“Omen?” he said. “An omen, Druid Edar? And… see ye it as good or foreboding, Lord Druid?”
Edar but shook his bronze-locked head. “This Behl does not reveal, nor does the Druid-sight that allows us occasionally to glimpse the time-to-come. Though in truth it is by night the beast came upon us, while Behl is absent from the sky and only the cold moon watches…”
Was then Midhir went again to the horses, which were still hardly calm, while Roich and Bran attacked the gloom by commencing the comparison of Cormac with the mighty hero Cuchulain in his strength and in his courage. Too high were the spirits of all to be affected darkly this night by the druid’s words. Cormac beamed, seeming to glow from deep within him, and his unease passed. Nevertheless he kept his stare fixed on the fire, pretending to ignore his exuberant companions and their high compliments. They were after all men in liege to his father…
Midhir returned to the fire. “Here, Cuchulain Bearslayer, this night it’s the champion’s portion for yourself,” he said warmly, bringing forth a dripping gobbet of meat larger than his hand.
The flames commanded Cormac’s eyes, and his gaze was as if trapped by the dancing tongues and feather-shapes of yellow and orange, crimson and white…
The champion’s portion… Cu-Chulain… the Hound of Chulan… Cuchulain of Muirthemne…
– and then Cormac mac Art was oblivious of the proffered meat, and the voices of these his companions, for he was no longer with them…
He stood in a fine shining chariot drawn by two horses with the spirit of spring breezes and springs. Mourning was on him for his driver just slain, his long-time driver and old friend Laeg, and he hurled again his spear of victory into the ranks of the gathered enemy, and its gleaming bronze point drove through a man so that he died and him behind that one was hurled backward by the point’s bursting through the first and nigh entering his belly.
And then another of the gathered enemy leaped forward, and tore free that much-blooded spear, the gau-buaid, and hurled it even as Cormac whipped up his fine team of horses-
No! Not Cormac; no son of Art was he, with sword of blue-grey steel by side, but him born Setalta and later called the hound of the smith, Chulan-Cuchulain he was, and battling the enemy who had never forgot the terrible War of the two bulls, the Brown of Cuailgne and the White-horned of Cruachan Ai. And the spear drove into one of his chariot horses, the finest in all the land, even the Grey of Macha, King of the horses of Eirinn, and him having served Cuchulain so long and so well. And he, he, Cormac who was Cuchulain, cried out, for it was another friend he’d lost this day, and life and time were closing on him the way that in his anguished mind he heard anew the druid’s words of his youth:
“If any young man should be taking up arms this day, his name will be greater than any other name in Eirrin. But his span of life will be short.” And the boy Cuchulain had immediately gone and taken up arms, aye and reddened them that day, and too he had sworn his oath of glory: “I swear by the oath of my people that I will make my deeds to be spoken of among the great deeds of heroes in their strength.”
And indeed his name became thereafter, greater than any in all Eirrin, in Emain Macha or Uladh or Laigen that was Leinster, or Cruachan Ai to become Connacht, or Tuathmumain that was become Munster.
Then, while in the midst of the enemy he anguished over the Gray of Macha that lay kicking before his chariot so that it tore free of pole and harness, he of the enemies of Cuchulain whose name was Lugaid hurled his throwing-spear of enchantment, and Cuchulain grunted and was staggered at feel of the terrible blow.
(By the fire in the wood of Connacht, young Cormac jerked and groaned so that his companions asked in concern if he had wounds on him that did not show.)
He looked down then, he who was not yet Cormac for centuries were in the way of it, and he felt the cold that came after the blow to his body, and he saw then that the spear had gone into him. In anger rather than horror he tore it from his middle, for it was long and did tug heavily at him. But then, liberated, his bowels began to coil out onto the cushions of his chariot. Down fell his arm that held Dubhan his shield, and he could not force his other hand to draw forth Cruaidin Calcidheann, the Hard, Hard-headed One, his great bronze sword of so many deeds, and the Hound of Chulan knew then that his life’s span would indeed be short. For Lugaid had surely given him his deadly wound.
