The Tain

by Ciaran Carson

  Then the great hero Cú Chulainn son of Sualdam, builder of the Badb’s palisade of human bodies, put on his warrior’s battle-garb. This was the outfit: first, the twenty-seven corsets of waxed skin, stiffened, compact, board-like, hooped to his own fair skin with drawstrings, ropes and cables to prevent his inner being and his brain from breaking loose at the onset of his fury. Over these he fastened the battle-girdle of hard, tough, tanned leather cut from the choicest parts of seven yearling ox-hides, covering him from slender waist to the breadth between armpits; this he wore to repel spears, pikes, lances, darts and arrows, which glanced off as if they’d struck rock or horn. Then he slipped on the apron of filmy silk with its variegated white bronze border over his soft underbelly. Over the apron of filmy silk, the dark apron of pliable oxblood leather cut from four yearling ox-hides, battle-belted with a thick strap of cowhide.

  Then the beautiful champion took up his weapons of contest and warfare and strife. These were the weapons he picked: eight short swords with the gleaming bone-hilted sword; eight little spears with the five-pronged spear; eight light javelins with the bone-hilted javelin; eight small darts with the barbed dart known as the Riddling-Rod; eight double-dealing shields with the oxblood-red curved shield that could cup a prize boar in its bowl, its rim so razor-sharp it could cut a hair against the current. When the warrior performed the double-deal of the shield-rim, he could slice as keenly as with sword or spear. Then he placed on his head the battle-hardened war-helmet from whose ridges and chambers his roar of a hundred warriors reverberated, echoed by the goblins and ghouls and sprites of the glen and the fiends of the air, for their howls would resound before him, above him and around him any time he went forth to shed the blood of warriors and heroes. He drew about him his cloak of invisibility made of cloth from Tir Tairngire, the Land of Promise, and given to him by his foster-father in the dark arts.

  The first Torque seized Cú Chulainn and turned him into a contorted thing, unrecognizably horrible and grotesque. Every slab and every sinew of him, joint and muscle, shuddered from head to foot like a tree in the storm or a reed in the stream. His body revolved furiously inside his skin. His feet and his shins and his knees jumped to the back; his heels and his calves and his hams to the front. The bunched sinews of his calves jumped to the front of his shins, bulging with knots the size of a warrior’s clenched fist. The ropes of his neck rippled from ear to nape in immense, monstrous, incalculable knobs, each as big as the head of a month-old child.

  Then he made a red cauldron of his face and features: he sucked one of his eyes so deep into his head that a wild crane would find it difficult to plumb the depths of his skull to drag that eye back to its socket; the other popped out on to his cheek. His mouth became a terrifying, twisted grin. His cheek peeled back from his jaws so you could see lungs and liver flapping in his throat; lower and upper palate clashed like a pair of mighty tongs, and a stream of white-hot flecks broad as a ram’s fleece poured from his mouth. His heart belled against his ribs like a bloodhound guldering for its food, or a lion roaring through bears. The clouds that boiled above him in his fury glimmered and flickered with malignant flares and sultry smoke – the torches of the Badb. His hair became the wiry tangle of a red thornbush that fences a gap in a stone wall. If a royal apple-tree laden with regal fruit were shaken over his head, hardly an apple would reach the ground, but would find itself spiked by a strand of his hair as it bristled with rage. The hero’s light sprang from his forehead, long and thick as a warrior’s whetstone, long as a prow, and he clattered with rage as he wielded the shields, urging his charioteer on and raining stones on the massed army. Then thick, steady, strong, high as the mast of a tall ship was the straight spout of dark blood that rose up from the fount of his skull to dissolve in an otherworldly mist like the smoke that hangs above a royal hunting-lodge when a king comes to be looked after at the close of a winter’s day.

