by Pat O'Shea
In a dead silence, the fire was the only thing that made any sound; it seemed to be breathing.
The Glomach spoke.
‘Three old hens to pluck—a good day for me,’ he said.
The Three Women gave him a domineering stare.
‘You will deliver up the stone,’ The Mórrígan said imperiously.
‘A hard one,’ The Glomach said to himself, consideringly. ‘She’ll take a bit of boiling before she softens.’
‘You will deliver up the stone,’ The Mórrígan said even more commandingly.
‘It’s mine!’ he roared, and the force of his voice made the ground tremble.
‘Base-born lump! Do as we command,’ The Mórrígan said, her eyes as sharp as emeralds.
‘Ah, don’t be annoying me, little woman,’ The Glomach said, with an exaggerated yawn of boredom. ‘The pebble is mine and tantrums won’t get it for you. And that is my last word!’
‘Then be ready to welcome your death, blockhead; for it rushes towards you this day,’ The Mórrígan said; her voice cracked and went ugly as it lingered on the word: ‘death’.
The Glomach let out a roar, a great bellow of laughter; it rumbled crazily around the far-ranging second cavern and its sound was full of his contempt for her.
‘My death? Oh my dear! If I die at all, you’ll make me die laughing! No more about it now; not another word!’
The Mórrígan stepped closer, Macha and Bodbh by her side, and every movement was a threat.
Fear flashed through Pidge like a hot wet fire. It seemed that he and Brigit were turned to rock and were totally unable to move.
The Mórrígan reached forward and with a finger of rosy-tipped marble, she stirred the motes that still floated lazily in the shaft of light that came down from the hole in the roof. From the glittering specks, six and twenty she-warriors sprang into being and burst forth to stand before the three Goddesses.
They were hard, brawny and wild-eyed.
Their chins were square and strong and their powerful legs and arms were as hard as mahogany. They were dressed in short tunics and cloaks, the cloaks being fastened at each left shoulder with a great, enamel-worked pin. These mighty shoulders bulged with an immensity of muscle that quivered with a fearful promise, and the muscles that filled the rippling skin of their arms were like huge spoons. Every she-warrior had a mass of coarse dark hair, held back from the face with a clasp of iron, and each was armed with sword, spear and shield.
In the manner of all warriors, they shook their spears and raised a terrible cry and struck a further terror in Pidge and Brigit. They brandished their swords and beat their shields with ringing blows and they pranced and leaped and were wilder than a storm. The Glomach was not impressed and he scratched himself lazily.
Suddenly, Brigit screamed because it was all too much for her.
At her scream, there was a flaring in the Giant’s fire and a shower of sparks shot up into the air. Everyone watched as part of the fire collapsed in on itself and a dandelion as big as a plate appeared in this cavity. It grew and it spread until it filled the whole fire. The ball of hair came alive in Pidge’s fist and it squirmed. Too terrified to move or speak, he stood stiffly, but his hand moved of its own will and threw the hair into the living fire.
In the heart of the glowing blaze a small curl of green smoke appeared. It went upwards like a plume and spread outwards like a fan and the fire was covered with a steady dome of green haziness. Now a picture formed within it: they saw the Hidden Valley.
From the place where Pidge had sown the seed, the Seven Maines sprang and they were comely and full of life and dressed in princely clothes. Their tunics were of pale yellow and their cloaks were of purple, ornamented with gold and silver borders, and each cloak had a clasp of pure red gold. Their hair was long and flowing and held back from their faces by thin golden bands. Around their necks were the ropes of twisted gold that Brigit had polished; and on their backs were silver shields and these were rimmed with gold. Each of the Seven held two spears with shafts of elm and there was silver veining in the shafts. They came riding on horses. The horses they rode were royally styled in breeding and dress; they had collars of gold and their bridles had a ball of silver on one side and a ball of gold on the other. The Seven Maines rode with fury through the haze until they bounded out of the fire and leaped from their horses and faced The Mórrígan and her forces. The horses herded together and rushed in a body into the second cave.
These things were seen in seconds only; and there was a sudden wild surge of hope in Pidge and Brigit as the Seven took their positions in front of them and stood between them and all that threatened them, holding swords that they had drawn from under their cloaks.
At this mark of defiance, the six and twenty she-warriors beat a din on their shields that was answered with an equal dinning by the Seven Maines.
Bronze war-trumpets were blown and the Poor Woman with the proud Gander at her side appeared running in the green smoke. As they ran, their appearances changed and the Poor Woman was a tall proud one, with a beautiful face that was pale and long. She looked wonderful in her speed, her yellow hair sailed out behind her and her green cloak flew. She had a great brooch of gold pinned over her breast and she held a straight, shining red spear in her hand.
The Gander had become a big man with flaming eyes. His cloak was blue of the skies and his tunic was blue of the violet; his sword had a golden hilt and his spear was tipped with silver. They were Queen Maeve and her husband, Ailill.
And when the Seven Maines saw her, they sent up a cry of joy to see their lovely proud mother again and to know that she was fighting with them.
