Cuchulainn sprang down lightly, acknowledged the greeting with a casual wave, then swung to Shea. “Mac Shea, I am thinking that you are of quality, and as you are not altogether the ugliest couple in the world, you will be eating with me.” He waved an arm. “Bring the food, darlings.”
Cuchulainn’s henchmen busied themselves, with a vast amount of shouting, and running about in patterns that would have made good cat’s cradles. One picked up a stool and carried it across the clearing, a second immediately picked it up again and took it back to where it had been.
“Do you think they’ll ever get around to feeding us?” said Belphebe in a low tone. But Cuchulainn merely looked on with a slight smile, seeming to regard the performance as somehow a compliment to himself.
After an interminable amount of coming and going, the stool was finally established in front of the lean-to. Cuchulainn sat down on it and with a wave of his hand, indicated that the Sheas were to sit on the ground in front of him. The charioteer Laeg joined them on the ground, which was still decidedly damp after the rain. But, as their clothes had not dried, it didn’t seem to matter.
A man brought a large wooden platter on which were heaped the champion’s victuals, consisting of a huge cut of boiled pork, a mass of bread, and a whole salmon. Cuchulainn laid it on his knees and set to work on it with fingers and his dagger, saying with a ghost of a smile, “Now according to the custom of Ireland, Mac Shea, you may challenge the champion for his portion. A man of your inches should be a blithe swordsman, and I have never fought with an American.”
“Thanks,” said Shea, “but I don’t think I could eat that much, anyway, and there’s a—what do you call it?—a geas against my fighting anyone who has done something for me, so I couldn’t after the way you saved us.” He addressed himself to the slab of bread on which had been placed a pork chop and a piece of salmon, then glanced at Belphebe and added: “Would it be too much trouble to ask for the loan of a pair of knives? We left in a rather a hurry and without our tools.”
A shadow flitted across the face of Cuchulainn. “It is not well for a man of his hands to be without his weapons. Are you sure, now, that they were not taken away from you?”
Belphebe said: “We came here on a magical spell, and as you doubtless know, there are some that cannot be spelled in the presence of cold iron.”
“And what could be truer?” agreed Cuchulainn. He clapped his hands and called: “Bring two knives, darlings. The iron knives, not the bronze.” He chewed, looking at Belphebe. “And where would you be journeying to, darlings?”
Shea said, “Back to America, I suppose. We sort of—dropped in to see the greatest hero in Ireland.”
Cuchulainn appeared to take the compliment as a matter of course. “You come at a poor time. The expedition is over, and now I am going home to sit quietly with my wife Emer, so there will be no fighting.”
Laeg looked up with his mouth full and said: “You will be quiet if Meddling Maev and Ailill will let you, Cucuc. Some devilment they will be getting up, or it is not the son of Riangabra I am.”
“When my time comes to be killed by the Conachta, then I will be killed by the men of Conacht,” said Cuchulainn, composedly. He was still looking at Belphebe.
Belphebe asked: “Who stands at the head of the magical art here?”
Cuchulainn said: “It is true that you said you have a taste for magic. None is greater, nor will be, than Ulster’s Cathbadh, adviser to King Conchobar. And now you will come with me to Muirthemne in the morning, rest and fit yourselves, and we will go to Emain Macha to see him together.”
He laid aside his platter and took another look at Belphebe. The little man was as good with a trencher as he was with a sling; there was practically nothing left, and he had had twice as much as Shea.
“That’s extremely kind of you,” said Shea. “Very kind indeed.” It was so very land that he felt a twinge of suspicion.
“It is not,” said Cuchulainn. “For those with the gift of beauty, it is no more than their due that they should receive all courtesy.”
He was still looking at Belphebe, who glanced up at the darkening sky. “My lord,” she said, “I am somewhat fordone. Would it not be well to seek our rest?”
Shea said, “It’s an idea. Where do we sleep?”
Cuchulainn waved a hand towards the grove. “Where you will, darlings. No one will disturb you in the camp of Cuchulainn.” He clapped his hands. “Gather moss for the bed of my friends.”
