The Hound of Ulster

by Rosemary Sutcliff

  ‘May the sun shine on your path, Cuchulain,’ said the young man, drawing near, as one friend greets another.

  And at that time Cuchulain did not think it strange that the other should know his name. ‘Indeed, if the sun were to dry a path through this bog for me, that would be a thing worth having,’ he said wearily, ‘for it seems to me that I have no path left, and I am weary and mired with seeking for one.’

  ‘It is a great matter to you, that you cross this Plain of Ill Luck, to the other side?’ said the stranger, smiling.

  ‘It matters more to me than anything in all my life that has gone before.’

  And suddenly Cuchulain saw that the young man was holding out to him a wheel that looked like an ordinary chariot wheel, but smaller—or maybe it was of no especial size at all. ‘Then roll this before you as you go,’ said the young man, ‘and follow without fear.’

  And then it was as though the sun was in Cuchulain’s eyes, dazzling him so that he blinked and as he blinked it was as though the sun went behind a cloud, and he was standing alone on the edge of the great bog, holding the strange wheel in his hand as though it had been a war shield.

  At once he set the wheel rolling straight ahead over the bog, and strode out boldly after it. And the wheel rolled on, suddently blazing with light that shot like the sun’s rays from its rim, and as it went the heat of it made a firm path across the quagmire, and Cuchulain followed safely and dry shod, until he came to the farther side, and the wheel disappeared just as the stranger had done. And never until that moment did Cuchulain think to wonder who the man might be.

  There were other adventures yet before him, other hazards and mischances and times when it seemed that his search could go no farther, but never again was he near to despair. And so at last he came to a broad valley dipping to the sea cliffs, and a broad sea inlet running far back into the throat of it, and in the midst of the inlet an island thrust up, set with plots and tatters of green grass among the black fangs of the rocks upon which the spray beat with every in-sweep of the waves. On the highest point of the island, worn like a diadem on its brow, were the three-fold grey stone ramparts of a mighty Dūn, and Cuchulain saw the smoke of cooking-fires and the bronze blink of weapons in the sun. And in the sheltered cliff-top hollow just before him, was a cluster of turf-roofed bothies and a horse corral; and he saw chariots upended against the house-place walls, and rough straw spear targets were set up, and several fine hunting dogs lay sleeping or scratching themselves in the sun; and on the level green space before the huts, boys and young men were playing hurley.

  Cuchulain walked towards them, and as they saw him coming, the game broke up, and a tall boy with silver-fair hair hanging about his brown neck, who seemed to be something of a leader among them, came to meet him, the hurley stick still in his hand, and the others crowding at his heels.

  ‘Welcome, stranger. Do you come to join us?’

  ‘That depends,’ Cuchulain said. ‘What is this place?’

  Some of the younger boys grinned and nudged each other at his not knowing, but the leader among them said courteously enough, pointing with the hurley stick, ‘Yonder is the Dūn of Skatha the woman-warrior, and here on this side of the gulf we who have come to learn the arts of war from her have our lodging.’

  ‘Then I am come to join you,’ said Cuchulain, with the great gladness that was on him. ‘I am Cuchulain, kinsman to Conor Mac Nessa the King of Ulster, and I too would learn the arts of war from this woman-warrior.’

  ‘That makes good hearing!’ cried the pale-haired leader, ‘for many of us here are from Ireland. Myself, I am Ferdia, son to Daman, and my land is Connacht. Come now and eat, and quench the dust of the journey, and tell us the news of home, and if Slieve Cruachan stands where it stood last year.’

  So the game of hurley was forgotten and, rejoicing, they bore Cuchulain to the big central hut, where the slaves were preparing the evening meal.

  When he had eaten and drunk with the rest, he went out again with Ferdia, and looked across the gulf to the Dūn on its jagged cliff-crag beyond, and saw again the blink of weapons in the evening light, and heard the distant neigh of a horse, and the notes of a harp on the far-most edge of hearing. ‘How does one come to the gates of this woman-warrior?’ he asked.

  And Ferdia laughed and shook his head. ‘Every morning Skatha comes to us. None of us have ever crossed the chasm.’

