‘Nechtan,’ Cuchulain said when he heard the name. ‘Are they the Sons of Nechtan of whom it is said that among them they have slain more Ulster men than are now living on the earth?’
‘They are so,’ said Laeg.
‘Then to visit the Sons of Nechtan we will go.’
Laeg looked at him, frowning his sandy brows. ‘Do not play too rashly with this fire for the furze of Connacht. We are but two, and the Sons of Nechtan are many.’
‘Nevertheless, I have a mind to visit them,’ Cuchulain said, playing a little with the great war spear in his hand.
And so they drove with the swiftness of a scudding storm down through Murthemney and into Bregia, and it would have been three days’ journey to any horses save those of Cuchulain’s, with any charioteer save Laeg.
Now before the Dūn of the Sons of Nechtan was a wide green meadow on which the young men were wont to race their chariots and to practise the arts of war. And in the midst of the meadow stood a tall pillar stone worn smooth by the multitude of weapons that had been sharpened on it, and about the shaft of the stone was a bronze collar on which showed the word-signs of the Ogham script. And when Cuchulain had dismounted from the chariot and gone closer, he found that it set upon any stranger who should read it the geise that he should not depart again without meeting in single combat one of the seven brothers who were the lords of the Dūn.
Then he laughed. ‘Surely there is no need of this stone and its message, for it bids me to do the very thing that brought me here!’ and laughing still, he flung his arms round the great stone and began to wrestle with it as though it were a living thing, heaving it to and fro until it came at last clear out of the earth into his arms. And then he flung it into the river that ran close below the Dūn.
Laeg, who had sprung down to stand at the horses’ heads, cried out to him, ‘You fool, Cuchulain! To go seeking adventure is one thing, but to go with both hands open, begging for a violent death, is another; and now you will surely find what you seek!’
The words were scarce out of his mouth before Foill the eldest son of Nechtan came striding down from the gate, just as he was, in a ram skin buckled with gold about his waist and no weapon in his hand. ‘That was discourteously done!’ he said. ‘For what reason do you throw the pillar stone of my house into the river?’
‘For a challenge, according to the words upon the collar.’
‘All that is needful is to strike with the spear blade upon the stone,’ Foill said with contempt. ‘But I do not slay boys, even boys with the strength and foolishness to overthrow my pillar stone!’
‘No, I know that you kill men—all the men of Ulster whose backs are to your spear! Now go and fetch out your weapons, for I slay neither drivers nor messengers nor unarmed men!’
Then Foill seemed to grow taller, and the brown hairs at his beard curled upward as though each hair had an angry life of its own. ‘For that insult I will indeed fetch out my weapons,’ he said deep in his throat as the snarl of a wolf, and turned and strode back towards the gates of his Dūn.
‘Now what is to be done?’ Laeg growled when he was gone. ‘Did your nurse never tell you when she danced you on her knee, that Foill Son of Nechtan is proofed by magic spells against the edge or point of any blade? Not Lugh’s bright spear itself can pierce his hide.’
‘But this may,’ Cuchulain said, and he brought from his breast his old supple sling, and set into its pouch a sling ball of iron mixed with silver; and he waited. And when Foill came striding back with his shield up and his war gear clanging on him, Cuchulain let fly at him with a shout like a boy letting fly at a marsh bird, and the sling ball struck him on the forehead and drove through war cap and bone into his brain, so that he leapt up into the air and fell face forward with no sound save the clangour of his armour.
Then Cuchulain sprang forward, drawing his sword, and with one mighty stroke shored through the strong neck of Foill Mac Nechtan, and pulling off the helmet, took up the head and knotted it by the long hair to his chariot rim.
Scarcely had he done so, when the second son of Nechtan, having seen from the ramparts the ill fate of his brother, came running, sword in hand; and him Cuchulain fought and killed with the sword, and knotted his head beside that of Foill to his chariot rim, while the horses stamped and snorted at the smell of blood; and so it went on until there were seven heads hanging for trophies at the rim of Cuchulain’s chariot, and no more sons of Nechtan to take up the fight. Then Cuchulain cleaned his sword on the grass and bade Laeg to make fire from his fire-pot, and they pulled branches of heather and dead furze and dipped them in the flame and flung them blazing over the gate of the Dūn, and then galloped away, leaving the fortress roaring up like a great torch behind them.
