And Sétanta was ready. He'd acquired every skill needed to tame the ríastrad. But there is a difference between being well trained for a battle and actually facing the enemy. No training can fully prepare a warrior for when spears clash when two warriors lock arms and fight to the death.
But every warrior has to go through the initial dread of battle. His confidence comes not after training, but upon achieving victory after victory. It struck Sétanta that he'd pacified his fear, for a moment, by entertaining his experience as a warrior. Perhaps, he thought, that despite their very different dispositions, a warrior is not so different from a bard. There is, after all, a sort of poetry to battle. With the right verse, a verse to tame his spear, and thereby to tame the ríastrad, he could be both a bard and a warrior.
"COME, SÉTANTA! LET us celebrate your return to Ulster!"
Sétanta shook his head. "Your idea of a festival is, to me, more akin to a funeral."
King Conchobar shook his head. "Why must you be so stubborn? The life of a hero is no cause to lament. Your name will be remembered forever."
"What good is it to have a man's life retold again and again if he is dead, and the life he lived was one of misery?"
King Conchobar patted Sétanta on the back. "Nephew, it is not the circumstances of life that determine your happiness. It is, rather, your disposition with respect to the lot of life you've been given."
"So you're saying I should just tell myself that I want to live a hero's life?"
"Tell yourself enough times," the King said, "and eventually you might believe it."
"Doubtful," Sétanta shrugged.
"I'll tell you what," King Conchobar said, pulling at the tip of his long, white beard. "No celebrations. Rather, join me as my guest to a meal with Culann."
"Culann the smith?"
Conchobar nodded. "He's but a common man, who performs a common but a noble service. Perhaps if you hear of a common man's hopes and dreams it will offer some perspective to the life for which you're destined to lead."
Sétanta bit his lip. He wasn't exactly thrilled by the idea of having a meal with the local smith. Culann was a kind enough man, no doubt. But Sétanta knew what this was about. If Sétanta saw how a common man's livelihood depends on the valor of a few heroes, people like Sétanta who might rise up to defend Ulster from outside threats, he might find a hero's life is about more than bloodshed. But this wasn't news to Sétanta—he'd told the tales of heroes. He knew why people celebrated them. But a hero still had to live a life by the spear, a spear stained by the blood of men, and rarely enjoyed the life he protected for the likes of men like Culann the smith. Still, Sétanta couldn't deny a single meal with one noble citizen of Ulster was far preferable to the feast Conchobar had planned to otherwise celebrate his return.
"Very well," Sétanta said. "I'll join you for the feast."
"Splendid!" the King exclaimed. "Until then, I have matters of the kingdom to attend to. Meet us at Culann's just after sundown."
Sétanta nodded. "I'll be there."
Sétanta had some time to kill. He wasn't particularly fond of the idea of being noticed and recognized. Never before had people paid him much attention at all. But now they knew he had the ríastrad. They knew what he was... or at least what they thought he was. Still, dressed as he was, like the bards of Emain Macha rather than one of Ulster's hunters or warriors, few recognized who he was. Instead, they pegged him as a bard and, as was often the case when a traveling bard showed up in town, he attracted an audience.
So, Sétanta told his favorite tale. It was one most of them knew: the Tale of Ceridwen and Taliesin. But they had never heard him tell it. A good bard could tell a well-known tale a hundred times and still leave his audience clamoring to hear it again. Proper inflection, a good amount of rhetorical flourish, and an array of well-timed gestures were key.
The crowd was so enthralled by Sétanta's every word that he immediately went from one tale into the next.
Before he knew it the sun had set.
Sétanta quickly rose to his feet and brushed some dust from his behind. He'd been sitting on a stone as he told his tales. He'd lost track of time—the thrill of telling tales to the citizens of Ulster, it was different than telling tales to the bards of Emain Macha.
Those bards knew all the stories—they were more inclined to listen that they might critique his performances and advise him how he might improve. To tell tales to a crowd of genuinely eager common folk was far more rewarding. Sétanta took a deep breath, feeling more than satisfied with his experience.
