Wars of the Irish Kings (6 page)

So Lug went to Máeltne Mórbrethach and said to him, “Shall Bres be spared for giving constant milk to the cows of Ireland?”

“He shall not be spared,” said Máeltne. “He has no power over their age or their calving, even if he controls their milk as long as they are alive.”

Lug said to Bres, “That does not save you; you have no power over their age or their calving, even if you control their milk.”

Bres said, “Máeltne has given bitter alarms!”

“Is there anything else which will save you, Bres?” said Lug.

“There is indeed. Tell your lawyer they will reap a harvest every quarter in return for sparing me.”

Lug said to Máeltne, “Shall Bres be spared for giving the men of Ireland a harvest of grain every quarter?”

“This has suited us,” said Máeltne. “Spring for plowing and sowing, and the beginning of summer for maturing the strength of the grain, and the beginning of autumn for the full ripeness of the grain, and for reaping it. Winter for consuming it.”

“That does not save you,” said Lug to Bres.

“Máeltne has given bitter alarms,” said he.

“Less rescues you,” said Lug.

“What?” asked Bres.

“How shall the men of Ireland plow? How shall they sow? How shall they reap? If you make known these things, you will be saved.”

“Say to them, on Tuesday their plowing; on Tuesday their sowing seed in the field; on Tuesday their reaping.”

So through that device Bres was released.

Now in that battle Ogma the champion found Orna, the sword of Tethra, king of the Fomoire. Ogma unsheathed the sword and cleaned it. Then the sword told what had been done by it, because it was the habit of swords at that time to recount the deeds that had been done by them whenever they were unsheathed. And for that reason swords are entitled to the tribute of cleaning after they have been unsheathed. Moreover spells have been kept in swords from that time on. Now the reason why demons used to speak from weapons then is that weapons used to be worshipped by men and were among the sureties of that time ….

Then Lug and the Dagda and Ogma went after the Fomoire, because they had taken the Dagda’s harper, Úaithne. Eventually they reached the banqueting hall where Bres mac Elathan and Elatha mac Delbaith were. There was the harp on the wall. That is the harp in which the Dagda had bound the melodies so that they did not make a sound until he summoned them, saying,

(Now that harp had two names, Daur Dá Bláo and Cóir Cetharchair.)

Then the harp came away from the wall, and it killed nine men and came to the Dagda; and he played for them the three things by which a harper is known: sleep music, joyful music, and sorrowful music. He played sorrowful music for them so that their tearful women wept. He played joyful music for them so that their women and boys laughed. He played sleep music for them so that the hosts slept. So the three of them escaped from them unharmed—although they wanted to kill them.

The Dagda brought with him the cattle taken by the Fomoire through the lowing of the heifer which had been given him for his work; because when she called her calf, all the cattle of Ireland which the Fomoire had taken as their tribute began to graze.

Then after the battle was won and the slaughter had been cleaned away, the Morrígan, the daughter of Ernmas, proceeded to announce the battle and the great victory which had occurred there to the royal heights of Ireland and to its síd-hosts, to its chief waters and to its rivermouths. And that is the reason Badb still relates great deeds. “Have you any news?” everyone asked her then.

THE FOUR PROVINCES OF
Ireland settled down and camped on Murtheimne Plain, at Breslech Mór (the place of their great carnage). They sent their shares of cattle and plunder southward ahead of them to Clithar Bó Ulad, the Cattle-Shelter of Ulster. Cuchulain took his place near them at the gravemound in Lerga. At nightfall his charioteer Laeg mac Riangabra kindled a fire for him. And he saw in the distance over the heads of the four
provinces of Ireland the fiery flickering of gold weapons in the evening sunset clouds. Rage and fury seized him at the sight of that army, at the great forces of his foes, the immensity of his enemies. He grasped his two spears, his shield and his sword and he shook the shield and rattled the spears and flourished the sword and gave the warrior’s scream from his throat, so that demons and devils and goblins of the glen and fiends of the air replied, so hideous was the call he uttered on high. Then the Nemain stirred the armies to confusion. The weapons and spear-points of the four armed provinces of Ireland shook with panic. One hundred warriors fell dead of fright and terror that night in the heart of the guarded camp.

Laeg stood in his place and saw a solitary man crossing between the camp of the men of Ireland straight toward him out of the northeast.

“There is a man coming toward us alone, Little Hound,” Laeg said.

“What kind of man is he?” Cuchulain said.

“It is soon told: a tall, broad, fair-seeming man. His close-crossed hair is blond and curled. A green cloak is wrapped about him, held at his breast by a bright silver brooch. He wears a knee-length tunic of kingly silk, red-embroidered in red gold, girded against his white skin. There is a knob of light gold on his black shield. He carries a five-pointed spear in his hand and a forked javelin. His feats and graceful displays are astonishing, yet no one is taking any notice of him and he heeds no one: it is as though they couldn’t see him.”

“They can’t, my young friend,” Cuchulain said. “This is some friendly one of the
side
[the other world] that has taken pity on me. They know my great distress now on the Táin Bó Cuailnge, alone against all four provinces of Ireland.”

Cuchulain was right. When the warrior came up to him he said in pity:

“This is a manly stand, Cuchulain.”

“It isn’t very much,” Cuchulain said.