All night they drove between the moon and the darkened heather, and at dawn a great flock of wild swans flew over, and Cuchulain brought down sixteen of them alive with his light sling stones and tied them to the chariot by long leashes of silk pulled from the hem of his tunic, so that they circled overhead as he drove; for by now, with the fighting and his triumph the battle frenzy was growing upon him, and he could perform feats of strength and skill that were beyond any man in his right nature. And when they saw in the distance a herd of deer, he bade Laeg to turn the horses after them and whip them to their fullest speed; then seeing that even such horses as his could not overtake them, he sprang down from the chariot and ran them down on foot, and took with his naked hands the two great stags who were the lords of the herd, and tied them with the spare picket ropes to the sides of the chariot as though they had been wheelers of a four-horse team. Then with Laeg lashing on the horses, they thundered on towards Emain Macha.
That evening at the Royal Dūn, a warrior of Conor Mac Nessa who had been on watch upon the ramparts went running to the King in such haste that he scarce remembered to touch spear to forehead in salute before he burst into the tale he had to tell. ‘My Lord the King, there is a chariot rushing towards the Dūn, the like of which no man ever saw before, for wild swans circle above it and two stags are the wheelers of the team, and it is hung all round with the bleeding heads of enemies!’
Then Conor Mac Nessa snatched up his spear and hurried to the ramparts to see who it was that drove to Emain Macha in such strange manner. And looking out into the fiery light of sunset, he saw that the chariot-warrior was Cuchulain and that for the first time his full battle frenzy had come upon him. Now as the years went by this battle frenzy of Cuchulain’s became a thing that all men knew and trembled at; and the way of it was this: from head to heel he quivered like a bullrush in a running stream, and the muscles of his neck stood out like the coils of a writhing serpent. One eye sank deep into his head, and the other thrust out, full of flames, and foam burst from his mouth like the fleece of a three-year-old ram and his heartbeats sounded like the roars of a lion as he rushes on his prey. A light blazed upon his forehead, and his hair grew tangled as the branches of a thorn bush. And from the crown of his head sprang a jet of dark blood that shot tree-high towards the sky and spread into a rolling murk that cast its shadow all about him.
And watching him now, as the wild team swept nearer, Conor the King knew that he was like a bull run wild and would slay all things in his path, whether friend or foe. He knew also that only one thing would hold him and that was the shock of shame; and he sent word swiftly to the maidens of Emain Macha to fling off their gowns and run and stand naked in his path when the gates were opened.
A score or more of the swiftest and most valiant did as he bade them, so that when Cuchulain crashed upon the gates of the Dūn like a thunderbolt, and they were flung back (since none might hold them against him) he saw the girls standing before him all across the way, naked as the day their mothers brought them into the world, with the sunset light flushing their bodies to the rose and gold of autumn honeysuckle. And shame pierced through his frenzy and reached him when nothing else could have done, that the girls of Emain Macha must do this because of him, and as Laeg f
ought the maddened team to a halt, and the wild swans beat in panic overhead, he bowed his head upon the chariot rim.
But still he quivered like an aspen tree, and the red light shone about his head, and Conor’s warriors came running, a score of them together, and seizing him from the chariot, plunged him into a vat of cold well-water that had been made ready meanwhile.
Almost at once the water began to hiss and boil around him as though he were a red-hot sword for tempering, and the hoops of the great vat burst and the staves flew outwards, and they dragged Cuchulain from the wreckage and plunged him into a second vat and then into a third, until at last his battle-fury cooled, and they held in their midst only a slight, dark young man who seemed very weary.
And presently he went to his own place among the bothies of the Red Branch Warriors, and put on fresh clothes in place of those that were sodden and scorched and blood-fouled, and then went to supper in the King’s Hall, just as though he had never set out to harry the Marches of Connacht.