How much time had passed since the sunset? Sétanta had to hurry. Being late to a meal—even one hosted by a common blacksmith—was considered poor manners. He dismissed the small crowd that had gathered around him to the tune of several groans. They wanted to hear more stories. But Sétanta was already late to dinner—how late, exactly, he wasn't quite sure.
Culann lived in a stone house on the outskirts of Ulster. While considered one of the common folk, due to the necessity of a smith to provide spears, blades, and armor to the kingdom's warriors, the blacksmith lived in relative luxury. A wise king, like Conchubar, treated his smiths well. It was one of many reasons, Sétanta imagined, that the king had graced Culann with his presence and why, furthermore, he invited the would-be hero of Ulster to join him.
Sétanta didn't like wearing heavy armor. The way he saw it, greater agility served him better in any conflict than a breastplate or a set of greaves. Such things limited the wearer's movement. Still, Sétanta valued a trustworthy spear. He'd need the blacksmith. Thus, in his mind, joining the king for a meal with the smith was something of a political gesture.
Still, Sétanta's mind was elsewhere as he approached the blacksmith's residence. The look of wonder on the faces of children, not to mention those of grown men and women, as he told his tales. That was what he'd been dreaming of. He got more of a thrill out of that than any sort of battle or hunt.
A loud bark startled Sétanta as he approached Culann's home.
He has a dog? Culann thought to himself. A half-second later a large hound was bounding toward him from the shadows, barking and snarling at him as if he were an intruder.
"Down boy," Sétanta said, trying to remain calm. But it didn't work. The dog growled at him. Sétanta wasn't surprised that the smith had a guard dog. Given his profession, his wares would make a fine bounty for thieves, particularly those looking to acquire weapons. It made sense. But Culann must've been expecting him. If Sétanta really was such a guest of honor, as King Conchobar had said, he imagined that Culann was eagerly anticipating his arrival. Why was his guard dog on the loose?
Sétanta didn't have his spear with him. Not that he wanted to fight the dog, but with his spear, he'd be able to keep the hound at a distance. A few whacks with the blunt end of his spear might also pacify the dog's apparent rage.
Sétanta took a few steps, cautiously, toward the dog. The closer he got to the dog the louder it barked.
"It's okay buddy... shhhh..."
Sétanta slowly lowered his closed fist toward the dog. One should never show an angry animal an open hand. That's how people lost fingers. A dog probably couldn't bite a finger off entirely, but a mangled hand wasn't desirable either.
The dog sniffed at Sétanta fist.
Then it snapped, sinking its jaws into Sétanta's forearm.
"Culann! Get your dog off of me!" Sétanta shouted, unsure if the dog's owner heard him.
Then his chest tightened... it was the same sensation he'd had before... when the Fomorian tried to steal his boar when the bandits confronted him on the road to Emain Macha. The power of the ríastrad was welling up inside his chest. But he didn't lose consciousness. He didn't lose control. He didn't even change shape—not completely. His skin hardened, resisting the dog's bite.
A strength filled his frame. He quickly swung his arm to spare it from the dog's attack.
But the dog went flying and struck the side of the well. The dog yelp
ed on impact, collapsing on the ground.
"No!" Sétanta yelled. He hadn't meant to hurt the dog, only to spare his arm. It was self-defense... but as Sétanta lowered his hand to the dog's body he felt no rise and fall of the hound's chest. He checked the dog's nostrils—no semblance of breath.
"What is the meaning of this!" a voice shouted from behind Sétanta as he knelt next to the dead dog.
"Culann," Sétanta said, rising to his feet. "My apologies... I didn't mean to harm your dog. He came after me. I thought you'd be expecting me..."
"You are hours late! The King, himself, has already left! Why wouldn't I leave my dog on the prowl?"
Sétanta dropped his head. Had he really missed the entire meal? It had only felt like he'd been telling his tales for an hour, maybe two. But if he'd missed the meal it must've been several hours more. No wonder Culann—a man with a thick frame, a long black beard, and thick hair on his arms and legs—had already retired for the night. "Tell me, Culann. How can I make this error up to you? I regret that I lost track of time."