When they were alone, Belphebe said in a low voice: “I like not the manner of his approach, though he has done us great good. Cannot you use your art to transport us back to Ohio?”
Shea said: “I’ll take a chance on trying to work out the sorites in the morning. Remember, it won’t do us any good to get back alone. We’ve got to take Pete, or we’ll be up on a charge of kidnapping or murdering him, and I don’t want to go prowling through this place at night looking for him. Besides, we need light to make the passes.”
###
Early as they rose, the camp was already astir about them and a fire lighted. As Shea and Belphebe wandered through the camp, looking for Brodsky, they noted it was strangely silent, the elaborate confusion of the previous evening being carried on in whispers or dumb show. Shea grabbed the arm of a bewhiskered desperado hurrying past with a bag of something to inquire the reason.
The man bent close and said in a fierce whisper: “Sure, ’tis that himself is in his sad mood, and keeping his booth. If you would lose your head, it would be just as well to make a noise.”
“There’s Pete,” said Belphebe.
The detective waved a hand and came towards them from under the trees. He had somehow acquired one of the deerskin cloaks, which was held under his chin with a brass brooch, and he looked unexpectedly cheerful.
“What’s the office?” he asked in the same stage whisper the others were using as he approached them.
“Come with us,” said Shea. “We’re going to try to get back to Ohio. Where’d you get the new clothes?”
“Aw, one of these muzzlers thought he could wrestle, so I slipped him a little jujitsu and won it. Listen, Shea, I changed my mind. I ain’t going back. This is the Real McCoy.”
“But we want to go back,” said Belphebe, “and you told us just yesterday that if we showed up without you, our fate would be less than pleasant.”
“Listen, give it a rest. I’m on the legit here, and with that magical stuff of yours, you could be, too. At least I want to stay for the big blow.”
“Come this way,” said Shea, leading away from the centre of the camp to where there was less danger of their voices causing trouble. “What do you mean by the ‘big blow’?”
“From what I got,” said Pete, “I figured out when we landed. This Maev and Ailill are rustling out the mob and heeling them up to give Cuchulainn a bang on the head. They got all the cousins of people he’s bumped off in on the caper, and they’re going to put a geas on him that will make him go up against them all at once, and then boom. I want to stay for the payoff.”
“Look here,” said Shea, “you said only yesterday that we had to get you back within a week. Remember? It was something about your probably being seen going into our house and not coming out.”
“Sure, sure. And if we go back, I’ll alibi you. But what for? I’m teaching these guys to wrestle, and what with your magic, maybe you could even take the geas off the big shot and he wouldn’t get shoved over.”
“Perhaps I could at that,” said Shea. “It seems to amount to a kind of psychological compulsion by magical means, and between psychology and magic, I ought to make it. But no—it’s too risky. I daren’t take the chance with him making eyes at Belphebe.”
They had emerged from the clump of trees and were at the edge of the slope, with the early sun just touching the tops of the branches above them. Shea went on: “I’m sorry, Pete, but Belphebe and I don’t want to spend the rest of our lives here; and if we’re going, we’ve got to
go now. As you said. Now, you two hold hands. Give me your other hand, Belphebe.”
Brodsky obeyed with a somewhat sullen expression. Shea closed his eyes, and began: “If either A or (B or C) is true, and C or D is false . . .” motioning with his free hand to the end of the sorites.
He opened his eyes again. They were still at the edge of a clump of trees, on a hill in Ireland, watching the smoke from the fire as it rose above the trees to catch the sunshine.
Belphebe asked, “What’s amiss?”
“I don’t know,” said Shea desperately. “If I only had something to write with, so I could check over the steps . . . No, wait a minute. Making this work depends on a radical alteration of sense impressions in accordance with the rules of symbolic logic and magic. Now we know that magic works here, so that can’t be the trouble. But for symbolic logic to be effective, you have to submit to its effects—that is, be willing. Pete, you’re the villain of the piece. You don’t want to go back.”