6. Cuchulain’s Wedding
NOW THAT HE had become a warrior indeed, Cuchulain knew that he could go to Emer whenever at all he chose, and that this time she would bid him to come in. But she had turned him away to please herself and now the girl should wait until it pleased him to come again. And so the days went by and he spent them hunting and hawking with his fellows, and did not go near Dūn Forgall at all. There was plenty of time for that, or so he thought.
And then one day, passing Fedelm the wife of Laery as she stood in the gateway of the Women’s Courtyard watching a group of children at play, he would have stopped to pass the time of day with her; but she cast one look at him and turned away to leave him with the words of greeting half spoken.
Surprised and midway to laughter, he called after her, ‘Now, Fedelm, do you shake me off like a dung beetle about your skirts?’
And she checked and looked back. ‘Surely I may choose who I speak with and who I do not speak with?’
‘I have never been one that you did not speak with before. What have you against me, Fedelm?’
Fedelm’s eyes flashed upon him. ‘I have this against you, that you forget too easily. Before you went to Skatha’s War School you were hot as fire to take Emer from her father’s hearth, and now you hunt and fly your hawks while the King of Munster comes courting her! It is in my heart to hope that her memory is as short as yours, for if not, it’s crying out for you she’ll be, since there’s little mercy she’ll get from Forgall her father, if her choice does not run with his! And you forgetting her all the while.’
The laughter of Cuchulain went out as though she had struck him in the face. ‘The King of Munster? Grief upon me! I did not know that was the way of it!’
‘You might have known, if you had cared to listen. It is a thing that blows about on the wind, for any man to know.’
‘However that may be, I did not know!’ Cuchulain said. ‘I did but mean that she should wait a little, in payment for the waiting she put upon me,’ and he turned on his heel with no more said, and went striding off to the stables and chariot sheds, where the drivers were playing knucklebones in the autumn sunshine.
He shouted for Laeg his charioteer to yoke the horses without delay. ‘We are done with hunting for a while, my King of Drivers! We are for the Dūn of Forgall the Wily, to bring home a bride.’
‘It is not fitting that the groom should go without a groomsman at his back, to fetch the bride away,’ said Laeg, leaving his game.
And laughter returned to Cuchulain and he called to Conall who was passing the stables, ‘I am away to fetch my bride. Will you come with me for my groomsman?’
And Conall said, ‘Surely, though it’s little enough help I’ll be, with the wounds scarce healed on me. I and who else?’
‘Any who choose to come.’
‘In that case you will be driving to Dūn Forgall with half the host of Ulster at your back.’
‘Fergus Mac Roy, then,’ Cuchulain said. ‘Always he has been as a father to me, and it is right that he should come with me now. And Laery if he chooses, and the three sons of Usna. That should be enough, with the charioteers. Bid them all bring their weapons.’
And Cuchulain and Conall looked at each other, eye into kindling eye.
And so a little later when the shadows were shortening under the ramparts, Cuchulain set out at the head of six chariots, to fetch home Emer from her father’s hearth though she were ten times promised to the King of Munster. And he and the Red Branch Warriors who followed him were clad all in the brilliant plaids of green and black and red and saffron, and the ornaments of gold and bronze that befitted a bridal party; and fluttering scarves were tied to the chariot rims; but each man’s war cap hung among the coloured scarves, and under the gay mantles he wore his battle shirt, and he tossed up his weapons in his hand.
In the evening of another day they came thundering up through the faint frosty mist of late autumn to the great turf and timber walls of Dūn Forgall, and smelled the warm reek of the byres and the tang of wood-smoke hanging low in the evening air. It was still daylight, but already the gates were closed with the thorn barricades. And springing from his chariot Cuchulain beat his spear across his shield rim, calling for the people within to open up to him. A warrior stepped out of the mist on to the open rampart that flanked the gateway, and stood looking down at him, leaning on his spear.
‘Who calls for entrance when the gates are closed?’
‘Who closes the gates before cowstalling time?’ Cuchulain called up, standing on widespread feet.
‘Forgall the Wily closes the gates of his own Dūn in his own time. Who calls for entrance?’
