would lift the siege and take himself off to some place where he might get food. But he did not know Finnian. The great abbot sat down on a spot just beyond the door, and composed himself to all that might follow from his action. He gazed on the ground between his feet, and entered into a meditation from which he would only be released by admission or death.

The first day passed quietly. Tuan sent a servant to spy if that deserter of the gods was still before his door, and each time the servant replied that he was still there. “He will be gone in the morning,” Tuan said hopefully.

The state of siege continued, the next day. The servants were sent many times to observe through spy-holes. “Go,” Tuan would say, “and find out if the worshipper of new gods has taken himself away.” But the servants returned each time with the same information. “The new druid is still there,” they said.

No one could leave the house and the seclusion and cessation of work led the servants to whisper among themselves and they became uneasy. “It is a combat of the gods that is taking place,” they said. They speculated on many things, including the staunchness of man, the qualities of their master, and even the possibility that the new gods might be as powerful as the old. 

One irritable guard suggested that they buzz a spear or throw some stones at the stranger on the doorstep. “What,” said Tuan, “attack an unarmed stranger! No. Be at peace all of you,” he said, “hunger has a whip, and he will drive the stranger away in the night.” Everyone went to bed but Tuan couldn’t sleep. He paced back and forth to the spy-hole to see if that shadow was still sitting in the shade. He was so preoccupied that he even refused the nose of his favorite dog as it pressed lovingly into his palm.

The next day he gave in. The great door was swung wide and two of his servants carried Finnian into the house, for the saint could no longer walk or stand upright from hunger and exposure. But his frame was tough as the unconquerable spirit that dwelt within it and he began the conversion of Tuan. Just as the latter’s door had opened to the persistent stranger, so his heart opened, and Finnian marched in there to do the will of God, and his own will.

The two men talked for days. Tuan heard a great deal about the majesty of God and His love and yet he needed more. He laid as close a siege on Finnian as Finnian had before laid on him. But when we have given instruction for a time, we need instruction, and must receive it or the spirit faints and wisdom herself grows bitter.Therefore, Finnian said: “Tell me now about yourself, dear heart.”

But Tuan was avid for more information about the True God. “No, no,” he said, “the past has nothing more of interest for me, and I do not wish anything to come between my soul and its instruction. Continue to teach me, dear friend and saintly father.” “I will do that,” Finnian replied, “but I must first know you well. Tell me your past, my beloved, for a man is his past, and is to be known by it.”

But Tuan pleaded “Let the past be content with itself, for man needs forgetfulness as well as memory.” “My son,” said Finnian, “all that has ever been done has been done for the glory of God, and to confess our good and evil deeds is part of instruction. Tell me your genealogy first and then I will examine your acts and your conscience.”

“I am known as Tuan, son of Cairill, son of Muredac Red-neck, and these are the hereditary lands of my father,” Tuan said. The saint nodded. “I am not well acquainted with Ulster genealogies, not as I should be, yet I know something of them. I am by blood a Leinsterman,” he continued. “Mine is a long pedigree,” Tuan murmured. Finnian received that information with respect and interest. “I also,” he said, “have an honorable record.”

His host continued, “I am indeed Tuan, the son of Starn, the son of Sera, who was brother to Partholon.” “But,” said Finnian in bewilderment, “there is an error here, for you have recited two different genealogies.” “Different genealogies, indeed,” replied Tuan thoughtfully, “but they are my genealogies.”

“I do not understand this,” Finnian declared. “I am now known as Tuan mac Cairill,” the other replied, “but in the days of old I was known as Tuan mac Starn, mac Sera.” “The brother of Partholon,” the saint gasped. “That is my pedigree,” Tuan said. “But,” Finnian objected in bewilderment, “Partholon came to Ireland not long after the Flood.” “I came with him,” said Tuan mildly. The saint pushed his chair back hastily, and sat staring at his host, and as he stared the blood grew chill in his veins,and his hair crept along his scalp and stood on end.

