CUCHULAIN - The Hound Of Ulster E-Book

Retold by Eleanor Hull

• Herausgeber: Abela Publishing
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Herein, Eleanor Hull chronicles the life of Cuchulain in 30 chapters in what is now considered to be a classic volume. This volume is further enhanced with 9 full page plates illustrated by Stephen Reid.

Cuchulain is an Irish mythological hero who appears in the stories of the Ulster Cycle, as well as in Scottish and Manx folklore. He is believed to be an incarnation of the god Lugh, who is also his father. His mother is the mortal Deichtine, sister of Conchobar mac Nessa.
Born Sétanta, he gained his better-known name as a child, after killing Culann's fierce guard-dog in self-defence and offered to take its place until a replacement could be reared. At the age of seventeen he defended Ulster single-handedly against the armies of queen Medb of Connacht in the famous Táin Bó Cúailnge ("Cattle Raid of Cooley"). It was prophesied that his great deeds would give him everlasting fame, but his life would be a short one. He is known for his terrifying battle frenzy, or ríastrad (translated by Thomas Kinsella as "warp spasm" and by Ciaran Carson as "torque"), in which he becomes an unrecognisable monster who knows neither friend nor foe. He fights from his chariot, driven by his loyal charioteer Láeg and drawn by his horses, Liath Macha and Dub Sainglend.

In more modern times, Cú Chulainn is more often referred to as the "Hound of Ulster"
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TAGS: folklore, fairy tales, celtic myths, legends, children’s stories, fables, celt, Ireland, Irish, Scotland, Isle of Man, Conor, king of Ulster, queen meave, woman-seer, Setanta, boy-corps, king conor, Cuchulain, arms, first feats, championship, adventures, shadow land, woo, wife, brown bull, cooley, refuse, plucking out, four pronged pole, deer, ill-luck, etarcomal, fate, spits, holly wood, combat, ferdia, fall, awake, end, rising out, humbling, swan maidens, fairy land, fairyland, Deirdre, contentions, contend, bring up, sleep wanderer, wiles of king conor, sorrowful, death, usna’s sons, son, conla, hound at bay, fame, outlive, life, red rout, queen Medb, Connacht, Lugh, father, Conchobar mac Nessa, Táin Bó Cúailnge, Cattle Raid of Cooley, charioteer, Laeg, Liath Macha, Dub Sainglend

Leseprobe

CuchulainThe Hound of Ulster

BY

Eleanor Hull

AUTHOR OF

“THE CUCHULLIN SAGA IN IRISH LITERATURE”“PAGAN IRELAND” “EARLY CHRISTIAN IRELAND”ETC.

WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY

STEPHEN REID

Originally Published By

THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY, NEW YORK

[1909]

Resurrected By

Abela Publishing, London

[2018]

CUCHULAIN

THE HOUND OF ULSTER

Typographical arrangement of this edition

© Abela Publishing 2018

This book may not be reproduced in its current format in any manner in any media, or transmitted by any means whatsoever, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, or mechanical ( including photocopy, file or video recording, internet web sites, blogs, wikis, or any other information storage and retrieval system) except as permitted by law without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Abela Publishing,

London

United Kingdom

2018

ISBN: 978-8-827581-76-6

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“Bec a brig liomsa sin,” ar Cuchulaind, “gengo rabar acht aonla no aonoidchi ar bith acht gomairit m’airdsgeula dom és.”Stowe MS., C. 6, 3.R. Irish Academy.

“Though the span of my life were but for aday,” Cuchulain said, “little should I reck ofthat, if but my noble deeds might be rememberedamong men.”

