A Mythos Grimmly

by Morgan Griffith

  Best,

  Robert

  Sent from my iPhone

  May 7, 1901

  Lady I.A. Gregory

  Coole Park,

  Cori,

  Co. Galway.

  Lady Gregory, A Chara,

  Enclosed please find a copy of some newly discovered materials to aid you in your work on the legends of Cúchulainn. A local farmer in the Hebrides Islands recently unearthed these documents sealed in a metal cylinder engraved with Pictish symbols and buried in a prehistoric mound.

  When translated from the Old Irish, these fragments appear to be an alleged first-hand account of Compert Chon Culainn, the birth of Cúchulainn.

  The account was inscribed on the last pages of The Book of Invasions. Naturally, the Gaelic League gives no credence to the pagan fantasies contained therein. Some of the sundried events described may be poetic figments, a few are probable, others improbable, yet most seem invented for the delectation of fools.

  We pray that you will see past the heretical elements and glean some useful details or context from this manuscript.

  Mise le meas mor.

  Douglas Hyde, LL.D., Litt.D.

  President

  Conradh na Gaeilge

  The Gaelic League

  ___

  ‘Twas I that destroyed the hero, Cúchulainn.

  I am Anann Mac Ciall, last bondmaid of Sualtaim mac Róich, and this is my confession. May the gods have mercy on my soul.

  To give sooth to the words I write, I must first tell you of Tuan, forefather of my clan. ‘Twas Tuan that first journeyed across the western sea. ‘Twas Tuan that first travelled beneath the mound into Ildathach, the multicolored place. ‘Twas Tuan that first discovered the hidden land of the Tuatha Dé, the supernatural race that men nowadays call Faery folk.

  The Tuatha Dé gave Tuan a vision of how they came to our land, long before the first man. They arrived in dark clouds that blackened the sun for three days and three nights. The legends would have you believe that the Sons of the Gael came to this land and drove them out. Forsooth the Tuatha Dé had moved underground ages before to escape the great floods that washed over the earth.

  The Tuatha Dé were eager to know of the surface world, and whether ‘twas safe to reclaim. Tuan spun wild stories of the Roman’s gods and their merciless armies in the hopes of sowing fear. The Tuatha Dé chose then not to rise, for immortals have great patience.

  They gave him an enchanted ring bound to their ancient god Tulu, and with it, Tuan lived far beyond his mortal years. He was both hostage and honored guest, and they instructed him in strange feats and forgotten rituals. He was free to explore their blue-lit land, down to the red-lit realm beneath, and the black pit deeper still.

  Tuan accompanied a party of explorers down to the center of the earth, and there they found horrors beyond imagining. There were idols of ancient and terrible gods, protected by beings with invincible flesh that flowed like water. The monsters swarmed the Tuatha Dé, giving Tuan a single chance to escape Ildathach.

  Generations had passed, but Tuan found his way home to my ancestors and imparted all that he had learned. He gave them the ring of Tulu, and when it left his person, the forestalled years crashed upon him like a wave, and he crumbled into dust.

  Each head woman of my clan has seen a hundred harvests, thanks to the enchanted Tulu ring, and we have preserved some measure of knowledge about the Tuatha Dé. The ring protects us from the Unseelie Court, those evil spirits of dreaming Tuatha Dé that wander the world to foretell deaths and sow misrule. It is with this accursed ring that I begat, and ended, Cúchulainn’s life.

  The story proper is this, which follows now.

  One winter, during the reign of King Conchobar of Ulster, my Lady Deichtine grew wide with child. I tended to her as mid-wife, but the gods saw fit not to breathe life into the babe. My Lady’s heart was shattered, and she keened in such a way that I was sure she would follow her babe into the next life.

  I knew of a way to restore to my Lady that which she had lost. My grandmother had taught me how to summon a changeling, in such ways that the Tuatha Dé might exchange a mortal’s child for one of their own.

  The legends say that Cúchulainn was born on the famous burial mound of Brú na Bóinne, and it is nearly true. While the Tulu ring is drawn to the hidden gateways of Ildathach, ‘twas drawn to Brú na Bóinne not at all. Instead, the ring guided me, my Lady and our tiny burden across the ocean to the western isles, where the ruins that rise from the sea were old long ere the mounds of Ireland were formed.