“I am going to help you now,’ the warrior said.

“Who are you?” Cuchulain said.

“I am Lug mac Ethnenn, your father from the
síde.”

“My wounds are heavy. It is time they were let heal.”

“Sleep a while, then, Cuchulain,” the warrior said, “a heavy sleep of three days and three nights by the gravemound at Lerga. I’ll stand against the armies for that time.”

He sang to Cuchulain, as men sing to men, until he slept. Then he examined each wound and cleaned it. Lug made this chant:

Cuchulain slept three days and three nights, and well he might; for if his sleep was deep so was his weariness. From the Monday after the feast of Samain at summer’s end to the Wednesday after the feast of Imbolc at spring’s beginning, Cuchulain never slept—unless against his spear for an instant after the middle of the day, with head on fist and fist on spear and the spear against his knee—for hacking and hewing and smiting and slaughtering the four great provinces of Ireland.

Then the warrior from the
síde
dropped wholesome healing herbs and grasses into Cuchulain’s aching wounds and several sores, so that he began to recover in his sleep without knowing it.

The boy-troop in Ulster spoke among themselves at this time.

“It is terrible,” they said, “that our friend Cuchulain must do without help.”

“Let us choose a company to help him,” Fiachna Fuilech, the Bloodspiller, said—a brother of Fiacha Fialdána mac Fir Febe.

Then the boy-troop came down from Emain Macha in the north carrying their hurling-sticks, three times fifty sons of Ulster kings—a third of their whole troop—led by Follamain, Conchobor’s son. The army saw them coming over the plain.

“There is a great number crossing the plain toward us,” Ailill said.

Fergus went to look.

“These are some of the boy-troop of Ulster coming to help Cuchulain,” he said.

“Send out a company against them,” Ailill said, “before Cuchulain sees them. If they join up with him you’ll never stand against them.”

Three times fifty warriors went out to meet them, and they all fell at one another’s hands at Lia Toll, the Pierced Standing-Stone. Not a soul came out alive of all those choice children except Follomain mac Conchoboir. Follamain swore he would never go back to Emain while he drew breath, unless he took Ailill’s [the husband of Queen Medb] head with him, with the gold crown on top. But that was no easy thing to swear; the two sons of Bethe mac Bain, sons of Ailill’s foster-mother and foster-father, went out and attacked him, and he died at their hands.

“Make haste,” Ailill said, “and ask Cuchulain to let you move on from here. There will be no forcing past him once his hero-halo springs up.”

Cuchulain, meanwhile, was sunk in his sleep of three days and nights by the gravemound at Lerga. When it was done he rose up and passed his hand over his face and turned crimson from head to foot with whirling excitement. His spirit was strong in him; he felt fit for a festival, or for marching or mating, or for an ale-house or the mightiest assembly in Ireland.

“Warrior!” Cuchulain said. “How long have I been in this sleep?”

“Three days and three nights,” the warrior said.

“Alas for that!” Cuchulain said.

“Why?” the warrior said.

“Because their armies were free from attack all that time,” Cuchulain said.

“They were not,” the warrior said.

“Tell me what happened,” Cuchulain said.

“The boy-troop came south from Emain Macha, three times fifty sons of Ulster kings, led by Follamain, Conchobor’s son, and they fought three battles with the armies in the three days and nights you slept, and they slew three times their own number. All the boy-troop perished except Follamain mac Conchoboir. Follamain swore to take home Ailill’s head, but that was no easy thing, and he too was killed.”

“Shame,” Cuchulain said, “that I hadn’t my strength for this! If I had, the boy-troop wouldn’t have perished as they did and Follamain mac Conchoboir wouldn’t have fallen.”

“Onward, Little Hound; there is no stain on your good name, no slight on your courage.”

“Stay with us tonight,” Cuchulain said, “and we’ll avenge the boy-troop together.”

“I will not stay,” the warrior said. “No matter what deeds of craft or courage a man does in your company the glory and fame and name go to
you, not to him. So I will not stay. Go bravely against the army by yourself. They have no power over your life at this time.”

“The sickle chariot, friend Laeg,” Cuchulain said, “can you yoke it? Have you everything needed? If you have, get it ready. If you haven’t, leave it be.”

The charioteer rose up then and donned his charioteer’s war-harness. This war-harness that he wore was: a skin-soft tunic of stitched deer’s leather, light as a breath, kneaded supple and smooth not to hinder his free arm movements. He put on over this his feathery outer mantle, made (some say) by Simon Magus for Darius king of the Romans, and given by Darius to Conchobor, and by Conchobor to Cuchulain, and by Cuchulain to his charioteer. Then the charioteer set down on his shoulders his plated, four-pointed, crested battle-cap, rich in colour and shape; it suited him well and was no burden. To set him apart from his master, he placed the charioteer’s sign on his brow with his hand: a circle of deep yellow like a single red-gold strip of burning gold shaped on an anvil’s edge. He took the long horse-spancel and the ornamental goad in his right hand. In his left hand he grasped the steed-ruling reins that give the charioteer control. Then he threw the decorated iron armour-plate over the horses, covering them from head to foot with spears and spit-points, blades and barbs. Every inch of the chariot bristled. Every angle and corner, front and rear, was a tearing-place.