‘Cuchulain of Ulster, come to bring away his bride.’
Heads were showing all along the rampart now; the man’s eyes widened, and he laughed and stepped back, and a few moments later, as Cuchulain still stood staring up at the crest of the timber facing, another figure appeared in his stead, the tall shape of Forgall the Wily, clad in the long dark robes that marked his rank among the Druid kind, with the sacred gold lunula on his breast but a naked sword in his hand.
‘Go home again, Cuchulain of Ulster. It does not please me that any man should come shouting under the walls of Dūn Forgall for a bride.’
‘Not even Lugaid of Munster?’ Cuchulain shouted back.
Forgall’s lips twisted in a smile. ‘Would that be any concern of yours, my little hound puppy?’
For that moment, Cuchulain swallowed the insult. ‘It is this concern of mine, that the thing has been settled between me and Emer this year and more. And as for this Munster kingling, save for a crown that sits unsure upon his head, what way would he have more to offer than myself? What better could you want for the maiden than the hearth of Cuchulain of the Red Branch of Ulster?’
‘A hearth of my own choosing, and that not within Ulster’s borders,’ said Forgall.
‘And you will not let her come out to me, though her own heart comes before her?’
‘I will not.’
‘Then,’ shouted Cuchulain, ‘it seems that I must come in to fetch her!’ and he spoke over his shoulder to his comrades behind him; and then gathering himself together, he made the Hero’s Salmon Leap up and clear over the strong ramparts of Dūn Forgall, and landed on his feet among the warriors inside. They rushed upon him from all quarters, and he dealt them three mighty sword blows, and at each blow eight men went down. Yet still others came crowding in on him, for Forgall kept many champions in his Dun. And meanwhile, as he fought them, yelling his battle cry above the clash of weapons, those of Cuchulain’s band still outside had brought out the fire-pot Laeg carried, and were flinging their kindled torches into the mass of dry thornwork that closed the gate, and behind him he heard the snap and crackle of it, and the roar as it went up in a sheet of flame. And through the fire and the rolling smoke, Laeg and the chariots, each driver crouching out along the yoke pole with his cloak flung over the horses’ eyes, came crashing, and the warriors sprang
down to Cuchulain’s side even as the maddened teams clove into the mass of Forgall’s men ahead of them. Now Forgall himself sprang at Cuchulain, big and deadly as a bull of the wild black mountain cattle, his eyes and his nostrils blazing red, but Cuchulain turned in one leap and took the blow of the other’s blade on his buckler. So fierce was the blow that the sword point jammed in the coloured bullshide, and, bearing down on both shield and sword together, Cuchulain tore the weapon from his grasp, then flung sword and buckler in his face, and leapt upon him, with his own sword biting deep upon the other’s shield.
Forgall gave back towards the earth-cut rampart steps, snatching at his dagger, and so, the one with a long sword, the other with shield and dagger, they fought close-locked up the steps to the rampart walk, along the crest of the great turf bank, until Forgall felt at his back the raw timbers of the stockade. Lithe and desperate as a wild beast cornered, he doubled and twisted, seeking to break clear, but on all sides it seemed, he was hemmed in by the leaping sword-point of the Ulster hero. And at last, with a cry of furious despair, he too hurled his shield into his enemy’s face, then turning, flung himself across the timber coping of the stockade.
He turned over as he fell, struck against the stone roots of the wall, and was flung off into the ditch, and among the furze scrub in the bottom of the ditch he lay still, spreadeagled in the light of the burning gateway.
In the forecourt of the Dūn the battle was slackening, and Cuchulain burst through it and ran towards the women’s quarters, his sword still naked in his hand. The women were clustered like bats in the darkness, squealing somewhere at the back of the bower, all save Emer herself, and she had come out to the doorway and stood there waiting for him, with the last light of the burning thorn bushes shining in her eyes.
‘I have won the place you bade me, among the Chariot Chieftains,’ Cuchulain panted. ‘I have slain my hundreds, and the harpers sing of me in the King’s Hall. And so I come again—that also you bade me—but I could not wait for you to bid me to come in.’
The Hound of Ulster Page 5