And Maeve rejoiced at seeing the sons that she had once lost in a war that she had caused over The Brown Bull of Cooley—an animal that she had coveted beyond human reason—and she let out a cry that made the she-warriors retreat a step; for she was a fair match for them, even without the help of her husband and her sons.
‘The Royal Nine from Connacht stand between you and that stone of blood,’ Maeve shouted and that was her challenge.
The battle began.
As they fought, the ducks and the rest of the geese appeared in the green smoke. They were flying at first and then they were running and changing as they ran. And they were warriors and Maeve’s Men and, with their swords flashing, they were out of the fire and fighting at her side.
Sword struck sword and shield faced on to shield. A spear from a she-warrior, spitefully aimed at Pidge, was deflected by Maine An-Do, The Quick, and passing the children, it went into The Glomach. The Giant collapsed on to the ground. As soon as he fell, his shadow broke into pieces and was shattered.
He lay dead and the relief to Brigit and Pidge was beyond telling.
The battle went on. The Mórrígan’s wish now was to get to the dead Giant and take the pebble from his hand and then snatch Pidge and Brigit to force them to lead her to Olc-Glas. But the Seven Maines fought and Queen Maeve and her men fought; and they kept the she-warriors from advancing one step, without any great trouble.
The Hidden Valley was in the fire again. And there was Daire, a proud chieftain, frosty-haired in his age, but strong and powerful. And there, too, was Finn. Behind them, their people were gathered in a Tríoca Céad—Thirty Hundred men in a military force. All were mounted on good horses and the bridles were hung with little bells. Three harpers rode with them and a man was beating a rapid march on a flat skin drum. They came with their music and their bells ringing and they had embroidered silken banners that fluttered in their wake. Four deep they came and one would think that they would never end, for it was the Hosting of The Sídhe.
They came with a fine carelessness and in a leisurely way; but still they arrived in seconds only; as if it were only the eyes of the beholders that were slow in their seeing. They stood with the group from Connacht, after streaming from the fire. As each man sprang to the ground his horse went into the second cavern, until a large snorting herd had gathered in t
here. In every lull, the children could hear the jingling of harness and the tinkling of bells.
Now the people of The Hidden Valley had joined the fighting, but The Mórrígan, Macha and Bodbh only laughed.
The Mórrígan reached up and snatched ten ribs of hair from the crown of her fair head. She cast them to the ground and ten warriors who looked exactly alike, with each man having the same face and build and each one wearing light yellow, stood and fought by her six and twenty she-warriors.
Macha reached up and pulled ten ribs of hair from her blue-dyed head—and ten blue warriors all looking alike joined the ranks that faced the children’s protectors. Bodbh then drew ten red hairs from her red head—and ten red-clad warriors stood with the rest. There was something inexpressibly terrible in the way they all looked the same, in the way they were all replicas of each other, without the individual spark of creaturehood that shows uniquely in every human being.
In the centre of the green dome of smoke, the Old Angler appeared. He was running swiftly over vast distances towards them. The nearer he came, the more he changed. Old age fell away from him at every step and he straightened and grew stronger, until he was a youth in a white tunic carrying two spears, a sword and a sling in his hands. He leaped from the fire and put himself before everyone to face The Mórrígan. Seven lights shone in each eye and there were seven lights shining round his head.
‘Cúchulain!’ she screamed; and she bared her teeth like a wolf.
‘I am your enemy. I was your enemy in the past. I am still your enemy. My hand gave you all of your wounds. Here I am to do it all again—and more!’ Cúchulain said.
In the midst of the battle, he went against her the first time and he threw his casting-spear. It went through four of her yellow warriors; but The Mórrígan herself evaded it by taking a sideways leap. He went against her the second time and a stone flew from his sling. It made red holes in five of the blue-clad warriors; but she herself evaded it by flying upwards. He thrust his sling into his belt, his sword into its scabbard and the remaining spear he laid on the ground with his shield. Now he went against her the third time with bared teeth and his two bare hands. He had eight of the red-clad warriors pulled asunder before he reached the spot where she had been. She had gone small and rolled herself out of his way. He gathered up his spear and shield.
The Goddesses were pulling hair from their heads by handfuls now, and hundreds and hundreds of their strange warriors sprang from the ground. Some of the fighters had spilled out into the Third Valley where the clashing of their swords could be heard. Others had spread well into the second cave where The Glomach’s torches flared and lights flashed from the tips of swords and spears. The horses were screaming now; they reared and plunged fearfully; some made a mad dash and escaped to the outside world and scattered hysterically among those who fought there. Cúchulain, sword in hand, was all the time hacking and slashing as he tried to get close to The Mórrígan; but she was able to dodge him again and again, and her six and twenty she-warriors were always near to her and they were fierce and merciless in their work.
Now The Mórrígan slowly raised her finger-tips to her lips and blew the half-moons off her finger-nails. Ten metal crescents went spinning and whistling round the cave in an attack on the warriors—no matter which side they were on. And when they at last embedded themselves in the cave walls, they were red-stained and dripping. They split the rock, so hard they were and so fast they flew.
