Maeve thought for a long while, leaning also on her spear. Then she lifted her head and shouted back across the glen. ‘Better to advance a spear’s throw a day, than to advance not at all. And better to lose one man a day than a hundred. So be it then, Cuchulain, Hound of Ulster, I agree to your terms.’
11. The Fight at the Ford
SO CUCHULAIN TOOK his stand at the ford, and that same evening, Maeve sent against him the first of her champions, and they fought knee-deep in the shallows of the ford. But the fore-guard of the Irish host had not moved a bowshot from their last night’s camp before their champion went down with Cuchulain’s spear through his heart, and they must needs camp again for that night. But Cuchulain kept his word and they slept unmolested through the darkness. And the next day Maeve sent her second champion into battle, and that time the rest of the war host moved up and all of them were three spear throws farther north when the second combat ended as the first had done.
Champion after champion came, and each one Cuchulain met and slew, and each time the war hosts of Ireland advanced while the fight lasted, and halted and made camp for the night when the fighting was ended. At last the Queen chose to send Fergus Mac Roy himself against the Holder of the Ford; and when Cuchulain saw who it was that came against him a shock of cold fell upon his heart. But there was a thing in his foster father’s face, a flicker that was like laughter under the brown beard; and when they came together in the midst of the ford, Fergus whispered to him across the shield rim, ‘Will you run now, little fighting cock, if I do the same for you on another day?’ And the laughter leapt from Fergus into Cuchulain’s heart.
‘Surely, that is a fair bargain—but as it is yours to choose the time now, it shall be mine to choose the other time, when it is your turn to run.’
Then they struck at each other fierce and swift above the bronze shield rims, so that those looking on would think that they fought to the death indeed; and in a while Cuchulain allowed Fergus to strike the broad spear from his hand, and sprang back with a cry, and turned and ran.
Then all the war host of Maeve shouted and drummed spear on shield until it seemed that the very glens of Slieve Cuillen and Slieve Fuad rang with their scornful mirth. But nevertheless, the fight was over for that day, as Fergus reminded them, and himself swaggered back to stand beside the Queen’s chariot; and they made camp for another night, and in the morning sent yet another champion to the ford.
But Maeve, furious that one man should so hold up her whole war host, had made a plan; and so while this day’s fighting was going on—and it lasted long, for she had chosen for it one of the greatest of all the Connacht champions, Natchrantal—she gathered a war band of picked warriors, and leaving the rest of the war host to keep the bargain, drove headlong into Ulster like any wild cattle raider that ever was since the world began. And with none to hinder them, for Cuchulain had his hands full at the ford, and the men of Ulster still lay as though tranced in their weakness, they cut through into Armagh, burning and plundering as they went, until they came into the northern glens of Slieve Cuillen, and found the Brown Bull sheltering there with his herd of fifty favourite cows; and they drove him off in triumph, trampling and thundering his fury in their midst.
Now Cuchulain, having made an end of that day’s fight, was ranging the countryside in search of game, for Maeve’s army had all Ireland behind to feed them, but he and Laeg must hunt for themselves. And he beheld the Brown Bull in the midst of his captors, and rushed to the rescue, but though he slew many of the cattle raiders, among them their leader, Banblai Son of Buic, yet he could not bring off the Brown Bull, and with sick rage burning in his heart, must see the pride and the lord of the Ulster herds driven south into Connacht, while he was bound to the ford which at all costs he must defend—for he knew well enough that the fighting would not end with the capture of the Brown Bull that was the first reason for it. To dishonour the province of Ulster would not be enough now that the war host had tasted the wild-honey taste of plunder. And so it proved as the days went by.
Indeed now that she had broken her sworn bargain once, it seemed to Maeve that she might just as well cast it off altogether, and she began to loose her champions against Cuchulain no longer singly but sometimes in bands of ten or twenty at a time, so that he was sore beset and had wounds as well as weariness to drain his strength. And then a new danger came upon him, for one night as he lay too tired to sleep beside the little fire that Laeg had made for him, a woman came out of the dark into the firelight beside the chariot wheel. A woman young and good to look upon, with red hair and arched red eyebrows and a gown and mantle wrapped about her that were red as blood; and she bent over Cuchulain until her darkly glowing hair swept across his mouth, and let her eyes smile into his.