The Raven Of Ill-Omen

Contents

I. How Conor became King of Ulster

II. Queen Meave and the Woman-Seer

III. The Boy-Corps of King Conor

IV. How Cuchulain got his Name

V. How Cuchulain took Arms

VI. Of Cuchulain’s First Feats of Championship

VII. Cuchulain’s Adventures in Shadow-land

VIII. How Cuchulain wooed his Wife

IX. Meave demands the Brown Bull of Cooley and is

refused

X. The Plucking out of the Four-pronged Pole

XI. The Deer of Ill-Luck

XII. Etarcomal’s well-deserved Fate

XIII. The Fight with Spits of Holly-Wood

XIV. The Combat with Ferdia

XV. The Fall of Ferdia

XVI. Ulster, Awake!

XVII. The End of the Boy-Corps

XVIII. The “Rising-Out” of Ulster

XIX. The humbling of Queen Meave

XX. The Fairy Swan-Maidens

XXI. How Cuchulain went to Fairy-Land

XXII. Deirdre of Contentions

XXIII. The Up-bringing of Deirdre

XXIV. The Sleep-Wanderer

XXV. The Wiles of King Conor

XXVI. The Sorrowful Death of Usna’s Sons

XXVII. The Fight of Cuchulain with his Son Conla

XXVIII. The Hound at Bay

XXIX. Fame outlives Life

XXX. The Red Rout

Notes on the Sources

Illustrations

The Raven of Ill-omen - Frontispiece

Queen Meave and the Druid

Cuchulain sets out for Emain Macha

Cuchulainn Slays the Hound of Culain

Cuchulain desires Arms of the King

Macha curses the Men of Ulster

Ferdia falls by the Hand of Cuchulain

“The moment of good-luck is come”

Cuchulain comes at last to his Death

Introduction

The events that circle round King Conor mac Nessa and Cuchulain as their principal figures are supposed to have occurred, as we gather from the legends themselves, about the first century of our era. According to one of the stories, King Conor is said to have died in a paroxysm of wrath and horror, brought on by hearing the news of the crucifixion of our Lord by the Jews. Though this story is evidently one of the few interpolations having their origin in Christian times (the main body of the legends being purely pagan), the probability that they took shape about this period is increased almost to certainty by the remarkable agreement we find in them with the accounts derived from classical writers who lived and wrote about this same period, and who comment on the habits of the Gauls of France, the Danube valley and Asia Minor, and the Belgic tribes who inhabited South-eastern Britain, with whom the Roman armies came into contact in the course of their wars of aggression and expansion. The descriptions given by Poseidonius, a century before Christ, or Diodorus, Cæsar and Livy half a century later, agree remarkably with the notices found in these Irish stories of social conditions, weapons, dress, and appearance. The large wicker shields, the huge double-bladed swords lifted above the head to strike, the courage amounting to rashness of the Celt in attack, the furious onset of the scythed war-chariots, the disregard of death, the habit of rushing into battle without waiting to don their clothes, the single combats, the great feasts, the “Champion’s Bit” reserved as a mark of distinction for the bravest warrior; these, and many other characteristics found in our tales, are commented upon in the pages of the Roman historians. The culture represented in them is that known to archæologists as “late Celtic,” called on the Continent the La Tène period, i.e. the period extending from about 400 B.C. to the first century of the Christian era; and the actual remains of weapons, ornaments, and dress found in Ireland confirm the supposition that we are dealing with this stage of culture.

We may, then, take it that these tales were formed about the beginning of our era, although the earliest written documents that we have of them are not earlier than the eleventh and twelfth century. Between the time of their invention for the entertainment of the chiefs and kings of Ireland to the time of their incorporation in the great books which contain the bulk of the tales, they were handed down by word of mouth, every bard and professional story-teller (of whom there was at least one in every great man’s house) being obliged to know by heart a great number of these romances, and prepared at any moment to recite those which he might be called upon to give. In the course of centuries of recitation certain changes crept in, but in the main they come to us much as they were originally recited. In some tales, of which we have a number of copies of different ages, we can trace these changes and notice the additions and modifications that have been made.

Over a hundred distinct tales belonging to this one cycle alone are known to have existed, and of a great number of them one or more copies have come down to us, differing more or less from each other.