"I cannot leave my wares unguarded. Until I can replace the hound, perhaps you can serve in his place."
"Me, a guard dog?"
Culann chuckled. "Is it so much a stretch? They say you have the ríastrad... you are a dog of a sort, already, are you not?"
Sétanta bit his tongue. So much for being considered a hero. He was just a dog. And now, he owed the blacksmith compensation for his loss. "Very well," Sétanta said. "I am at your service."
From that day forward the people of Ulster called Sétanta by the name of Cú Chulainn, that is, the hound of Culann. It was only a matter of weeks before Culann replaced his dog—but the nickname stuck If tales were ever to be told of him, Cú Chulainn was the name by which he'd evermore be known... no matter what else he did, no matter how many tales he told as a bard, or battles he might win as a hero, he'd be first remembered as the man who disrespected the Blacksmith, killing his hound.
11
WHAT DID THE Dagda mean when he said "the three shall become one?" Babd supposed it wasn't unheard of that a god might want many wives—even three sisters which, she figured, was probably the fulfillment of some kind of weird fantasy of his. Yes, even the gods had to have fantasies. Why wouldn't they? Babd and her sisters all followed the Dagda into his tent.
The place was enchanted. On the outside, the tent appeared to be barely large enough to accommodate the Dagda alone. But when Babd walked inside it was like she'd entered a great hall lined with cold smooth stones, torches consumed with red magic flames lining the walls. All the girls' footsteps echoed as they walked, following the Dagda, with Fear Doidrich following close behind. Babd practically felt Doidrich gawking at her behind as he followed them.
The hallway opened up into a larger dome-shaped room. In the middle was an altar, and in front of it, a giant cauldron bubbled with a liquid that seemed to sparkle beneath the magical lighting of the place.
"Sit on the altar," Doidrich said. "All three of you."
"Please don't sacrifice us!" Macha begged. "We're too young to die."
"My dear," the Dagda said, "I would not dare to snuff out your life. I intend to grant you each—all three of you together—a great gift. The gift of divinity!"
"Divinity?" Anand asked, choking on the word.
"Marriages between a god and mortals never end well," the Dagda said. "But of three human souls, one goddess might be forged."
Babd and her sisters exchanged glances. What girl wouldn't want to become a goddess? It wasn't the prospect of divinity that frightened all three of them. It was the loss of their individuality, the notion that they'd be forged into one person, one divinity.
But they didn't have a choice. To resist a god... it would have been pointless.
"Join your hands," Doidrich said.
Babd felt each of her sisters, standing on either side of her, grab her hands. Doidrich dipped two bowls into the cauldron and handed one to Macha and the other to Anand, who each took the bowls with their free hands. Then Doidrich dipped the third bowl into the cauldron and put it to Babd's lips.
"You must all drink at the same time," Doidrich said. "Place the bowls to your lips."
All three sisters did as they were told—they each drank from their bowls. Babd sipped carefully at first. It was unlike anything she'd ever tasted. Sweet and inviting. She instinctively gulped—it was as though she'd tasted divinity itself and couldn't get enough.
A tingle consumed her body. When Doidrich pulled the bowl from her lips she looked down at her body. Her eyes were blurred, her vision divided into threes—the sort of sensation one might have after consuming too much wine. Then the three visions coalesced into one...
She looked around—she didn't see her sisters. They were gone. And the body she had, it was different. Her skin, no longer pale and white, but a light shade of purple. A strength coursed through her limbs. She felt her chest. She had breasts... Babd gasped!
It was as though when all three girls combined they'd collectively aged into maturity. Babd seemed to be in control of the body... at least for now. But she wasn't alone. Her sisters were there. She felt them. She sensed them. They were there with her... or was she with them?