Then did his other horse and companion of so many battles strain, and find that his partner was loose of the chariot, and the Black Sanglain lunged forward into a gallop so that had not Cuchulain gripped the chariot before him he’d have been hurled free. Spears whizzed amid the cries of his enemies, who had stood silent as if in awe and disbelief that he could be so wounded. And the Grey of Macha that was the King of all the horses of Eirinn left there to die among his enemies.
Down onto the strand beside the loch galloped the Balck Sanglain, drawing the chariot alone in his bolting, and it struck a great rock at the water’s edge so that it bounded high and landed on its side, and Cuchulain was hurled from it.
Then did he put shame on his enemies that were shouting after him, and indeed on all men. For he set his teeth and gathered up his guts to himself, and with the aid of his other hand and the chariot, he dragged himself to the edge of the water, and Cuchulain drank and washed himself that he might not die so filthy with dirt and blood and sweat before his enemies. And again by the aid of the chariot, he gained his feet with a lurch and a grunt.
A great slashing cold pain ran all through him from where his hand clutched his entrails to himself, and seeped blood between his fingers. And his enemies stood hushed whilst they stared, for he walked, and with his death-wound on him.
Each time his foot came down on the sandy earth the jar seemed worse than had he leaped from the top of a mighty oak, but Cuchulain walked. His eyes stared only ahead, at the great standing rock rising from the sand, and Cuchulain walked. His feet moved, one and then the other and then the first again, the while he clutched himself the way that his bowels did not spill forth and trip him. And his blood leaked and leaked, and he walked.
He walked, in an agony of pain, and surely when they had gone a million miles, his mind on naught but lifting his one foot and putting it down, and then the other, he had paced along the loch to the standing stone that had been raised there, for it was a pillar-stone.
They see a dead man walk, he thought, and clamped his teeth against a groan when he paused at the stone taller than he, the greatest hero Eirrin would ever know, with his guts slippery in his hands: His head swam and the world was red-tinged though sunset was hours away, and he clung to himself, holding back blood and looping bowels with one hand while with the other he worked.
Hours seemed to pass while he leaned against the pillar-stone, and got loose his breast-belt with a bloody hand, and then his loin-girding belt. Buckled together, he looped them over the standing stone, and set his broad back to it, the while his eyes saw a darkening red fog that was somehow also a sound, a throbbing continuing thunder in his ears. And he made shift to fasten the belt over the hole in him, and secured himself thus to the pillar-stone beside the loch. A terrible grunting groan escaped even his set lips that ground powder from his teeth for he had tugged tight the belt and yet had not the strength to hold tight his jaws the longer. And his mouth came open, and leaked blood upon his chest that was like unto that of a bear.
Yet he knew his ribs would not hold his heart, for his great hero’s heart was turned all to blood within him.
But he stood. He had bound himself upright against the stone, the way he would not meet his death lying down before his enemies, like the normal man he had never been. And though he saw only dimly, he knew then that the host of his enemies came down onto the strand, shields and spears ready, and she knew that he faced them standing erect with heels braced and guts bound up so they could not spill from within him, and even now they in their company were in dread of approaching him closely. Laughter he would have given them then
, but he knew he dared not, for the strain of that laughter might sunder the straps of leather holding back the bowels that strained and sought to pour looping from him.
For he was Cuchulain of Muirthemne, and he’d die on his feet and facing his enemies. And a cloud and a weakness rose to come over him, so that his eyes were fixed.
“It is a great shame for us,” said Erc who was the son of Cairbre whom Cuchulain had slain, “not to strike the head off this man, in revenge for his striking the head off my father!”
And Cuchulain saw Lugaid then, Lugaid who had done death on him, and he was reaching for his sword-though Lugaid in truth had gone all reddish and dark and seemed to pulse with the throbbing thunder Cuchulain heard; dusk must be coming on uncommon early this day. And he heard the pounding hooves that told him his beloved horses were coming to seek to save him, and them without Laeg to drive nor Cuchulain their lifelong master to shout them on. For he was beyond shouting.
And they did, the Black Sanglain and even the wounded Grey of Macha or so he thought he saw, both of them that slew many with flashing hooves and terrible warhorse teeth, and they were slain and died, his mighty horses, and Lugaid was coming for him with his sword up and his shieldhand rising the way it would lock in Cuchulain’s hair that Lugaid might strike off his head.