  Transformed by the Torque, the hero Cú Chulainn sprang into his scythed chariot that glittered with iron tangs, blades, hooks, hard prongs and brutal spikes, barbs and sharp nails on every shaft, strut, strap and truss. The chariot was built on sleek, spare lines, arrowy and high-sprung, with space for a lordly warrior’s eightfold weapons, and drove like a swallow or the wind or a deer over the level plain. The chariot was hitched to a pair of fast, furious, eager-headed, able-bodied horses, slender-eared and roan-breasted, keen and confident in harness, lovely to look at between the trim shafts. One horse was lithe and swift-leaping, battle-ready, arched and powerful, long in body and broad in hoof. The other flowing-maned, slight and slender, shining in hoof and heel.

  He came out fighting with the thunder-feat of one hundred, and the thunder-feat of two hundred, and of three hundred, and of four hundred, and of five hundred, at which point he paused, thinking that would do rightly for the first round of the first bout of his battle with the four provinces of Ireland. Then, to show his great hatred of them, he brought the chariot in a great circle round the provinces of Ireland, driving so hard that the iron tyres ploughed deep into the ground and threw up a bank of earth the height of the wheels, with clods, boulders, rocks, flagstones and gravel enough for the outer rampart of an armed camp. He made that wall of the Badb round the four great provinces of Ireland so as not to have his enemies escape and scatter, but to hold them close to him and thus to wreak vengeance for the death of the young fellows of Ulster. He drove into their packed ranks, an enemy to beat all enemies, three times encircling them with great ramparts of their own corpses piled sole to sole and headless neck to headless neck, so all-encompassing was the carnage. Three times again he circled them, leaving a layer of them six deep, the soles of three to the necks of three in a ring-fence round the camp. So that the name of this episode in the Táin is Seisrech Breslige, the Sixfold Slaughter. It is one of the three massacres in the Táin whose casualties are beyond computation: Seisrech Breslige, Imshlige Glennamnach – the Mutual Slaughter of Glenamnach – and the Battle of Gáirech and Ilgáirech. Though, on this occasion, horses and dogs could be reckoned as well as men. No body-count was made of the common soldiery, so we have no way of knowing how many died in total. Only their leaders were accounted for. These are the names of their chiefs and commanders: two Crúaids, two Calads, two Círs, two Cíars, two Ecells, three Croms, three Cauraths, three Combirges, four Feochars, four Furachars, four Casses, four Fotas, five other Cauraths, five Cermans, five Cobthachs, six Saxans, six Dáchs, six Dáires, seven Rochaids, seven Rónáns, seven Rúrthechs, eight Rochlads, eight Rochtads, eight Rindachs, eight Cairpres, eight Mulachs, nine Daigiths, nine other Dáires, nine Dámachs, ten Fiacs, ten Fiachas and ten Fedelmids.

  In that great Massacre on Muirthemne Plain Cú Chulainn slew seven score and ten kings as well as innumerable dogs and horses, women and children, not to mention underlings and rabble; and not one man in three escaped without a staved head, or a broken leg, or a burst eye, or without being scarred for life in some other way. And Cú Chulainn came away from that encounter without so much as a scrape or scratch on himself, or his man, or his horses.

  Cú Chulainn emerged the next morning to survey the enemy and to display his elegant figure to matrons and maidens and young girls and poets and practitioners of verse, for he deemed neither dignified nor seemly the nightmarish form in which he had appeared the night before. So he came to them by day to let them see his true beauty. Gorgeous indeed was Cú Chulainn Mac Sualdaim as he paraded himself before what was left of the army. His hair was arranged in three layers: dark next to the scalp, blood-red in the middle, and yellow at the ends, which were set like a gold crown on his head, falling to the nape of the neck in a braid of three coils, with little ringlets and gold-shiny strands combed out in artful disarray about his shoulders. A hundred curls of purple gold shone round his neck; a hundred amber-beaded ribbons bedecked his head. He had four dimples in each cheek – yellow, green, blue and purple. Seven brilliant gems gleamed in each regal eye. Each foot had seven toes and each hand seven fingers
, the nails or claws or talons of each with the grip of a hawk or a griffin. He had put on his festive garb for the day. This was what he wore: a beautifully becoming purple mantle, with a fringe of five folds, pinned over his white breast with a silver brooch inlaid with filigree of gold, shining like a lantern that is too bright to look at; and next to his skin, a sheer silk tunic reaching down to the top of his warrior’s apron of royal satin. He carried an oxblood-red shield with five concentric gold rings and a rim of white bronze. The ornamented gold guard of his sword sat proud above his belt. Nearby in the chariot stood a tall javelin with a gold-riveted head and an edge of blued steel. He held nine human heads in one hand, ten in the other. He waved them at the army. These were Cú Chulainn’s overnight trophies.

