Fionn and the Salmon of Knowledge

Tonight’s story comes from far-off Ireland. It’s an island with so much rain that the grass stays green all year round, which is why people call it the Emerald Isle. The Irish have been telling stories about Fionn for more than eight hundred years.

Long ago there lived a boy called Demne. His father had some very dangerous enemies, so from a young age Demne had to live far from home, raised by others out in the woods. When he was a little older, he went to the banks of the River Boyne and asked an old poet called Finegas to teach him poetry.

In those days in Ireland, poets were greatly respected. They had to know a huge number of stories and songs, and the names of places and people all over the land. Learning to be a poet took a whole lifetime.

Finegas had been living by that river for seven years. For seven years he had waited, every single day, for one particular salmon. People said that in the river there was a Salmon of Knowledge, which had eaten the hazelnuts that fell from the trees around a sacred well. And it had been foretold that Finegas would eat that salmon, and once he had, there would be nothing in the world he did not know.

Then one day, the salmon really came. Finegas was overjoyed. He gave it to Demne to cook, and told him again and again: “Cook it for me. But don’t you eat a single bite.”

Demne sat by the fire and watched over it. The wood crackled. Slowly the fish cooked, its skin turning golden and sizzling. After a while, a little blister puffed up on the skin, and Demne pressed it down with his thumb.

Hot! He snatched his hand back and popped his thumb straight into his mouth, the way anyone does when they touch a hot pan.

When the fish was ready, Demne took it to his teacher. Finegas looked at him for a long moment, then asked, “Did you eat any of it?” “No. But when I pressed down the blister on the skin, I burnt my thumb, and I put it in my mouth.”

Finegas hadn’t asked about his thumb. But Demne told the truth anyway.

Then Finegas asked, “What is your name?” “Demne.” “No, it isn’t. Your name is Fionn. The salmon in the prophecy was meant for you, not for me.”

He had waited seven years, and still he gave the whole salmon to his pupil. Fionn sat down and ate it.

And from that day on, whenever Fionn put his thumb to his mouth, the things he didn’t yet know would slowly come to him, as clearly as if they were right in front of his eyes.

That boy grew up to be Fionn mac Cumhaill, a brave and wise leader. The Irish have told stories about him for hundreds of years, and on the banks of the Boyne, they still do.