Babd's heartbeat accelerated as the Dagda approached. She stood, nearly matching his height. "A fitting wife. The beauty of one, the intelligence of the other... and the intrigue of the third. It is for that fleeting intrigue I shall name you, wife. For you are something of a phantom."
Babd nodded. She didn't dare speak. She was too shocked, too confused by whatever she'd become, to even begin forming words. She managed to crack a smile, but she hadn't willed it. Was that Macha or Anand who'd grinned? It must've been Macha...
"Behold, my apprentice," The Dagda said, gesturing toward Fear Doidrich. "Bear witness now to our marriage. The union of the good god and his phantom queen, the Morrigan!"
PART II:
The Morrigan ◈ Cú Chulainn
12
WHO AM I? I am Macha, the fairest of all the land. I am Anand, with all the wits of war. And I am Babd with her craftiness and magic. Though, even as Babd, I'd never realized I had such magic. When I was just Babd, I'd barely scratched the surface. Now, all the magic Babd ever had is realized and magnified in my divinity. I am the phantom queen, the Morrigan.
I am the triple Goddess. The three sisters are not lost. They are all here, alive and well. But together we are something more. When one of us speaks, we all speak. When one of us moves, we all move.
"Come and lie with me, wife," the Dagda said, snarling through his beard as he reclined in his bed.
"No thank you," I curtly replied. "Tell me what you did with our mother."
The Dagda reached down and adjusted himself before rolling onto his side. "She is well. Free of petty human concerns."
"If she was well, she would have come back to us."
The Dagda pulled at his beard. "I did not have use of her, wife. She was but a gesture of your father's sacrifice."
I winced. "Fionn."
The Dagda cocked his head.
"He's never been much of a father to us. Please, refer to him as Fionn."
"Very well. Your mother is the price he paid to acquire his Oxter. To think, foolish mortal, that he believed he could earn the praises of men if only his magic rivaled that of Diarmid Ua Duibhne!"
My stomach churned. "You're sick."
"It was not I who made the bargain."
"But you agreed to the terms," I snapped back.
"As I said, your mother is well."
"Where is she?"
"She grazes the countryside..."
"You turned my mother into a heifer?"
The Dagda laughed. "Of course not! She is but a doe."
I screamed, clenching my fists. "So now she must live in fear of hunters!"
The Dagda shook his head. "Her hide is impenetrable, wife. Fear not, she will live many years now free of your father."
"Fionn!" I lashed bac
k.
"Of course, she will no longer be subject to his abuses."
"Turn her back. Return her to me."
"Why should I do that? I can sense your reluctance to embrace our marriage. Lie with me, embrace me... and perhaps I will restore her to you."
I narrowed my eyes. "You rightly condemn Fionn as an abuser, but you attempt to use my mother to seduce me? You're no better than him!"
The Dagda sprung from his bed with more vigor I expected a mere man of his size would have been capable of. "I am a God! I am better than him! I am better than any man!"
"If you were better than any man, you wouldn't need to use my mother as a bargaining chip in a desperate attempt to compel my affections."
"Once you lie with me, wife, you will know pleasures beyond compare. There will be no more compulsion..."
I laughed out loud. "You flatter yourself too much, even for a god!"
"I made you, woman! And I can unmake you!"
"They call you the Dagda? The good god? You're no better than a brutish man. In fact, you're worse because you have power. You will not unmake me. To do so would be to admit your failure. And I suspect, from what I can tell, you're too proud to admit that you, the great Dagda, could not even convince the wife you made for yourself to join you in a tryst."
"You're infuriating, woman!" the Dagda stomped his foot, sending a quake through the earth.
"Goddess," I said. "I am not just a woman. I am a Goddess. And you will treat me as such."
"You're my phantom queen!"
"And I am the queen of what, exactly? Your own proclivities? Thank you, but I'll pass."
I turned my back to him and he shouted and a loud thud echoed across the room. I turned back to examine the source of the sound. The Dagda had released his over-sized manhood—or should I call it, his godhood—and slammed it on the table. I covered my mouth to prevent my laughter.
Gates of Eden: Starter Library Page 120