  But by now, narrowing his eyes against the arrows of the evening sun, Cuchulain had made out some kind of bridge across the gulf, and so he said, ‘And why would that be? That if there is a bridge for the woman to cross over, you may not cross the other way?’

  ‘That is called the Bridge of Leaps,’ said Ferdia. ‘Come and look at it.’

  So they went together and stood before the bridge, and it was a single span of rock, its upper surface worn smooth and slippery as an oiled sword blade, and but little broader. And they looked down into the depth of the gulf, where far below the sea tides were swinging to and fro and boiling among the black rocks on which sprawled the shapes of great grey seals and white-fanged walrus.

  ‘There are two feats which Skatha teaches last of all to the warriors of her training,’ Ferdia said, ‘and one is the thrust of the Gae Bolg, the Belly Spear that no armour may withstand, and the other is the Hero’s Salmon Leap, which is the leap across the bridge. For if a man will step on the end of it, the middle bucks like a killer colt and flings him back, and if he leaps upon the centre, he is most like to miss his footing and plunge down to the rocks and the sea monsters.’

  But Cuchulain was in no mood to wait until morning should bring Skatha out across her bridge, and he said, ‘Yet give me an hour to rest after my journey, and it is in my mind that I can do it.’

  ‘Don’t be crowing too loudly before your spurs are grown,’ Ferdia said. ‘Besides, the sun will be down in an hour.’

  ‘There will be a moon, later,’ said Cuchulain.

  And so the two walked back to the bothies, each busy with thoughts of his own.

  Cuchulain wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down beside the fire in the central hut and slept for a while, the light ear-cocked sleep of the hunter. And the sun went down into the dark, and the moon climbed out of the dark. Then he woke and got up and stretched, feeling the weariness of the journey gone from his body, and walked out of the hut circle towards the Bridge of Leaps. And most of the others thronged after him, laughing and jesting, for he had made no secret of what he meant to do.

  The gulf was a black gash in the moonlight, and the narrow bridge was slippery—shining as though a vast snail had crawled over and left its track of silver slime behind. And when he saw it straight before him, he flung off his cloak and began to run, swifter and swifter until on the very brink of the chasm he gathered himself and sprang for the centre of the bridge. He landed just short of it, and the bridge leapt upward, rearing like a killer colt, and flung him back among the young warriors who had come down to watch the game. Furious, he sprang to his feet and again ran for the bridge and sprang; and again the bridge reared up and tossed him contemptuously back. Yet again he sprang and yet again for the third time he was flung off into the midst of his companions. He was bruised and battered in body and spirit, and there was a roar of laughter from the young warriors, and Ferdia cried out as he struggled again to his feet. ‘Best wait for Skatha in the morning, little whelp! Then if you cannot bide like the rest of us, maybe she will pick you up like a little lap dog and carry you across!’

  Rage flared in Cuchulain’s heart, and he shut his teeth and shouted back, ‘Best wish me well in the next leap—even a lap dog can bite, and you shall know that, if I am flung back yet again among you.’ And running forward for the fourth time, he summoned up all the strength that he knew was in him, and strength that he had not known was in him before, and leapt out over the abyss. The moonlight had turned red before his eyes, and great seas pounded in his head, but his foot was set firmly in the centre of the Bridge of Leaps, and wi
th another bound he was across and racing up through the rocks and salt-crusted turf to the gates of the Dūn.

  He beat upon the gates with his dagger. Watch dogs bayed and a voice quieted them. The great timber leaves were drawn back before him as though he were expected, and in the opening, with the light of her attendant warriors’ torches making a blaze of her hair that was strong as the mane of a bay horse, stood a lean-faced woman in an old leather tunic and a kilt of saffron wool that reached barely to her knees, and the bronze ornaments and the white scars of a warrior on her arms. She stood leaning on a great spear and looking at him, with huge dogs crouching around her. ‘And who are you that come to the Dūn of Skatha, when the fires are smoored for the night?’ she said.

  ‘I am Cuchulain, the Hound of Cullen, and I come to learn whatever you will teach me of the arts of war.’