Cuchulain started to his elbow. ‘Who are you? If you come from the camp of Maeve of Connacht, let you go back there with whatever you have spied out to tell her.’
‘That is no courteous way to be speaking to a King’s daughter,’ said the woman.
‘What King would that be?’
‘The King of a very far country whose name you would not know. But even there we have heard of the Hound of Ulster and his mighty deeds. Therefore, I come, because I would see for myself, and now that I have seen—it is in my heart that here with the Hound of Ulster I will stay.’
Har voice was low and clear as the note of a small bronze bell, and her hands that were on his pleaded also; but Cuchulain shook her off.
‘I am worn out with fighting. There is no mind in me to be having aught to do with women.’
The woman sprang back and stood looking down at him. ‘It shall go hard with you, then,’ said she, ‘when next you have to do with men; for come tomorrow’s fighting, I shall be as an eel about your feet in the bottom of the ford.’
And suddenly between flicker and flutter of the firelight she was no longer there. Only a great black crow sat on the rim of the chariot above him, then rose with a derisive kaak, and flapped away. And he knew that he had been speaking with the Morrigan, the Lady of War herself. But Laeg still sat with his spear across his knees, blinking into the fire. Only the horses tethered nearby shifted uneasily, and almost it might have been a dream.
Yet when Cuchulain rose next morning and called Laeg to help him with his war gear, and went out yet again to defend the ford, there was a heaviness on him and a sense of dread that he had never known before. And hardly had he joined combat with Loch Son of Mofobis who was that day’s chosen champion, than a white heifer with red ears came plunging down the bank and thrust against his side, hampering his sword arm and driving up the sheets of spray to blind him, and Cuchulain snatched free a light throwing spear and flung it, catching her in the eye, and with a woman’s shriek she ceased to be. But in the same instant the coils of a great black eel were weaving and flowing and tightening around his feet, and while he staggered half off balance and striving to tear free, he lowered his shield a moment, and Loch’s spear caught him in the shoulder, and the eel was gone and in its place a great grey she-wolf with one eye sprang from the water at his throat. And as he staggered back, turning his spear against her, Loch struck in under his guard and wounded him in the flank. At that his battle fury rose, so that flinging off the she-wolf, who was gone like a curl of smoke, he leapt high in the air and drove his spear over Loch’s shield rim and deep into his breast, and split his heart in two.
Loch gave a shuddering cry and crashed down to his knees, yet clung there to his spear butt to keep from falling farther. ‘Let me up,’ he gasped, and the breath rattled in his throat. ‘Let me up, Hound of Ulster, that I may fall with my face to your side of the ford, not backward as one defeated, towards the war hosts of my own people!’
‘That is a warrior’s boon you ask,’ said Cuchulain, strangely gentle. ‘And gladly I grant it to you,’ and he stooped and set his arm about Loch Son of Mofobis, and aided him to rise and gain the farther bank and there Loch fell dead, with his face towards Ulster.
With the death of Loch, a great weariness and sorrow fell upon Cuchulain, so that it was as though the shadow of black wings hung between him and the sun, for he was weak with many wounds, and worn out with long fighting, and had slain men who he would fain have had for friends. And he had not slept for many nights, save leaning on his spear, and he knew that the time was coming when his heart and strength must fail.
On the second evening after Loch’s death, Cuchulain stood leaning against the chariot bow while Laeg tended his wounds, and looked out towards the hosts of Ireland that by now had all but reached the ford. ‘Surely behind us there must be some beginning to stir from their weakness,’ he said. ‘Do you start northward at first light, take the first horse you find on your way, and make for Emain Macha. Rouse me out whatever of men you can, even the merest war-knot, for the time is coming when I can no longer hold the marches of Ulster alone.’