But Finnian was not one who remained long in bewilderment. He thought on the might of God and he became that might, and was tranquil. “It is a wonder you tell me, my beloved,” he said. “And now you must tell me more.” “What must I tell?” asked Tuan resignedly. “Tell me of the beginning of time in Ireland, and of the bearing of Partholon, the son of Noah’s son.” “I have almost forgotten him,” said Tuan. “A greatly bearded, greatly shouldered man he was. A man of sweet deeds and sweet ways.” “Continue, my love,” said Finnian.

“He came to Ireland in a ship. Twenty-four men and twenty-four women came with him. Before that time no man had come to Ireland, and in the western parts of the world no human being lived or moved. As we drew on Ireland from the sea the country seemed like an unending forest. There were trees in every direction and the unceasing singing of birds. Over all that land the sun shone warm and beautiful. It seemed like paradise. We landed and followed a river to the sunny glade where the city was established.”

“There were fish in the rivers of Eire’, there were animals in her coverts. Wild and shy and monstrous creatures ranged in her plains and forests. Creatures that one could see through and walk through. Long we lived in ease, and we saw new animals grow,—the bear, the wolf, the badger, the deer, and the boar. Soon there were 5000 people and they lived in peace and contentment although they had no wits.”

“They had no wits!” Finnian commented. “They had no need of wits,” Tuan said. “I have heard that the first-born were mindless,” said Finnian. “Continue your story, my beloved.”

“Then suddenly, overnight, a sickness came that bloated the stomach and on the seventh day everyone was dead, save one man.” “There always escapes one man,” said Finnian thoughtfully. “And I am that man,” his companion affirmed. Tuan went quiet, thinking back to the beginning of the world and the first days of Ireland. Finnian’s blood again ran chill and his scalp crawled uneasily. He stared back at him.

Tell on, my love,” Finnian murmured. “I was alone,” said Tuan. “so alone that my own shadow frightened me. The creatures of the forest scented me and knew I was alone. They stole with silken pad behind my back and snarled when I faced them; the long, grey wolves chased me to a cave. There was no creature too weak to might hunt me. And so I lived for twenty-two years, until I knew all that a beast thinks and had forgotten all that a man had known.”

“I could pad as gently as any. I could run as tirelessly. I could be invisible and patient as a wild cat crouching among leaves. I could smell danger in my sleep and leap at it with wakeful claws. I could bark and growl and clash with my teeth and tear with them.” 

“Tell on, my beloved,” said Finnian.  “At the end of that time,” said Tuan, “Nemed the son of Agnoman came to Ireland with a fleet of thirty-four barges, and each barge carried thirty couples of people.” “I have heard it,” said Finnian. “My heart leaped for joy when I saw the great fleet rounding the land, and I followed them along the cliffs, leaping from rock to rock like a wild goat, while the ships tacked and swung seeking a harbor. Then I stooped to drink at a pool and I saw myself in the chill water.

“I saw that I was hairy and tufty and bristled as a savage boar. I was lean, wrinkled, grey, and naked. I looked like nothing that was known, like nothing that was animal or divine. I sat by the pool weeping my loneliness and wildness and my stern old age while the beasts that tracked me listened from behind the trees or crouched among bushes.

“A storm arose, and when I looked again from my tall cliff I saw that great fleet rolling as in a giant’s hand. At times they were pitched against the sky and staggered aloft, blowing like leaves leaves. A wave fell on a ship and it crashed and sank in the sand at the bottom of the sea.

“The night came, and with it a thousand darknesses fell from the screeching sky. Around me the trees were dragged from earth with dying groans. Great waves whizzed from the sea, spinning across the cliffs and hurtling to the earth in monstrous clots of foam. In that rage and horror of blackness I was beaten into slumber.”