The old story-tellers who handed down the romantic tales of Ireland handled their material in a very free manner, expanding and altering as suited their own poetic feeling and the audience they addressed. A reciter of poetic power fearlessly re-arranged, enlarged or condensed. As a general rule, the older the form of a story the shorter, terser, and more barbaric is its character. In the long tale of the Táin bó Cuailgne, which forms the central subject of the whole cycle, the arrangement of the episodes and the number of incidents introduced is quite different in the oldest copy we have of it, that found in the compilation called (from the particular piece of parchment on which it was written) the “Book of the Dun (or Brown) Cow,” compiled in 1100 in the monastery of Clonmacnois on the Shannon, from the version in the Book of Leinster, a great vellum book drawn up and written for Dermot mac Morrough, the King of Leinster who invited Strongbow and the Normans to come over from Wales half a century later. The oldest form of the story is often the more manly and self-restrained; there is a tendency, as time goes on, not only to soften down the more barbarous and rougher portions, but to emphasise the pathetic and moving scenes, and to add touches of symbolism and imagination. Though they lack the brief dignity of the older versions, the more recent copies are often more attractive and full of poetry. For instance, we have in this book drawn largely on some comparatively recent (seventeenth-eighteenth century) MSS. in the British Museum, not hitherto translated, for the details (many of them full of poetic imagination) of the history of Cuchulain’s journey into Shadowland to learn feats of bravery,[1] and in the account of his death and the incidents that immediately follow it. In the different versions of the former story, the name of the country to which Cuchulain went is variously given as Alba or Scotland, Scythia, and the “Land of Scáthach,” i.e. the home of the woman-warrior from whom he learned. It is evident that Scythia is only a mistake for Scáthach, made by some scribe and copied by others. Scáth means a “Shadow,” and probably the original idea was purely symbolic, meaning that the hero had passed beyond the bounds of human knowledge into an invisible world of mystery called Shadowland. The writer of the copy that I have used returns to this original idea, and the whole story, in his hands, becomes symbolic and imaginative. So also, in the account of Cuchulain’s death, the modern scribe introduces new details which add to the beauty and striking effect of this most touching episode. To my mind the scribes, in making these additions, acted in a perfectly legitimate manner, and I have not hesitated in this book, which does not aim at being a text-book, but a book written for the pleasure of the young, to follow their example. I have freely, in minor points, re-arranged or pruned the tales, adding details from different sources as suited my purpose, and occasionally expanding an imaginative suggestion indicated, but not worked out, by the scribe. But I have seldom allowed myself deliberately to alter a story, or to introduce anything not found somewhere in the tales as they have come down to us. An exception is the story of Cuchulain’s visit to fairy-land, commonly known as the “Sickbed of Cuchulain,” which required a slight modification of the central situation in order to make it suitable reading for any children into whose hands the book might chance to fall; it was too poetic and touching an episode to be altogether omitted without loss to the conception of the cycle as a whole.

It is, after all, the human interest of these old stories, and not primarily their importance as folklore and the history of manners, that appeals to most of us to-day. As the Arthurian legend all through the Middle Ages set before men’s minds an ideal of high purpose, purity of life, and chivalrous behaviour in an age that was not over-inclined to practise these virtues, so these old Irish romances, so late rescued from oblivion, come to recall the minds of men in our own day to some noble ideals.

For, rude as are the social conditions depicted in these tales, and exaggerated and barbaric as is the flavour of some of them, they nevertheless present to us a high and often romantic code of natural chivalry. There is no more pathetic story in literature than that of the fight between the two old and loving friends, Cuchulain and Ferdia; there is no more touching act of chivalry to a woman than Cuchulain’s offer of aid to his enemy Queen Meave, in the moment of her exhaustion; there is no more delightful passage of playful affection than that between the hero and his lady in the wooing of Emer. These tales have a sprightliness and buoyancy not possessed by the Arthurian tales, they are fresher, more humorous, more diversified; and the characters, more especially those of the women, are more firmly and variously drawn. For Wales and for England Arthur has been for centuries the representative “very gentle perfect knight”; for Ireland Cuchulain represented the highest ideal of which the Irish Gael was capable. In these stories, as in Malory’s “Morte D’Arthur,” we find “many joyous and pleasant histories, and noble and renowned acts of humanity, gentleness and chivalry”; and we may add, with Malory, “Do after the good and leave the evil, and it shall bring you to good fame and renommée.”

ELEANOR HULL

Footnotes

[1] This story has been published by Dr Wh. Stokes in Rev. Celt. xxix. (1908), since the above was written.