‘My heart is sore to leave you here,’ Laeg said, ‘but if the voice of one man can rouse Ulster, then Ulster shall rouse and come to your aid.’
And when the morning came, he set off for Emain Macha, while Cuchulain, suddenly more alone than ever in his life before, turned back to face the war hosts of Maeve. That evening he made his own fire, and lay down with his cloak about him as he had lain so many nights, at the foot of an ancient grave mound where there was shelter from the bitter wind that was stripping the last blackened leaves from the alder trees. But he missed sorely the soft whistling of Laeg as he made ready the evening food, and desolation wrapped him round so that for very weariness he could have laid his head on his arm and wept like an unhappy girl-child of seven summers.
For a while he lay watching the camp fires of Munster and Connacht across the river, so many and many camp fires, and his own small fire solitary like himself at the foot of Da Derga’s grave mound. And as he watched, he saw a man walking through the great camp, lit and lost and lit again by the watch fires, and no man stirring nor turning to look as he went by. His tunic shimmered with goldwork and his speckled green cloak was fastened with a brooch like a silver targe. On one arm he carried a black shield bordered and studded with silver, and in his right hand, two spears. He came straight down to the ford and crossed over, his feet as light and sure on the water as they had been another time on the bog cotton grass. And watching him come, Cuchulain remembered suddenly where he had seen the man before.
The stranger came and bent over him, his face sternly kind in the firelight whose radiance seemed to blur and blend with his own. ‘A hard fight you have fought, my Hound, and there is more fighting yet to do. You are weary and stiff with wounds and have not slept for many nights. Sleep now, Cuchulain my son; three days and three nights you shall sleep, as quiet as Chieftain Derga in his grave mound.’
‘And who will hold the ford?’
‘I will hold the ford, and no one shall know that it is not yourself that holds it.’
And Cuchulain knew, as though it were a thing he had always known, that Lugh his father had come to stand with him in his sorest need. Then he fell into a sleep as deep as the bottom of Lough Ney and as dark and soft as the fur of the black beavers that build there; and never knew when Lugh the Sun Lord laid healing herbs to his wounds, nor when, at next day’s sunrise, he took up Cuchulain’s weapons, and with them Cuchulain’s whole aspect so that no mortal man could have guessed that he was not indeed the Hound of Ulster, and strode down to the ford.
And still the men of Ulster lay helpless, from the King in Emain Macha to the youngest spear-bearer at his gate, for all that Laeg could do to rouse them. But in the Boys’ House life was as usual, for the Great Weakness fell only upon grown men; and when the boys in training heard from Laeg how sorely it went with Cuchulain their hero (and there were some there still, on the verge of Taking Valour, who remembered Cuchulain as the Leader of the Boys’ House when first they came to it), they caught up their weapons, and some took the chariots and horses from the stables, and with Follaman the King’s youngest son for their captain, they marched out to meet the war hosts of Ireland, for the honour of Ulster and the aiding of the Hound. And beside the King’s tall weapon-hacked pillar stone, they swore that they would not return to Emain Macha without Ailell’s crown for a trophy.
They came up with the enemy, and three times they charged them, yelling their war-cry; and at each charge three times their number fell before them; but at each charge there were fewer left of the Boys’ Band, until they dwindled to a mere valiant handful, storming forward at their young captain’s heels, flinging themselves upon the enemy spears, until the last went down under the hooves of the chariot teams. And so they kept their faith with Cuchulain and their vow at the King’s pillar stone, and since they could not bring back the crown of Ailell hanging on their spears, they came never back to Emain Macha at all, and the women who wept for them were their mothers.
All this came to pass while Cuchulain lay in his tranced sleep; and when he woke, feeling well and strong as though the morning were the morning of the world, he saw the boys’ bodies scattered through the Gap of the North, and all across the battle ground, and understood what had passed.