And sadness was on Cuchulain to discover that his body that had served him so well no longer paid heed to his demands of it, for his arms would not rise to grapple with Lugaid, though he had killed ten tens and more of mightier men.
Lugaid’s face came closer, and filled all his vision, and then it seemed to shimmer like the pool into which a stone had been tossed, and it was no longer Lugaid’s face before Cuchulain, but that of the druid of his boyhood, Cathbadh.
“Your name will be greater than any other name in Eirrin,” the druid said, and his face pulsed redly. “But it’s short your span of life will be.”
And this was the death of Cuchulain and this too was the first of the Rememberings to come upon Cormac son of Art.
Then Cathbadh’s face, too, shimmered, even as the bright sunlight of summer off a thousand fine shields or off the broad surface of Loch Cuan.
And it was not Lugaid that he saw. And it was not Cathbadh the Druid he saw, with his face somehow surrounded by flames so that he stared out from within those very flames. Aye, though in truth it was a druid, neither Lugaid nor Cathbadh. Was Sualtim he saw with his agonized eyes.
Sualtim! he thought. This is not possible-that mentor of Cormac mac Art that I will be is not even born yet!
Oh-I am Cormac mac Art! I was Cuchulain. I am Cormac. I am in the woods, not dying though I have died afore in lives other than this one… the woods… campfire… but that is Sualtim Fodla staring at me from the fire!
Aye. Amid the dancing campfire, now opaque so that their white-and-yellow glare was invisible behind him, now opalescent and wavering amid a ruddy glow, now transparent so that he was but a cloud and the flames were completely visible behind him and through him; there stood Sualtim of Wisdom Itself.
Thin he was as ever, gaunt of face so that his skin was as aged white parchment drawn over the bone. A band of soft doeskin two fingers in breadth circled his brow, binding his thin, straight hair the colour of June clouds on a sunny day or the sleek coat of a red-eared white calf. On him not his robe of oak-forest green, but the one of white, the white robe of ceremony that was the colour of the hair of his head and his eyebrows.
The quick, bird-bright eyes stared blue at Cormac mac Art. And the gaunt old face with its lines from nostrils to the corners of his wide mouth was drawn with anguish and… could that be fear? Sualtim?
From the flames in Connacht-Shield Woods, Sualtim spoke.
“Treachery, son of Art! Get ye to the house of your father, you who are boy no longer, for it’s dark treachery stalks the rath this night.”
That was all. The image, flickered with the flicker of the fire, and grew less and less substantial. And then Sualtim was gone.
Cormac would have fallen but for the hands of an anxious Midhir.
“Cormac! What is it on ye, lad? Tell me! Crom protect-it must be that he had injuries within from that great bear!”
“N-no,” Cormac stammered, but still he was weak and disconcerted so that he reeled as he sat, and was held up only by the concerned grip of a weapons-compatriot.
“The boy-” Edar began, and interrupted himself. “Cormac has the look on him of a man who feels his other lives.” Then Edar looked about, frowning, and there was confusion in his voice: “Sualtim?”
“Cormac-”
“I… I am unharmed, Mid-Midhir.”
Cormac forced his brain to work. Cuchulain-never mind that: later!
Sualtim! Well he knew that the druid had been there, had spoken to him-yet he knew that it was not in the flesh Sualtim had come. In a Sending, a samha, he had warned, called…
Shaking off Midhir’s solicitous hands, Cormac thrust himself to his feet like a big cat. He looked about at his companions. They were staring at him.
“I have seen Sualtim. He was speaking to me. Midhir! Ye must be coming with me-now, tonight. Two of the horses we will ride; two we leave to pull the empty carts on the morrow. Edar, Roich, Bran: when day comes, make haste. We leave ye now.”
And none gainsaid the boy-man from Eirrin who turned now to ready a pair of horses; the boy-man of fourteen, who was suddenly a man in other than physical deeds, and to be obeyed.