  The ring nearly throttled me as it dragged me to the place where I should lay the babe to rest. A circle of giant stones guarded the entrance to the mound, each graven with terrible serpents and many armed fish from the sea. I prayed to the ancient host that an exchange was possible for our cold and ashen offering.

  On the morrow, I found the boy child mewling where I had laid it. The night before the clean dead form had been white as snow in one night fallen. ‘Twas now in a pool like Parthian crimson and wrapped in a sack of thick ebon flesh. I had seen dogs born in such wise, and babes veiled in the caul, but in all my years as mid-wife, naught had I seen the like.

  I tried to cut the caul away but it rippled and jumped in my hands. When I peered into the wailing babe’s face, the oily black skin melted and withdrew into its tiny body. It soon resembled Lady Deichtine’s child in most respects. ‘Twas only years later that I recalled how the changeling had reflected my face as well.

  I gasped when it first opened its eyes. The boy had seven pupils, and upon inspection showed seven toes on each foot and seven fingers on each hand.

  Lady Deichtine snatched the crying babe from my arms. I was certain that my Lady would look at the changeling and know the trickery I had wrought, but she wept and pulled the babe to her bosom. She named the child Sétanta.

  We made sail for the House of Sualtaim mac Róich in County Louth. By the time we arrived on the Plain of Muirthemne the babe was as fair in form as any I had ever seen.

  When we brought Sétanta home, the beasts and cattle ran riot. Sualtaim mac Róich did not see this as an ill omen, so overjoyed was he to behold his heir. We rid the land of its hounds and life was good thereafter.

  I was Séntanta’s nurse night and day, and as such was the only one to notice anything strange. When he grew irritable or cried, his skin would turn bright red and scalding hot. He could scream for hours, and would not be content until fed large amounts of black pudding. Over the years, I mastered the art of soothing his outbursts with lullabies and quelling his savage temper with the strings of a lute.

  Sétanta grew fast into a bold gilla, renowned throughout Ulster for his marvelous feats of strength and skill.

  One day Culain the Smith invited the boy to a great feast. I was unable to stop the lad from tarrying on the hurling field and we arrived late, after the feast had begun. Alas, Culain had forgotten his invitation and loosed his giant Spanish wolfhound.

  The Smith’s baneful dog bayed at the sky and bared its teeth at us. The rapacious hound was taller than us at the shoulder and said to possess the strength of hundreds. Young Sétanta, though he was unarmed, snarled back and charged the beast. I shut my eyes and screamed, certain we would surely perish.

  There was a sound of tearing flesh and a blood curdling cry. When I chanced to look, I beheld Sétanta’s wild contortions. One eye had bulged wider than the rim of a chalice, and the other had fallen down his cheek. His crimson hair jutted out like thorns, his back swelled like a sail in the wind and his skin twisted around his stretching limbs. A dozen clawed fingers sprouted from each hand as they coiled around the wolfhound’s body.

  Séntanta unleashed a lion roar and dropped his jawbone to his waist. A great bony spear erupted from his throat and pierced the beast’s skull. From the spear burst seven barbs, and every barb sprouted seven more, until they had invaded every vein and sinew of the wolfhound and shredded it to ribbons.

  A great clamor ar
ose inside the hall as Culain’s guests struggled to unlock the door. A powerful revulsion swept over me at the thing Séntanta had become. He was my charge and I was bound to serve him. More so, he had saved my life. ‘Twas a marvelous feat, that an unarmed boy could defend himself from a beast twice his stature. I could not allow the men of Ulster discover him such wise.

  I stilled my galloping heart and sang my sweetest lullaby. The childhood song, combined with the satisfaction of hot blood in his gullet, soothed the lad forthwith. The door flew open and Culain the Smith ran out. He doubtless expected to find us torn apart by his hound, and not the other way around.

  The guests marveled at Séntanta’s manful deed. Culain was grateful that we were unharmed, but lamented the loss of his friend and most able guardian. Séntanta offered to guard the Smith’s home until a new pup was reared, and that was how he came to be called Cúchulainn, the hound of Culain.