“There I dreamed, and I saw myself changing into a stag. In dream a new heart beat within me and I arched my neck and braced my powerful limbs. I awoke from the dream, and I was that which I had dreamed. I stood a while stamping upon a rock, with my bristling head swung high, breathing through wide nostrils all the savor of the world. For I had come marvelously from decrepitude to strength. I had writhed from the bonds of age and was young again. I smelled the turf and knew for the first time how sweet that smelled. And like lightning my moving nose sniffed all things to my heart and separated them into knowledge.”

“Long I stood there, ringing my iron hoof on stone, and learning all things through my nose. Each breeze that came from the right hand or the left brought me a tale. A wind carried me the tang of wolf, and against that smell I stared and stamped. And on a wind there came the scent of my own kind, and at that I belled. Oh, loud and clear and sweet was the voice of the great stag. With what joy I heard the answering call. With what delight I bounded, bounded, bounded; light as a bird’s plume, powerful as a storm, untiring as the sea.”

“What a thrill spun to the lofty points of my antlers! How the world was new! How the sun was new! How the wind caressed me!”

“With unswerving forehead and steady eye I met all that came. The old, lone wolf leaped sideways, snarling, and slunk away. The lumbering bear swung his head of hesitations and thought again. He trotted his small red eye away with him to a near-by brake. The stags of my race fled from my rocky forehead, or were pushed back and back until their legs broke under them and I trampled them to death. I was the beloved, the leader of the herds of Ireland.”

“At times, I remembered the humans and drew near, standing among thick leaves or crouched in long grown grasses, and stared and mourned as I looked on men. What I had been. Nemed and four couples had been saved from that fierce storm. They multiplied until four thousand couples lived and laughed and were riotous in the sun, for the people of Nemed had small minds but great activity. They were savage fighters and hunters. But one time I came, drawn by that intolerable anguish of memory, and all of these people were gone. The place that knew them was silent and their bones that glinted in the sun.”

“Old age came on me there and weariness crept into my limbs. My eyes dimmed and the wolves dared to chase me again. I went again to the cave that had been my home when I was an old man. One day I stole from the cave to snatch a mouthful of grass, for I was closely besieged by wolves. They made their rush and I barely escaped from them. They sat beyond the cave staring at me. I knew all that they said to each other, and all that they said to me. But there was yet a thud left in my forehead, a deadly trample in my hoof. They did not dare come into the cave. ‘To-morrow,’ they said, ‘we will tear out your throat, and gnaw on your living haunch’.”

“This was the way of things and I agreed to it. ‘To-morrow,’ I said, ‘I will go out among you and I will die,’ and at that the wolves howled joyfully, hungrily, impatiently. Then I slept, and I saw myself changing into a boar in dream, and I felt the beating of a new heart within me. In dream I stretched my powerful neck and braced my eager limbs. I awoke from my dream and I was that which I had dreamed.”

“The day came and the wolves called to me: “‘Come out, O Skinny Stag. Come out and die.’ I thrust a black bristle through the hole of the cave and when they saw that wriggling snout, those curving tusks, that fierce red eye, the wolves fled yelping, tumbling over each other with terror. I chased them, ferocious and strong; a killer, a champion, a boar who could not be defied. I took the lordship of the boars of Ireland.”

 “I challenged all creatures but one. Men had again come to Ireland and I did not chase them. When they chased me I fled. Often I would go, drawn by my memoried heart, to look at them as they moved among their fields. I spoke to my mind in bitterness: ‘When the people of Partholon were gathered in counsel my voice was heard and the words I spoke were wise. The eyes of women brightened and softened when they looked at me. They loved to hear him when he sang who now wanders in the forest with a tusky herd.’”

“Old age overtook me again. Weariness stole into my limbs. I went to my cave and dreamed my dream, and I changed into a hawk. I left the ground. The sweet air was my kingdom, and my bright eye stared on a hundred miles. I soared, I swooped. I hung, motionless as a living stone, over the abyss. I lived in joy and slept in peace, and had my fill of the sweetness of life.”