Chapter Three:
Glondrath
The forest called Sciath Connaict debouched amid a sprinkling of alder and bilberry onto a fine long meadow that flowed out green, and planted in summer to a gentle rise on the leftward flank, as one emerged from the woods. Here Connacht defended herself. Two miles beyond the forest and this meadow lay the coast and the western sea. Just seaward of center on this ancient plain, a mighty mound rose on what was called Magh Glondarth: The Plain of Deeds, for in times gone by many a battle had been fought on these acres. The sprawling mound itself bore the name lios. When it was fortified atop so that there clustered what amounted to a warlike village or manor-estate as here, and ringed about with a strong defensive wall of earth, it became a rath.
To Comal’s son Art his king had given command of this key military post, which was both home and holding-for-the-king. Though many called it Rath Airt, naturally enough-Art’s Rath-it remained not his, but a part of the kingdom’s important defenses. For it bristled betwixt the dense forest east of which lay the rest of Eirrin and its kingdoms, and the sea, whence came occasional-raiders from the Northlands and, unceasingly, the Cruithne; the squat dark men the Romans called the Old Ones: Pictii; Picts. And thus it was not Art’s Rath at all, but a highly important outpost of the kingdom born centuries agone as Coiced Connachta; an outpost that took in all these acres and the land even unto the sea, and that for two centuries had borne the name Rath Glondarth, and, more simply by someone’s cleverness, Glondrath.
The Rath of Deeds. And many were the deeds done here by striving men at the game of the Morrigu and the shield-splitting, nor ever had Rath Glondarth fallen to attackers.
Just after dawn, two men on horseback emerged from the woods. To their right the meadowed plain rolled out and out like a carpet laid at the foot of the mountain that rose tall and tall-and gapless; to their left began the long gentle rise that gave way to highland farms and pasturage. Because of the forest with its myriad oaks and plentitude of acorns, many were the fine pigs that were raised hereabouts. Fond of pork, were the sons of Eirrin.
Nearly a mile straight ahead rose the lios and Rath Glondarth, the command of Art mac Comail of the western ui-Neill,
Comal’s fifth son was Art, and little there’d been left for him on his father’s death. Given this command because of his sword and his warlike brain, along with the failure of its previous lord, Art had proven so strong and fair-handed that men and their families had flocked to him. His command had become his estate, and good was the tribute sent by him to h
is king each year. Good too was Glondrath’s trade; pork fattened on these grasses and roots and acorns was known as far to the east as Carmen and southeast as Caisel and aye, even in Tir Conaill of Ailech to the north. And many were the lords’ halls south and north and east of Connacht that dispalyed on their walls Pictish spears and shields and blades, for those there were in Eirrin who had never seen the Cruithne.
Picts were well known betwixt the forest called Sciath Connaict and the sea.
Both riders who emerged from the woods were cloak-muffled, furs up, for the, dawn-chill had hardly dissipated. They sat their mounts loosely in weariness, and both beasts were winded, blowing with flanks atremble. For hours they had been urged with care through the night-blackened forest. Their riders had held their mounts to a walk while trusting otherwise to the instinct and surefootedness of the animals on the hardpacked roadway. The trail was broad, though, for reasons of defense and the slowing of any possible force of invaders, it wound about abominably.
Winded or no, the horses quickened their trot. One whickered and both strove to stretch reins and riders’ arms to allow a lope. For with home, oats and stable in sight, they were no less anxious to reach that hilltop fortress than the men they bore. Yet despite the haste that had driven them to the long ride through the night, the men held their reins now in stern hands that drew skin tight over knuckles. Neither was anxious, this close, to have his mount go down under him in final weariness.
They but glanced at the apple orchard to the east; the guard, that was ever posted there to surprise interlopers would not bestir themselves and betray their position to challenge only two men. And besides, Midhir mac Fionn was at pains to display in that direction his scarlet-painted shield with its four sun-catching points of silver; a gift from his lord Art that shield, and known farther abroad then hereabouts.
The forced ride had been cruel in more ways than one. There had been the darkness and the danger of a stumbling mount. There had been the sleepiness that came on, with the growing ache in buttocks and thighs. And too the long silent hours of darkness had afforded much time for brain-meandering.
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