  In the years that followed, Cúchulainn's strength grew fifty fold, as did his manful deeds. In his twelfth year, he became a knight of the Red Branch. In his fifteenth year, he was one of the greatest champions of Ulster. He became the doom of foes and the terror of great hosts. In the grip of battle madness, he slew kith and foe alike, and yet the more bloodthirsty his deeds the more the men of Ulster cheered him.

  Poets spun odes to his excellence in horsemanship, in single combat, and in plundering from the neighboring borders. The minstrels sang of how there was naught his equal in size and splendor, shape and power, or strength and feats of valor.

  King Cochran gave free reign to the slaughter, until he was well pleased that all beyond his borders dreaded the name Cúchulainn.

  I tell you also that Cúchulainn’s beauty increased in reflection of every handsome man he met. In such wise, he became unsurpassed in form, shape and build. He was the desire of every woman in Ulster, and tales of his enchanting countenance spread across the seas.

  ‘Twas princess Derbforgaill of Lochlann that brought doom to Ulster’s women. Cúchulainn, Lady Deichtine and I set out to meet the fair Princess. I will not proclaim the length of her golden hair or the glow of her cheeks. I will say only that she was a great beauty, and more the pity for the fate that befell her.

  When she arrived in Ulster, thrice fifty women were there to meet her, until all the lasses and ladies of marriageable age had gathered beneath one roof. The darkest rumors say that they killed the princess out of jealousy. When Cúchulainn found her slain, he fell into a rage and shattered the pillar stones to smite them all in revenge. I wish that even so grim a tragedy were the truth.

  Cúchulainn was there, but ‘twas lust, not jealousy that destroyed the women. The hound of Culain bedded them all. Those that survived the savage congress did not so the fruits of their labors. The painful cries of birth and death filled the night and the Plain of Muirthemne became unto a river of blood.

  I will not describe what happened to my Lady, but I swore to the gods that I would never serve as mid-wife again. I knew then that I had brought a monster into the world. Worse still, I saw that Cúchulainn might one day succeed in planting his evil seed and rearing others of his brood.

  Sualtaim went to King Conchobar and took the blame for the massacre. Conchobar ordered Sualtaim beheaded, but not for the foolish reason given in the tales. It is said that Saultaim was executed when he spake out of order before the king and his druids. In sooth, his death was a way to appease the grieving families of Ulster and maintain the honor of its greatest champion.

  Conchobar arranged a marriage betwixt Cúchulainn and the beautiful Emer of Leinster. Chieftan Forgall the Dexterous, her father, knew the fate of the other women and would not allow it. Before he would consent, he bade Cúchulainn first go through Dun Scaith, the warrior school of the barbarous northern isles, in the hopes that he would die in the attempt.

  ‘Twas in the North that Cúchulainn met Aife, a Pictish warrior woman strong enough to bear his seed. When Cúchulainn returned, Forgall locked Emer away in a tower. Even the legends tell it true how Cúchulainn stormed the fortress, slew twenty four guards, and threw Forgall from the ramparts.

  Aife arrived at my door soon after, deep in the pangs of labor. I could not save poor Aife’s life, and try as I may, I could not steal it from the babe. The creature was born with seven pupils in each eye and seven fingers on each hand. I fed it poison and burned it with fire, but naught would vanquish the changeling spawn.

  At last, I crafted a plot to destroy Cúchulainn once and for all. I named the boy Connla and raised him in secret, never revealing who his father was. Connla grew up quick, possessed of incredible strength like his sire. I sent him to Dun Scaith to learn the arts of combat and strife from Aife’s sister.

  When Connla was ready, I bade him to challenge Cúchulainn. The champion of Ulster haply greeted the upstart at the border. I watched the battle from afar and prayed that the abominations would each slay the other.

  They collided in spectacular combat, and afore long both shed all human aspect. They transformed into galloping masses of shrieking, gnashing flesh. Glaring eyes boiled across their skin and their flesh surged like river rapids in spring. They clashed like dragons, and the heat of their fury and roars of their pain echoed over all the countryside.