“During that time Beothach, the son of Iarbonel the Prophet, came to Ireland with his people, and there was a great battle between his men and those already settled here. I watched every hurtling spear and whizzing stone and flashing sword, and at the end I saw that the victory was with the newcomers. These were the first people of the Faery, a learned people. Because of their excellent wisdom and intelligence, they say that they came from heaven.”

“For long, long years I was a hawk. I knew every hill and stream; every field and glen of Ireland. I knew the shape of cliffs and coasts, and how all places looked under the sun or moon. And I was still a hawk when the sons of Mil drove the Faery people under the ground and the time of men and genealogies began. Then I grew old and in my cave I dreamed my dream, and in it I became a salmon.”

“The green tides of ocean rose over me and I awoke in deep waters, and I was that which I dreamed. I had been a man, a stag, a boar, a bird, and now I was a fish. In all my changes I had joy and fulness of life. But in the water joy lay deeper, life pulsed deeper. For on land or air there is always something excessive and hindering; as arms that swing at the sides of a man and which the mind must remember. The stag has legs to be tucked away for sleep, and untucked for movement. The bird has wings that must be folded and pecked and cared for. But the fish has but one piece from his nose to tail. He is complete, single and unencumbered. He turns in one turn, and goes up and down and round in one sole movement.”

“How I flew through the soft water, in the element which caresses and lets go, and will not let you fall. For man may stumble in a furrow. The stag tumble from a cliff. The hawk, wing-weary and beaten, with darkness around him and the storm behind, may dash his brains against a tree. But the home of the salmon is his delight and the sea guards all her creatures.

I became the king of the salmon, and, with my multitude I ranged on the tides of the world. Green and purple distances were under me. Green and gold the sunlit regions above. I knew the sea. I knew the secret caves where ocean roars to ocean and the floods that are icy cold, the warm streams in which we rocked and dozed and were carried forward without motion. 

And then, far away in the sea, I remembered Ulster, and there came on me an instant, uncontrollable anguish to be there. I turned and through days and nights I swam tirelessly, jubilantly, with terror wakening in me, too, and a whisper through my being that I must reach Ireland or die. I fought my way to Ulster from the sea.”

“Ah, the end of the journey was hard! A sickness racked my bones and weariness crept through every fiber and muscle. The waves held me back and the soft waters seemed to have grown hard. So tired I was! Only the unconquerable heart of the salmon could brave that end of toil. The sound of the rivers of Ireland racing down to the sea came to me in the last numb effort and the love of Ireland bore me up. I left the sea at long, long last and lay in sweet water in the curve of a crannied rock, exhausted, three parts dead, triumphant.”

“Delight and strength came to me again. I explored all the inland ways, the great lakes of Ireland and her swift brown rivers. What a joy to lie under an inch of water basking in the sun, or beneath a shady ledge to watch the small creatures that speed like lightning on the rippling top. I saw the hawk hover and stare and swoop, but he could not catch the king of the salmon. I saw the cold-eyed cat stretching along a bough level with the water, eager to hook and lift the creatures of the river. And I saw men.”

“They saw me also. They came to know me and look for me. They lay in wait at the waterfalls where I leapt like a silver flash. They held out nets for me. They hid traps under leaves. They made cords the color of water and of weeds—but this salmon had a nose that knew how a weed differed from string. I knew of the hook. They thrust spears at me. Many a wound I got from men, many a sorrowful scar.”

“Every beast pursued me in the waters and along the banks. My life became a ceaseless scurry and wound and escape, a burden and anguish of watchfulness—and then I was caught.”

“The fisherman of Cairill, the King of Ulster, took me in his net. Ah, that was a happy man when he saw me! He shouted for joy when he saw the great salmon in his net. I was still in the water as he hauled delicately. I was still in the water as he pulled me to the bank. My nose touched air and spun from it as from fire, and I dived with all my might against the bottom of the net, but the net held and I came up.“ ‘Be quiet, King of the River,’ said the fisherman, ‘give in to Doom,’ said he.”