Chapter IHow Conor Became King of Ulster

There was a great war between Connaught and Ulster, that is, between Conor, King of Ulster, and Meave, the proud and mighty Queen of Connaught. This was the cause of the war between them. When Conor was but a lad, his mother was a widow, and there was no thought that Conor would be king. For the King of Ulster at that time was Fergus mac Roy, a powerful and noble king, whom his people loved; and though Conor was of high rank and dignity, he stood not near the throne. But his mother, Ness, was ambitious for him, and she used all her arts to bring it about that he should be called to the throne of Ulster. Ness was a handsome woman, and a woman of spirit, and in her youth she had been a warrior; and Fergus admired her, and she wrought upon him so that in the end he asked her to be his wife. She made it a condition that for one year Fergus would leave the sovereignty, and that Conor should take his place; “for,” said she, “I should like to have it said that my son had been a king, and that his children should be called the descendants of a king.” Fergus and the people of Ulster liked not her request, but she was firm, and Fergus all the more desired to marry her, because he found it not easy to get her; so, at the last, he gave way to her, and he resigned the kingdom for one year into the hands of Conor.

But, as soon as Conor was king, Ness set about to win away the hearts of the people of Ulster from Fergus, and to transfer them in their allegiance to Conor. She supplied her son with wealth, which he distributed secretly among the people, buying them over to his side; and she taught him how to act, so that he won over the nobles and the great men of the province. And when, the year being out, Fergus demanded back the sovereignty, he found that the league formed against him was so strong that he could do nothing. The chiefs said that they liked Conor well, and that he was their friend, and they were not disposed to part with him; they said, too, that Fergus having abandoned the kingdom for a year, only to gain a wife, cared little for it, and had, in fact, resigned it. And they agreed that Fergus should keep his wife, if he wished, but that the kingdom should pass to Conor. And Fergus was so wrath at this, that he forsook his wife, and went with a great host of his own followers into Connaught, to take refuge with Queen Meave and with Ailill, her spouse. But he swore to be revenged upon Conor, and he waited only an opportunity to incite Meave to gather her army together that he might try to win back the sovereignty, or at least to revenge the insult put upon him by Conor and by Ness.

Now Fergus mac Roy was of great stature, a mighty man and a famous warrior, and his strength was that of a hundred heroes. And all men spoke of the sword of Fergus, which was so great and long that men said that it stretched like a rainbow or like a weaver’s beam. And at the head of his hosts was Cormac, the Champion of the White Cairn of Watching, a son of Conor, who liked not the deed of his father; for he was young, and he had been one of the bodyguard of Fergus, and went with Fergus into exile to Connaught. And that was called the Black Exile of Fergus mac Roy.

Chapter IIQueen Meave and the Woman-Seer

Craftily Fergus wrought upon Queen Meave that she should espouse his cause and lead an army into Ulster’s coasts, to win the kingdom back for him again. And Meave was no way sorry to make war, for Connaught and the North at all times were at strife, and frays and battle-raids were common between them. So with light heart Queen Meave sent heralds out and messengers through Connaught to collect her armed bands, bidding them meet her within three months’ space before her palace-fort of Cruachan. And in three months a goodly host was gathered there, and tents were pitched, and for awhile they tarried round the palace-courts, eating and drinking, so that with good heart and strength they might set forth to march towards Ulster’s borders.

Now, in the dark and dead of night before the break of day when all the host should start their forward march, Meave could not sleep; and stealthily she rose and bid them make her chariot ready, that she might seek a Druid whom she knew, and learn from him the prospects of the expedition and what should be the fate before her hosts.

Queen Meave and the Druid

Far in the depths of a wide-spreading wood the Druid dwelt. An old and reverend man was he, and far and wide men knew him for a prophet and a seer. The “Knowledge that enlightens” he possessed, which opened to his eyes the coming days and all the secret things the future held. Gravely he came out to meet the troubled Queen, and he from her chariot handed her, as proudly she drew up before his door.

“We have come to thee, O Druid and magician,” said the Queen, “to ask of thee the fate and fortune of this expedition against Ulster which we have now in hand, whether we shall return victorious or not.”

“Wait but awhile in patience,” said the aged man, “and I will read the future, if the gods allow.”

For two long hours Meave waited in the hut, while on the hearth the fire of peat burned low, and a strange dimness spread about the house as though a mist had risen between herself and the magician, who, on his palms performed his curious rites, and in a slow and solemn chant sang charms and incantations; by strange and magic arts known to his craft seeking the “Knowledge that enlightens.” And, at the last, when all was still, he rose to his full height, stretched out his arms, and called upon the gods of fire, and air, and wind, and light, to open up and lay before his gaze the future things that were in store for Meave and for her hosts.