  ‘Rather, I should have said, watching you from the ramparts but now, that you were the Lord of All the Grasshoppers,’ she said, and flung back her head and laughed at him with a snapping of white teeth that were big and square like a horse’s. ‘Go back now—you will find it easier this time—and do not make that leap again until I teach you the way of it; for the untaught man may chance to make it safely once, but not again; and a sad thing it would be to waste the best pupil who has come to me in years!’

  So Cuchulain pressed his spear to his forehead in the way of a warrior saluting his chieftain, and swung on his heel and strode down once more to the Bridge of Leaps. And this time it was as broad as a buckler and as easy to cross as the ditch-causeway into Emain Macha.

  The rest were still gathered on the other side, and he made at once for Ferdia, who stood out from his fellows by the great height of him and the fair hair in the moonlight, and already his hand was on the hilt of the hunting knife in his belt. ‘It can be done, you see, Ferdia Son of Daman,’ he said. ‘And in Ulster we do not jibe at the newcomer in our midst. It seems that Connacht needs a lesson in courtesy.’ And to the rest, ‘Stand back and give us room!’

  But Ferdia sat himself down on a rocky outcrop, and smiled up at him in the white moonlight, his knife untouched in his belt.

  ‘Up!’ Cuchulain said. ‘Get up, Ferdia of Connacht! You are so big and strong, you cannot be afraid of a little lap dog, even though it has teeth!’ He drew nearer, and stood over Ferdia with his knife in his hand, while the rest stood silent in their circle, watching.

  And Ferdia, who had been sitting as still as the rock beneath him, came to life with the swiftness of a bowstring released, and dived straight for his knees.

  Cuchulain was spent with his desperate leap, and off his guard. His feet whipped from under him and he went down with a thud that drove the wind from his body. And next instant Ferdia was lying on top of him with his long legs twisted round Cuchulain’s, and his big hand pinioning Cuchulain’s dagger wrist to the grass. And the circle of young warriors drew inward a little. Still crowing for breath, Cuchulain shut his teeth and struggled to get free; and then suddenly he felt an odd shaking in the body of his adversary, and knew that of all unlikely things, the big fair Connachtman was laughing. ‘Lie still!’ said the choking voice of Ferdia, ‘Lie still, little black fighting-cock. My mother loves me and I am too young and beautiful to die.’

  And in his surprise, Cuchulain lay still. ‘Those who do not wish to die should take better care who they choose to jest with,’ he said.

  ‘I .know, I know, but think before you slay me.’ Ferdia whispered the last words with his mouth against Cuchulain’s ear. ‘Three times the bridge threw you back, and if I had not made you angry, would you have found that last extra feather-thrust of strength to make the leap, after all?’

  And Cuchulain grew suddenly thoughtful, lying there in the cliff-top grasses, and let his fingers uncurl from the hilt of his knife; and then he began to laugh too. And in a little they got up and walked back towards the bothies, each with a hand on the other’s shoulder, and heedless of the rest of Skatha’s pupils who jostled and thrust behind them, demanding to know what the jest might be.

  4. The Princess Aifa

  IN THE MONTHS that followed, Cuchulain learned from the woman Skatha all that she had to teach, save that she did not yet deem him ready to learn the Hero’s Salmon Leap, nor the use of the Gae Bolg, the dreaded Belly Spear.

  When Cuchulain had been half a year in the Land of Shadows, there came war between Skatha and the Princess Aifa, who, for all her youth, was almost as great a warrior as Skatha herself and had many and many more chariots and fighting men to follow her. For a long while past, Aifa had cast eager eyes towards the rich cattle runs of Skatha under the mountains, and begun to loose her young men in ever-growing cattle raids across the border. And when word was brought in to the Land of Shadows by a runaway slave that Aifa was gathering her war host, Skatha knew that her strongest chance lay in carrying the war into her enemy’s country before the other chieftainess could be ready to receive her. And as soon as the harvest was got in, she gathered her own warriors and made ready her chariots. She did not call upon the younglings of the War School to follow her, but they caught up their weapons to come all the same, with Ferdia and Cuchulain at the head of them.