“I was in air, and it was as though I were in fire. The light blinded me, the heat tormented me, the dry air made me shrivel and gasp. ‘Be at ease, O King,’ said the fisherman. ‘Be at rest, my beloved. Let go the stream. Let the oozy merge be forgotten, and the sandy bed where the shades dance all in green and gloom, and the brown flood sings along.’ As he carried me to the palace he sang a song of the river, and a song of Doom, and a song in praise of the King of the Waters.”

“When the king’s wife saw me she desired me. I was put over a fire and roasted, and she ate me. And when time passed she gave birth to me, and I was her son and the son of Cairill the king. I remember warmth and darkness and movement and unseen sounds. All that happened I remember, from the time I was on the gridiron until the time I was born. I forget nothing of these things.”

“And now,” said Finnian, “you will be born again, for I shall baptize you into the family of the Living God.” —— So far the story of Tuan, the son of Cairill. No man knows if he died in those distant ages when Finnian was Abbot of Moville, or if he still keeps his fort in Ulster, watching all things, and remembering them for the glory of God and the honor of Ireland.

As I mentioned at the outset, the salmon of knowledge is a potent image for me. I wonder at the experience of eating a bit of the fish and grasping the truth of life. I have a few observations about the story to share. Let my thoughts amplify your experience of the story without diminishing the significance of your moment.

Tuan’s shape-shifting reincarnation points to the shared source of being and unity of all things. This leads me to wonder about those today, in human and other forms, who are conscious of their journey and can tell their tale. Would I be able to hear it? Or is my understanding too limited? Are my prejudices too ingrained?

I notice the dedication of each man to his gods, a dedication born of experience and love, and the curiosity, openness, and love that their dialogue kindles in each of them. Their recognition of a shared love for the mystery, for what is greater than a single mortal life, this supersedes the specifics of their belief systems. What is your sense of Tuan’s reluctance to tell Finnian his family history? I can imagine others who find themselves in a contest of truth about the “real” God bringing this proof our right away. I have the sense that Tuan wondered about the impact that sharing his extraordinary, profound, and perhaps unbelievable genealogy would have on their conversation and the affection between them. For his part, Finnian listens. His scalp prickles with awareness of truth and he accepts the challenges this poses to his understanding.

What is suggested by the ending of the story? Is it a defeat of the old gods and the old ways? Tuan is baptized and yet there is an ambiguous note: “no man knows if he died,” that is, if his cycling through forms has ended. This gets me thinking about the evolution of the gods. As Joseph Campbell observed, our myths must change. Human culture and knowledge of the world are dynamic. The outer forms and stories that are important to people in a specific place and time appear and they must disappear. The new may erase the symbols of the old. Wisdom and insight may be lost or concealed.  But is this temporary? Permanent? Can the ultimate reality, the true form of life and cosmos, be eradicated? 

What is the necessary image or story to connect us to the ultimate reality today? 

I have a cool poem for you before we part ways so please hang with me through these few announcements. First, a big welcome to new email subscribers: Shannon, Virginia, Tony, Jeff, Mel, Katja, and Giedre. Welcome to Myth Matters!

If you’re new to Myth Matters, I invite you to head over to the Mythic Mojo website. You’ll find a transcript of this episode and you can also join the email list, if you’d like to receive links to new Myth Matters episodes in your inbox. You’ll also find information about my mentoring and consulting services.

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In closing, a poem by Stanley Kunitz titled “The Layers.” Kunitz said that the realization that he– that we– are living and dying at the same time was a primary motivation for his poetry. Something that Tuan must have also understood.

“The Layers” by Stanley Kunitz, from The Collected Poems of Stanley Kunitz

If we have a better understanding of our need for myth, and all that our old stories offer, we can live more satisfying lives. We can inhabit a better story and create a more beautiful, just and sustainable world. 

Feel free to email me in response to this episode or post a comment on the Mythic Mojo website.  If you have questions about mythology, I’ll do my best to answer them.

And that’s it for me, Catherine Svehla and Myth Matters. Thank you so much for listening. Take good care of yourself and until next time, keep the mystery in your life alive.