  The Father hewed his son in twain. The son gnawed and mangled his father to deal great affliction. It seemed as though the monsters had laid waste to one another until Cúchulainn vomited his barbed spear. With it, he impaled Connla. I felt my own heart break as Cúchulainn ripped his son inside out and devoured him.

  The men of Ulster witnessed Cúchulainn’s transformation. Instead of fleeing in terror, the fools composed quatrains about his invincibility in battle and dubbed him siabartha, the distorted one.

  Knowing that I could find naught in Ulster to assist me, I travelled beyond its borders. I persuaded Queen Medb in the neighboring province of Connacht to wage war. Fergus mac Róich, the exiled king of Ulster, mustered his troops to our cause. In addition to these hosts, there came legions of goodly Gaels who desired naught but revenge on the scourge called Cúchulainn.

  Cúchulainn met our army at a narrow fjord and invoked the rite of single combat. Thus was he able to slay Connacht’s champions one at a time, in a grueling battle that lasted for weeks. Bodies were crushed, cleaved and stacked like walls on the field of combat. The rivers filled with blood and grew clogged with severed heads.

  This slaughter was part of my plan. The multitudes of knights and retainers, with their chariots, spears and swords were naught but bait. I knew that neither points nor edges of weapons could harm the changeling, and so I endeavored to destroy him with succor.

  I waited until Cúchulainn was spent from battle to let fly my final attack. I snuck into Cúchulainn’s camp in the dead of night. I was an old crone by then, but Cúchulainn remembered me and the tender nurture I had provided in his youth. I offered him a feast he could not deny, a flank of fresh dog meat. His jaw gaped down to his chest and he swallowed the bloody slab whole, and with it the Tulu metal ring planted inside.

  The ring held instant sway over Cúchulainn. It drew him thence from the field of battle to the ill-fated mound of his birth. I had a chariot ready to take us to the ship that would bare us across the western sea.

  Cúchulainn said not a word as he splashed across the drowned plains, sprouting fingers and tendrils as he went. He uprooted the trees and dashed the boulders that had collected in front of the rune scarred entrance. I watched in horror and relief as he let slip his mortal guise and flowed through the narrow hole, back to his womb in the earth.

  The gathered years crash fast upon me as I write these final words. I wanted to save Ireland from the terror I unleashed on her shores. I wanted to dispel the glamour of Cúchulainn’s legend and lay bare his bloody deeds. Now as my flesh withers and my sight grows dim, I realize I have doomed us all.

  I have returned to blue-lit Ildathach their greatest spy, battle hardened and learned in the ways of man. How long ere they rai
se an army of the formless things? How long before the final chapter of this Book of Invasions is penned in mankind’s blood?

  August 9, 1928: I heard a strange raving outburst in the parlor of Professor Marshall Eddington, a curiosities and antiquities restoration enthusiast with a great deal of wealth from his expeditions. While I waited, the short, thin woman nearly yanked her auburn hair out in howling fervor addressing the other members of the staff. I had been waiting in a chair bound in the corner of the room near a cup of English Breakfast tea, and it was not until much later that the women realized I had been party to their aggressive gossip.

  The initial and nearly incomprehensible tidbits came from a Mrs. Lydia Smith, whose sister had died of unknown causes in a meadow where a unicorn had been rumored slayed days earlier. I would have dismissed the tale as hearsay female frivolity had she not mentioned that her sister barely knew how to read or write, but had written down disturbing memoirs of the one-horned animal before her strange passing. Ms. Smith had temporarily placed her sister Mary’s memoirs in the care of Professor Eddington. Although she’d brought them to him to dictate so that she would understand her sister’s plight, he convinced her to decline her curiosity. He decided it best after a few passages that to preserve Lydia’s delicate mind, he need not torture herself with the violent ravings of Mary. Had she requested the documents back, he had considered burning them for fear of corrupting other minds.

  I was only in Westport, Connecticut in connection with a small conference on statues and idols being attended by myself and the professor. However, after walking in on such half-spoken fearful conversation, I could not help plot to see the memoirs of the late Miss Mary Smith. I broached the subject lightly with Marshall over cigars later that evening, at which time his brandy and sleep deprivation led him to leave the memoirs in my care. What I read bred terrifying curiosity and stipulated investigation.