  But Skatha was by no means sure of victory, knowing only that she and her people must fight or be enslaved, and though she seemed to accept all the young warriors of her War School, she determined that Cuchulain, who had no equal among them saving Ferdia Mac Daman and was not yet come to his full strength, and who, moreover, she had come to love better even than she loved her own two sons, should not be hazarded in such a desperate venture. And so on the morning of their setting out, she mixed certain sleepy herbs into the cup of wine that she sent him from her own before-dawn meal. And when, the meal eaten and the camp fires trampled out, the warriors rose to take their chariots, Cuchulain lay asleep with his head in the hollow of his shield.

  And when Ferdia came striding through the camp to tell her that he could not rouse the Hound of Cullen, she said, ‘Do not try. He will sleep for a day and a night and wake with no harm come to him.’

  So Ferdia went back to the rest, and told them what Skatha had done, and they growled among themselves that it was a woman’s trick, and were angry for Cuchulain’s sake, but there was nothing to be done save take their places with the rest of the host who were already swinging their chariots out on the war trail.

  But the drug that would have held most men sleeping for a day and a night, held Cuchulain for only an hour, and when he woke to find himself beside the black still-warm scar of a camp fire, he knew what Skatha had done, and he would have been angry for his own sake, save that there was no time to waste in anger. He snatched up his shield and his two great war spears, and set out in the wake of the rest, his buckler banging behind his shoulder at every step. For a long while he followed by the ruts of the chariot wheels, travelling at the swift untiring lope of a wolf in a hurry. He crossed the ford of the hill stream where they had made their midday halt, and before the shadows began to lengthen, saw far ahead of him the faint dust cloud rising behind their rearguard, and quickened his pace like a hunter when the quarry comes in sight.

  And in a while and a while he was running straight up through the long dark wild-goose skein of men and horses and chariots, who called their greetings to him and cheered him as he ran, until he came at last to the side of Skatha’s chariot, where she drove with the vanguard. ‘Chieftainess, you do not mix your wine strong enough, for the man who drinks it will be sober again in an hour!’

  And she looked down at him over the chariot rim, and sighed. ‘I might have known that where there was fighting in the wind, Cuchulain could not be held back from it.’

  At noon next day, the armies of Skatha and the Princess Aifa came together. And in a broad valley where the black rock ridges cropped through the heather they drew up the battle lines and grappled with each other, and the thunder-roll of meeting shields made the hills shake all around them. And all the rest of that day there was red slaughter
on both sides, and Cuchulain and Ferdia fighting shoulder to shoulder with the two sons of Skatha, killed, among others, six of the best and bravest of the Princess’s warriors, part of her inmost bodyguard.

  Sunset came, and the two hosts drew apart to lick their wounds. And on both sides of the glen the watch fires were lit, and food and drink doled out to the tired warriors. And then, and not until then, Skatha swayed and sank to her knees beside the fire, and when Cuchulain ran to support her and put back the heavy dark folds of her cloak that made red stains on his hands, he saw that her sword arm was laid open to the bone.

  Her sons and the other warriors came thronging round her. One brought wine in his warcap, and Eoghan the Druid, who was skilled in the tending of wounds, came hurrying with strips of linen and pungent-smelling wound salves, and knelt by her side, and taking the wine that she had barely tasted, began to cleanse the wound with it.

  ‘Bind it tightly,’ she said. ‘There will be more fighting tomorrow, and I must lead my warriors even if I lash myself to my chariot bow.’

  And the Druid said nothing, and the warriors looked at each other with a dark cloud spreading over their thoughts of the next day.

  But there was to be no more fighting for the war host, that time.

  For in the darkest hour of the night, those who were wakeful about the dying fires heard a challenge from one of the pickets, and even as they sprang up, snatching at their weapons, two of Skatha’s men stepped into the leas of the firelight, and between them a man wearing the white swan’s feather tuft in his war cap that marked him for one of Aifa’s bodyguard, who carried no weapon but the green branch of a herald in his hand. ‘Here is one who would speak with Skatha the Chieftainess,’ said one of the picket warriors. Skatha had roused with the rest and was sitting upright on a pile of skins beside the fire, where she had been trying to sleep; her cloak drawn about her so that no man should see her wound. And when the herald was brought to her, he touched the green branch to his forehead, and stood waiting for her leave to speak.