  The women of Connacht climbed up on the men’s shoulders to get a glimpse of Cú Chulainn. Medb dared not show her face for dread of him, and stayed where she was under her tortoise-shell of shields. Then Dubthach Dóel, the Beetle of Ulster, said this:

  If this be the Torqued Man, then

  many corpses will ensue,

  cries resound in the walled courts,

  and tales that are all too true –

  headstones erected on graves,

  increased by the royal dead;

  not well do you bring the fight

  to this solitary blade.

  I see his malignant shape,

  the nine heads under his bed,

  these prized possessions of his

  our fragments, like these ten heads.

  I see your women’s faces

  raised above the lines for him,

  and I see that your great queen

  dare not risk her life or limb.

  Were you to take my advice,

  your army would form a plan

  to surround him and cut short

  the reign of the Torqued Man.

  And Fergus replied:

  Consign Dubthach Beetle-Tongue

  to the back of the army!

  Nothing but harm has he done

  since the young maidens were slain.4

  Wicked the deed when he killed

  Fiacha the son of Conchobar,

  and worse again when he killed

  Coirpre the son of Fedelmid.

  Black Dubthach dare not contend

  for the kingship of Ulster,

  so this is how he uses men –

  those not killed he sets at odds.

  All the exiles would lament

  the loss of their beardless son,

  and Ulster will be hell-bent

  on driving you like cattle,

  your herds scattered far and wide

  when the men of Ulster rise.

  Messengers will bring great news

  of great queens brought down to ground,

  men’s bodies violated

  and piled up in a great mound.

  Shields scattered on the dark slopes,

  ravens tearing at dead meat,

  corpses trampled underfoot,

  human vultures at the feast.

  Everywhere the dogs of war

  will cause havoc when they can.

  We exiles have wandered far

  indeed from our Ulster land.

  Dubthach heeds not what I say.

  So take him away.

  Fergus flung Dubthach from him and he ended up nose-down before a nearby troop of onlookers.

  Then Ailill said:

  enough of your threats Fergus

  on account of Ulster cows and women

  I know by the gaps that slaughter

  will ensue though singly they die

  by the ford one day at a time

  Medb said:

  rise up Ailill with your triple ranks

  against the cattle people the boy

  beguiling warrior who shudders by fords

  who shatters the dark pools noble

  Fergus and his Ulster exiles

  when the war is done will get

  their dues as they pay back

  the poets of heroic war

  Fergus replied:

  close your ears to crazy women

  flames blossoming among kith and unfaithful

  kin unripe as yet

  the counsel of a king of knowledge

  to be equal in the secret act

  The poet Gabrán said:

  leave off your words this queenly dross

  to strew before her followers sweet acorns

  for keen blades to bring forth what comes

  swelling fiercely from the knob of a shield

  ‘Don’t refuse the match,’ said Fergus. ‘Go and take him on at the ford.’

  ‘Listen to Ailill,’ said Medb.

  Ailill said:

  Fergus knows this people all too well

  bleating followers of cattle but to drive

  cattle with sharp goads he swears

  to bring them round through the mist

  the long way by the gap of the brazen mouth

  Fergus said:

  do not Medb shear off your exiles

  the full crop of a year fierce women

  squabbling over the spoils this man

  who came to strive with your followers

  The loyal hero Fiacha Fíaldána Dimraith went to talk with his mother’s sister’s son, Maine Andóe the Quick Man. Dócha Mac Mágach came with Maine Andóe, and Dubthach the Beetle of Ulster came with Fiacha Fíaldána. Dócha threw a spear at Fiacha and hit his companion Dubthach. At the same time Dubthach threw a spear at Fiacha and hit his cousin Dócha – the mothers of Dubthach and Dócha were sisters.