Then a great rage rose in him, a high wind of rage that beat blood red before his eyes. And he cried aloud to the morning emptiness, ‘Nobly you have kept faith with me, young brothers! So now will I keep faith with you!’ and he armed himself and harnessed Black Seinglend and the Grey of Macha who still grazed near by. For this time there would be no waiting at the ford for the enemy to come to him. That was over. And as he worked, quietly and unhurriedly, talking to the horses as he led each up beside the hollywood yoke-pole, and secured the swinging harness, encouraging and making much of them as a good charioteer should do, the red haze beat and beat and beat behind his eyes, and in his ears the blood was like the pounding of the wolfskin war drums that the Dark People make in the hills in the time of sacrifice.
When all was ready he leapt into the chariot, and with a yell headed straight for the war host of Maeve, sending up great wings of water on either side as he thundered across the ford, and as he went, feet wide planted on the lurching chariot floor, knotting the reins about and about his waist, that he might have both hands free. And with that yell, the battle frenzy that until that moment he had kept leashed and muzzled, burst free and leapt up in him, and the Hero light flared upon his forehead, and as the horrified men of Ireland sprang for their weapons, it seemed to them that some fiend hooded with fire and driving the flying steeds of Hell, came thundering down upon them, sweeping with him the spread wings of a black and mighty tempest to engulf them all.
Cuchulain did not charge straight upon the war host, but yelling, howling, singing to his flying team, he thundered about and about and about the host, until the shrieking chariot wheels that spurted fire at every flint in the way, ploughed the earth to ruts like the ditches of a mighty camp; and the dartings of his great spear were bright and blasting strokes of the lightning flash that slew all before it; and the curved war-blades on the chariot wheels caught and mangled and mowed down the enemy until bodies were piled upon bodies for a fortress wall within the ditches of the camp. And with Cuchulain went a wild and screaming wind and darkness that was full of terror and flying things, and as he yelled in his wrath, every demon and night-thing in all Ireland shrieked and howled in answer. And as terror of the Unseen in the war host mounted upon the terror of the Hound of Ulster, men swayed and surged together, each one hampering his comrade’s spear arm, and some fell by each other’s weapons and others were trampled to death or crushed by the terrified chariot steeds loose in their midst, and some fell dead from fear alone, as a man choking in the grip of a hideous dream. And only when day had worn away to first starlight, and the horses of his team were quenched and weary, Cuchulain drew them off and returned to his own place.
Close on two hundred chiefs and princes of the hosts of Maeve died that day, and lesser warriors and horses and war-hounds and women without number.
And this was called e
ver after ‘The Slaughter of Murthemney’; the slaughter that Cuchulain made in vengeance for the death of the Boys’ Band.
12. The Death of Ferdia
THAT NIGHT MAEVE called a council among those that were yet living of her chiefs and princes, and they determined to loose upon Cuchulain the terrible Clan Calatin.
Now the Clan Calatin was a wizard of great and dreadful power, and he and his twenty-seven sons formed one being, so that each son was as it were a limb of the father, in the way that elm suckers are still part of the tree they spring from; a whole war band sharing one mind and one heart. So venomous they were that any weapon they handled would kill within nine days if it so much as broke the skin.
And so next morning as Cuchulain turned away from tending the horses—he had lain down to sleep in full war gear as usual—he saw this ghastly monster trotting towards the ford, a spear in every right hand.
Cuchulain caught up his own spear and ran, and the monster, seeing him, quickened to a run also, seeming to flow many-legged along the ground like a pack of hounds. And so both came racing down to meet at the ford, and as they neared, Clan Calatin checked an instant and flung at the Ulster champion its whole flight of venomed spears.
While the flight was yet in the air, Cuchulain flung his own spear in return, and all twenty-eight of the monster’s barbs he caught on his shield so that not one of them would draw a single drop of blood. But with the weight of the shafts dragging down on the great bullshide buckler it was quite unmanageable, and as he snatched his sword from its sheath to hack them away, the monster sprang at him, swifter than any mortal flesh and blood could strike, and seizing him in a grip that had the strength of eight and twenty men, flung him down, and snarling and slavering, ground his face into the sharp river-washed gravel at the ford’s edge.
The Hound of Ulster Page 11