Then he made total darkness in his hut, and ate a curious food, concocted by magicians; and when he had eaten, he fell into a sleep, his servant watching over him, his two palms laid upon his cheeks. Then in a minute, or two minutes, he uttered sounds, but like one talking in his sleep, and the servant bade Meave question him, for his sleep of inspiration was upon him. So Meave said: “In mine host this day are many who do part from their own people and their friends, from their country and their lands, from father and from mother. Now, if these all return not safe and sound, upon me will be the anger of their friends, and me they will upbraid. Tell me, then, will these return alive?”

And the magician said: “These might return; but yet I see a little boy who stands upon the way to hinder them. Fair he is and young and but a boy; and yet on every path I see him, holding back thy hosts, slaughtering and pursuing, as though the strength of the gods were in his arms. On every path they fall, in every battlefield the ground is strewn with dead, and in the homes of Connaught men and women weep the sons and husbands who return no more. Who this youth may be I know not, but I see that he will bring trouble on thy hosts.”

Then Meave trembled at the saying of the Druid; but she asked again, “Among all those who will remain behind and those who go, there is none dearer to us than we are to ourselves; inquire therefore of thy gods if we ourselves shall come alive out of this hosting?”

The wizard answered: “Whoever comes or comes not, thou thyself shalt come.”

Then Meave mounted her chariot again, and turned her horses’ heads towards Cruachan. But heaviness was at her heart, and deep dejection lay upon her mind, and moodily she thought of what the Druid prophesied to her.

They had not driven far when suddenly the horses swerved aside and reared and snorted with affright. Meave started up, and shaking off her reverie, in the dim twilight of the breaking dawn, close up beside her chariot-shaft, she saw a woman stand. Red as a foxglove were her cheeks and blue as the spring hyacinth beneath the forest trees her sparkling eyes. Like pearls her teeth shone white between her lips, and all her skin was fair as the white foam that dances on the wave. Around her fell, in waving folds of green, a cloak such as the fairy women wear, which hides them from the eyes of mortal men.

But while she looked in wonder on the maid, astonished at her lovely face and mien, Meave saw her garment change to dusky red. And in the dimness, she perceived the maiden held a sword, point upward, in her hand, a massive sword, such as a mighty man-of-war might wield. And from the point blood dripped, and one by one the drops fell on the Queen, till all her cloak, and garments, and the chariot-floor ran red with streams of blood.

And terror came on Meave, and all in vain she sought to force her horses forward, but still they reared and curvetted, but would not advance. “Girl,” cried the Queen at last, “what doest thou here, and who and what art thou?”

“I am a woman of the fairy race,” the maid replied; “I come to-night to tell thee of thy fortunes, and the chance that shall befall thee and thy hosts upon this raid that thou dost make on Ulster.”

“What is thy name, and wherefore thus, without my will, hast thou presumed to come and speak with me?” replied the angry Queen.

“Great cause have I to come; for from the fairy-rath of thine own people, near to Cruachan, am I here; and Feidelm the prophetess my name.”

“Well, then, O prophetess Feidelm,” said Queen Meave, “how seest thou our host?” but yet she trembled as she spoke. And Feidelm said, “I see thy hosts all red, I see them all becrimsoned.”

“Thou seest ill, O prophetess,” said Meave; “for in the courts of Emain now the King lies sick and ill; my messengers have been to him, and nought there is that we need fear from Ulster. Therefore, O Feidelm, woman-prophet Feidelm, tell us now but the truth; how seest thou our hosts?”

“I see them all dyed red, I see them all becrimsoned,” said the girl again.

“It cannot be,” said Meave. “For many months my spies have been in Ulster, and this well I know; that in Ulster they dream not of the coming of a host. Now tell us this time true, O Feidelm, O woman-prophet Feidelm, how seest thou our host?”

But again the maiden answered as before: “I see all red on them, I see them all becrimsoned.”

Then Meave grew angry, and fury came upon her, and she called on her charioteer to slay the fairy maid. But the man was afraid to touch her, so strange and formidable did she stand there, holding the dripping sword upright.