“Don’t put the squeeze on me,” said Brodsky. “I’ll play ball.”
“All right. Now I want you to remember that you’re going back to Ohio, and that you have a good job there and like it. Besides, you were sent out to find us, and you did. Okay?”
They joined hands again and Shea, constricting his brow with effort, ran through the sorites again, this time altering one or two of the terms to give greater energy. As he reached the end, time seemed to stand still for a second; then crash! and a flash of vivid blue lightning struck the tree nearest them, splitting it from top to bottom.
Belphebe gave a little squeal, and a chorus of excited voices rose from the camp.
Shea gazed at the fragments of the splintered tree and said soberly: “I think that shot was meant for us, and that just about tears it, darling. Pete, you get your wish. We’re going to have to stay here at least until I know more about the laws controlling magic in this continuum.”
Two or three of Cuchulainn’s men burst excitedly through the trees and came towards them, spears ready. “It is all right that you are?” one of them called.
“Just practicing a little magic,” said Shea, easily. “Come on, let’s go back and join the others.”
In the clearing voices were no longer quenched, and the confusion had become worse than ever. Cuchulainn stood watching the loading of the chariot, with a lofty and detached air. As the three travelers approached he said: “Now it is to you I am grateful, Mac Shea, with your magical spell for reminding me that things are better done at home than abroad. It is leaving at once we are.”
“Hey!” said Brodsky. “I ain’t had no breakfast.”
The hero regarded him with distaste. “You will be telling me that I should postpone the journey for the condition of a slave’s belly?” he said, and turning to Shea and Belphebe, “We can eat as we go.”
The ride was smoother than the one of the previous day only because the horses went at a walk so as not to outdistance the column of retainers on foot. Conversation over the squeaking of the wheels began by being sparse and rather boring, with Cuchulainn keeping his chin well down on his chest. But he apparently liked Belphebe’s comments on the beauty of the landscape. As it came on to noon he began to chatter, addressing her with an exclusiveness that Shea found disturbing, though he had to admit that the little man talked well, and always with the most perfect courtesy.
The country around them got lower and flatter and flatter and lower, until from the tops of the few rises Shea glimpsed a sharp line of gray-blue across the horizon; the sea. A shower came down and temporarily soaked the column, but nobody paid it much attention, and in the clear sunlit air that followed everyone was soon dry. Cultivation became more common, though there was still less of it than pasturage. Occasionally a lumpish-looking serf, clad in a length of ragged sackinglike cloth wrapped around his middle and a thick veneer of dirt, left off his labors to stare at the band and wave a languid greeting. At last, over the manes of the horses, Shea saw that they were approaching a stronghold. This consisted of a stockade of logs with a huge double gate.
Belphebe surveyed it critically and whispered behind her hand to Shea: “It could be taken with fire-arrows.”
“I don’t think they have many archers or very good ones,” he whispered back. “Maybe you can show them something.”
The gate was pushed open creakingly by more bearded warriors, who shouted: “Good day to you, Cucuc! Good luck to Ulster’s hound!”
The gate was wide enough to admit the chariot, scythe blades and all. As the vehicle rumbled through the opening, Shea glimpsed houses of various shapes and sizes, some of them evidently stables and barns. The biggest of all was the hall in the middle, whose heavily-thatched roof came down almost to the ground at the sides.
Laeg pulled up. Cuchulainn jumped down, waved his hand, and cried: “Muirthemne welcomes you, Americans!” All the others applauded as though he had said something particularly brilliant.
He turned to speak to a fat man, rather better dressed than the rest, when another man came out of the main hall and walked rapidly towards them. The newcomer was a thin man of medium height, elderly but vigorous, slightly bent and carrying a stick, on which he leaned now and again. He had a long white beard, and a purple robe covered him from neck to ankle.
“The best of the day to you, Cathbadh,” said Cuchulainn. “This is surely a happy hour that brings you here, but where is my darling Emer?”