  Hence the name Imroll Belaig Eóin, the Bad Throw at Bird Pass.

  Or, according to another account, Imroll Belaig Eóin got its name later, when the Ulstermen had recovered from the Curse. The two armies had set up camp there when Diarmait, Conchobar’s son, came south from Ulster.

  ‘Let a horseman be sent,’ said Diarmait, ‘to tell Maine he can meet me, and we’ll talk.’

  So they met.

  ‘I’ve come from Conchobar,’ said Diarmait, ‘to let Ailill and Medb know that if they return the cattle, the other damage will be overlooked; and let the bull from the east be brought to go head to head with our bull, since that was what Medb bargained for.’

  ‘I’ll go and tell them that,’ said Maine.

  So he went to Ailill and Medb.

  ‘The terms don’t suit Medb,’ said Maine.

  ‘Let’s exchange weapons, then,’ said Diarmait, ‘if it’s all right by you.’

  ‘All right by me,’ said Maine.

  Each threw his spear towards the other and each killed the other. In this way Imroll Belaig Eóin, the Bad Throw at Bird Pass, got its name.

  Then the two forces clashed. Three score fell on each side. Hence the name Ard in Dírma, Force Height.

  A bold Ulster hero, Aengus son of Aenláime Gaibe the One-Handed, delayed the whole army at Moda Loga – Lug’s Measure – as far as Áth Da Ferta, the Ford of the Two Grave Mounds. He held them at bay by showering them with flagstones. Experts say that had the army accepted single combat with him, he would have beaten them before they came under the sword at Emain Macha. But the rules of fair fight were not upheld. He died fighting against the odds.

  ‘Send out somebody to fight me,’ said Cú Chulainn at the ford of Da Ferta.

  ‘Not me! Anybody but me!’ said everyone in turn. ‘My family owes no dues. And even if they did, why should I be the scapegoat?’

  Fergus Mac Róich was urged to take him on, but he refused to fight his foster-son Cú Chulainn. They plied him with wine till he was full drunk and again they urged him to go and fight him. He gave in under the pressure, and went.

  ‘You must have been given some assurance,’ said Cú Chulainn, ‘to take me on with no sword in your scabbard.’

  (For as we explained before, Ailill had stolen it.)

  ‘Sword or no sword,’ said Fergus, ‘I wouldn’t use it against you. Yield to me this once, Cú Chula
inn.’

  ‘If you yield to me some other time,’ said Cú Chulainn.

  ‘Done,’ said Fergus.

  Cú Chulainn retreated back from Fergus as far as Grellach Dollaid, the Doleful Swamp, so that Fergus might retreat before him when it came to the final battle.

  Cú Chulainn made off into the swamp.

  ‘After him, Fergus!’ they all cried.

  ‘Not this time,’ said Fergus. ‘It’s not so easily managed. He’s a quick one, that. I won’t be going after him till my turn comes round again.’

  They went on then and pitched camp in Crích Rois. Ferchú5 Loingsech, who had been exiled by Ailill, heard what had happened and came to take on Cú Chulainn. He brought a squad of twelve men with him. Cú Chulainn killed them at Cingit Ferchon, Ferchú’s Goblet. Thirteen gravestones mark the spot.

  ∗

  Medb sent Mand Muresci, the son of Dáire Domnannaig, to fight Cú Chulainn. Mand was a brother of Damán, Fer Diad’s father. This Mand was an ugly customer, as fond of his grub as he was of his bed. He was as foul-mouthed as Dubthach the Beetle, as rough and ready of limb as Munremar Mac Gerrcinn the Thick-necked. He had the brute strength of Triscod, that pillar of Conchobar’s household.

  ‘I’ll go for him unarmed, and crush him with my bare hands, for it’s beneath me to use a weapon against such a barefaced whippersnapper.’

  So Mand went out to find Cú Chulainn. Cú Chulainn and his charioteer were on the plain keeping a look-out for the army.