Then once again Meave answered her: “Girl, I care not for thy threats, for well I know, that when the men of Ulster come together, frays and quarrels will arise among themselves, either as regards the troop which shall precede the host, or that one which shall follow; or about precedence among the leaders, or about forays for cattle and for food. Therefore, I conclude that they will fall upon each other, and that it will be but a little matter for me to disperse them, and return again with spoils to Cruachan.”

Then the maiden’s face grew grave, and she spoke as though she saw a vision, and Meave trembled as she listened to her words. “I see thy host,” she said, “crimson and red, fall back before the men of Ulster. Yet the host of Ulster seems not a mighty host, but faint and weak through sickness, and the King of Ulster lies on his bed. Through all my dreams there comes a lad, not old in years, but great in weapon-feats. Young though he is, the marks of many wounds are on his skin, and round his head there shines the ‘hero’s light.’ A face he has the noblest and the best, and in his eyes sparkle the champion’s gleams; a stripling, fair and modest in his home, but in the battle fierce and tough and strong, as though he wore a mighty dragon’s form. In either of his hands four darts he holds, and with a skill before unknown, he plies them on your host. A formidable sword hangs by his side, and close beside him stands his charioteer, holding his pointed spear. A madness seems to seize him in the fight; by him your hosts are all hewn down, and on the battle-field the slain, foot laid to foot and hand to hand, do thickly lie. Before the hosts of Ulster all unmoved he stands as if to guard them from the fight; all on himself the burden of the uneven contest falls. Strong heroes cannot stand before his blows, and in the homes of Connaught women weep the slain who come not back. This is the vision that I see, and this the prophecy of Feidelm, Cruachan’s woman-seer.”

Then all her pride and courage fled from Meave, and fearfully she asked the woman-seer, “What is the name by which this youth is known?”

And Feidelm said: “To all the world the youth’s name will be known, Cuchulain son of Sualtach, of the Feats; but in the North, because he guards their homes as a good watch-dog guards the scattered flocks upon the mountain-side, men call him lovingly, ‘The Hound of Ulster.’”

Then to her fairy-dwelling Feidelm returned, and Meave went to her tent again.

CHAPTER IIIThe Boy-Corps of King Conor

Now all that she had heard that night so troubled Meave that she thought not well to proceed upon her hosting at that time. She lay upon her bed and pondered long upon the fairy woman’s words, and more and more she wondered who this youth might be, the lad of mighty feats whom all men called “The Hound of Ulster.” When daylight came, she sent a message to the captains of her host, commanding them to tarry yet a day, till she should learn further about the youth who stood upon her path and seemed a threatening terror to her hosts. Then like a king and queen they robed themselves and sat within their tents, Ailill and she, and sent a herald forth commanding Fergus and the chief of Ulster’s exiles to appear before them, to tell them of Cuchulain.

When they were gathered, Fergus, Cormac son of Conor and the rest, Ailill addressed them. “We hear strange tales of one of Ulster’s chiefs, a youthful hero whom men call the “Hound.” From you, O chiefs of Ulster, we would learn all you can tell about this famous lad. What age hath he? and wherefore hath he gained this name? and have his deeds become known to you?”

“His deeds are known to us, indeed,” Fergus replied, “For all the land of Ulster rings with this young hero’s renown.”

“Shall we find him hard to deal with?” then said Meave. “Last night I met a fairy-maid, who told me to beware, for among the warriors of the North, this lad would trouble us the most.”

“He will trouble you the most, indeed,” said Cormac and Fergus with one voice. “You will not find a warrior in your path that is so hard to deal with, not a hero that is fiercer, nor a raven more greedy of prey, nor a lion that is more dangerous than he. You will not find another man to equal him, whether of his age or of a greater age, so strong and terrible and brave is he, nor is his match in Erin either for his beauty or his prowess or in all deeds and feats of skill.”

“I care not for all this,” said haughty Meave; “not these the things I fear; for, after all, whatever you may say, Cuchulain, like another, is but one; he can be wounded like a common man, he will die like any other, he can be captured like any warrior. Besides, his age is but that of a grown-up girl; his deeds of manhood come not yet.”