“Emer has gone to Emain Macha,” said Cathbadh. “Conchobar summoned her . . .”
“Ara!” shouted Cuchulainn. “Is it a serf that I am, that the King can send for my wife every time he takes it into the head of him? He is . . .”
“It is not that at all, at all,” said Cathbadh. “He summons you, too, and for that he sent me instead of Levarcham, for he knows you might not heed her word if you took it into that willful head of yours to disobey, whereas it is myself can put a geas on you to go.”
“And why does himself want us at Emain Macha?”
“Would I be knowing all the secrets in the heart of a King?”
Shea asked: “Are you the court druid?”
Cathbadh became aware of him for the first time, and Cuchulainn made introductions. Shea explained: “It seems to me that the King might want you at the court for your own protection, so the druids can keep Maev’s sorcerers from putting a spell on you. That’s what she’s going to do.”
“How do you know of this?” asked Cathbadh.
“Through Pete here. He sometimes knows about things that are going to happen before they actually take place. In our country we call it second sight.”
Cuchulainn wrinkled his nose. “That ugly slave?”
“Yeh, me,” said Brodsky, who had approached the group. “And you better watch your step, handsome, because somebody’s going to hang you up to dry unless you do something about it.”
“If it is destined none can alter it,” said Cuchulainn. “Fergus! Have the bathwater heated.” He turned to Shea. “Once you are properly washed and garbed you will look well enough for the board in my beautiful house. I will lend you some proper garments, for I cannot bear the sight of those Fomorianlike rags.”
Three
Along the side of the main hall was an alcove made of screens of wattle, set at an angle that provided privacy for those within. In the alcove stood Cuchulainn’s bathtub, a large and elaborate affair of bronze. A procession of the women of the manor were now coming in from the well with jugs of water, which they emptied into the tub. Meanwhile the men were poking up the fire at the end of the hall and adding a number of stones of about five to ten pounds’ weight.
Brodsky sidled up to Shea, as they stood in the half-light, orienting themselves. “Listen, I don’t want to blow the whistle on a bum rap, but you better watch it. The racket they have here, this guy can make a pass at Belphebe in his own house, and it’s legit. You ain’t got no beef coming.”
“I was afraid of that,” said Shea, unhappily. “Look there.”
“There” was a row of wooden spikes projecting from one of the horizontal strings along the wall, and most of these spikes were occupied by human heads. As they watched Laeg brought in the head bag and added the latest trophies to the collection, pressing them down firmly. Some of those already in place were quite fresh, while others had been there so long that there was little left of them but a skull with a little hair adhering to the scalp.
“Jeepers!” said Brodsky, “. . . and if you start beefing, he’ll put you there, too. Give me time—I’ll try to think of some way to rumble his line.”
“Make way!” shouted a huge bewhiskered retainer. The three dodged as the man ran past them, carrying a large stone, smoking from the fire, in a pair of tongs. The man dashed into the alcove. There was a splash and a loud hiss. Another retainer followed with a second stone while the first was on his return trip. In a few minutes all the stones had been transferred to the bathtub. Shea looked around the screen and saw that the water was steaming gently.
Cuchulainn sauntered past into the bathroom and tested the water with an inquisitive finger. “That will do, dears.”
The retainers picked the stones out of the water with their tongs and piled them in the corner, then went around from behind the screen. Cuchulainn reached up to pull off his tunic, then saw Shea.
“I am going to undress for the bath,” he said. “Surely, you would not be wanting to remain here, now.”
Shea turned back into the main room just in time to see Brodsky smack one fist into the other palm. “Got it!”
“Got what?” said Shea.
“How to needle this hot tomato.” He looked around, then pulled Shea and Belphebe closer. “Listen, the big shot putting the scram on you now just reminded me. The minute he makes a serious pass at you, Belle, you gotta go into a striptease act. In public, where everybody can get a gander at it.”
Belphebe gasped. Shea asked: “Are you out of your head? That sounds to me like trying to put a fire out with gasoline.”
The Complete Compleat Enchanter Page 52