“Not so indeed,” said Fergus and they all. “It would be strange if he to-day were not the equal of any grown-up man or many men; for even when he was in his fifth year, he surpassed all the chieftain’s sons of Emain Macha at their play; when he was but seven he took arms, and slew his man; when he was a stripling he went to perfect himself in feats of championship with Scáth, the woman-warrior of Alba; and now to-day when he is nearly seventeen years old, his strength must be equal to the strength of many men.”

“Tell us,” said Meave, “who is this warrior-lad; tell us also of his boyish feats and how the name of ‘Ulster’s Hound’ came to be his.”

“I will tell you,” said Fergus; “for Cuchulain is my own foster-son and Conor’s; though they say, and I myself believe it, that he is of the offspring of the gods, and that Lugh of the Long Arms, God of Light, is guardian to the boy. But Sualtach is his father, a warrior of Ulster, and the child was reared by the seaside northward on Murthemne’s plain, which is his own possession. At my knees he was brought up, and Amergin the poet was his tutor; the sister of King Conor nourished him with Conall the Victorious in her home. For at his birth Morann the judge prophesied of his future renown. ‘His praise,’ he said, ‘will be in all men’s mouths, his deeds will be recounted by kings and great men, warriors and charioteers, poets and sages. All men will love him; he will give combat for Ulster against her enemies; he will decide your quarrels; he will avenge your wrongs. Welcome the little stranger who is here.’”

Cuchulain sets out for Emain Macha

And Meave and Ailill said, “That is a brave account to give of a young child; no wonder is it that Ulster prides herself in him; but tell us now, Fergus, for eager are we all to hear, the feats of Cuchulain as a little boy.”

“I will tell you that,” said Fergus. “When he was yet a tiny boy, not much past four years old, someone in passing by Murthemne told him a long tale of the boy-corps of King Conor in Emain Macha; that the King had established it for all the sons of nobles and of chiefs, to train them up in strength and bravery. He told him that the King had set apart a playing-ground for the boys, close to his own fort, and there every day they practised games of skill, and feats of arms, and wrestled and threw each other. He told him, too, that the King took so much interest in the boy-corps, that scarce a day passed by that he did not spend some time in watching the pastimes of the lads, for he looked to them to be his future men-of-war and leaders of his hosts. He told the little boy that when they had proved themselves fit by skill and aptness for a higher grade, the King bestowed on them a set of war-gear suited to their age, small spears and javelins, a slender sword, and all equipment like a champion. Now when the boy heard this, a great longing arose within his little mind to see the boy-corps and join in their sports and practising for war. ‘I would wrestle, too,’ he said, ‘and I am sure that I could throw my fellow.’ But I and his guardians,” said Fergus, “objected that he was yet too young, and that when he was ten years old it would be soon enough to test his strength against the older boys. For to send a boy of four years old or five to take his part among lads of ten or twelve we thought not well, for we feared that harm would come to him, knowing that he must ever, since his babyhood, be in the midst of all that was going on. Therefore, we said, ‘Wait, my child, until some grown warrior can go with thee, to protect thee from the rough practice of the elder boys and bid them have a care for thee, or else till Conor the King, thy fosterer, himself calls thee hither under his proper charge.’ But the lad said to his mother, that it was too long to wait, and that even on this instant he would set off; ‘And all you have to do, mother, is to set me on my way, for I know not which way Emain lies.’ ‘A long and weary way for a young boy it is to Emain,’ said his mother, ‘for the range of the Slieve Fuad Mountains must be crossed.’ ‘Point me but out the general direction,’ he replied. ‘Over there, to the north-west, lies the palace of the king.’ ‘Let me but get my things, and I am off,’ he said.

“These were the things that the child took in his hand. His hurley of brass and his ball of silver in one hand, his throwing javelin and his toy spear in the other. Away he went then, and as he went, this would he do to make the way seem short. He would place his ball on the ground and strike it with his hurley, driving it before him ever so far; then he flung the hurley after it, driving that as far again; then, always running on, he threw his javelin, and last of all his spear. Then he would make a playful rush after them, pick up the hurley, ball, and javelin as he ran, while, before ever the spear’s tip touched the earth, he had caught it by the other end. Thus on he ran, scarce feeling tired, so engrossed was he in the game.

“At last Cuchulain reached Emain, and sought out the palace of the King and the playing-field where the boys were practising, three times fifty in number, under the charge of Follaman, one of Conor’s younger sons; the King himself being present, watching the game.