Twenty more crescents flew from the fingers lifted to the lips of Macha and Bodbh. Cúchulain raised his sword and shattered half of them to fragments before they could do their fearful work. And still, The Mórrígan evaded him and she heartened all of the warriors to fight fiercely and fervently. A kind of madness touched them all, and at this, her face expressed a most ferocious delight.
Brigit had turned to Pidge and hidden her face against his chest and he had opened his jacket and wrapped it about her and he cuddled her. They shook from the thumping of each other’s hearts.
And The Mórrígan gloated at everything.
‘I am War,’ she said.
Even though the battle might go against her; she gloated that she had been its cause. She chanted for blood and flecks of foam fell from her lips. Her blood leaped fiercely and coloured her face. A shrill babble came from Macha and Bodbh; a litany, a dirge, a song of destruction and death. Pidge was filled with terror and a bitter anxiety raged over his mind. He was conscious of Brigit’s warm breathing against his chest and his hands shook as he held his jacket around her.
The Mórrígan’s face took on a strange aspect. Her face was horrible now. The soft contours had fallen and drawn in and her bones stood out as a death-mask; but the mask was that of a beast. The face had lengthened and come forward; the bones were long and white and they gleamed. On top of her body the skull of a horse shone whitely and her eye sockets were black holes. The spittle hung in droops from her teeth and weirdly guttural sounds came from her throat. She was lurching through the battle, watching the men as they died sharp deaths.
A fearful tremor ran through Pidge and he forced himself to look away. But then he saw that Macha and Bodbh had changed too, and that Macha was howling like a dog.
There was a low moan from Pidge and he edged backwards, holding Brigit and turning his back on the frightfulness. Brigit came out from under his jacket and he roughly turned her away from the fighting too; he would not let her look behind and they stared instead at the ground.
Then out of the corner of his eye, Pidge noticed a faint movement on the floor by the dead Glomach. A bit of his shadow was moving. He glanced at Brigit and saw that she stared at it too.
All the pieces of The Glomach’s shadow were slowly moving towards each other and pulling together. They locked into each other like a jigsaw.
When the shadow was complete, The Glomach stirred himself and rose alive from the floor. He plucked the spear from his body and threw it into the struggling mass.
‘Tickle me again!’ he roared.
He had been dead, or as the dead. The shadow held the key to his life and that was the skill in battle of which he had boasted; the Giant was deathless.
He bawled out a roar and again the ground shook at its strength. He called his great sword to life and it jerked off the anvil into the air. It fought on its own and, thirsting for blood, it flickered through the fighting men and caused red destruction. Many fell before its evil magic. The Glomach laughed and his laughter was a roar of power and scorn. He made a spiteful snatch at Pidge and had him by the collar. Pidge’s tongue was glued inside his mouth and he wasn’t even able to squeak.
The Seven Maines rushed from the thick of the fighting and attacked The Glomach, but he held Pidge in front of every attempted sword thrust, still laughing.
Brigit screamed again. She was sobbing as she pulled her brooch off her cardigan. She fumbled at it with shaking hands and she fitted the tiny arrow to the bow and drew back the string made from the hair of a horse’s tail. There was the merest whizz of a noise and the arrow went into the Giant’s elbow. The little stab annoyed him, he was caught off-balance and he fell against the wall, banging his head very badly. Again his shadow shattered to bits. Pidge made the greatest effort of his life and he leaped to stand beside Brigit.
The Glomach fell to the floor slowly and the shadow pieces scattered around him. But for one fragment, all of the bits lay on the floor. That one piece fell into the bubbling soup pot, where they watched it melt. It went like black gelatine and dissolved into dark bubbles. The smell was awful and it was the end of The Glomach. He was truly dead.
The evil life went from his sword and it too, dropped to the floor. Pidge went over to take the pebble from the still-warm hand, so ugly, so huge. His flesh crept and he was shuddering uncontrollably.
All around the battle raged, while the Goddesses shouted with savage joy. They slobbered and they didn’t try not to, and they were crying out that even the trees would tremble and bleed and the ston
es of the earth would weep. They walked through the fighting mass, saying words of sly sweetness like flowers of poison. Dropping their voices to a deep and artificial huskiness, they fawned over the warriors and said the old words that incite men to murder. It was the whispering of death to life, of old bones to warm flesh, a deadly mist of words sprayed out of their mouths and the more they were listened to, the stronger they became. Cúchulain continued to search for The Mórrígan among the deranged.
And the terrified children stood, not knowing what to do. Pidge’s mind was in utter turmoil. We are lost among all this and The Dagda has abandoned us, his mind was saying over and over in a wild gabble.
But Cathbad suddenly appeared in the fire and he wore his druid garments of white linen. In his hand was a slender wand of oak and he leaped from the fire and came to the children, saying:
‘The Dagda has not abandoned you.’
He raised his wand and formed a broad sweeping pattern in the air around them while he said queer stiff words.
A shroud came about the children, a shroud of protection; and they knew that they were safe within it from the battle and The Mórrígan. The terrible sights that were before their eyes grew confused and blurred, like something seen through a rained-on window. The fighting continued, however, for they could still hear the clashing of swords and the groans and shrieks of the men.
Cathbad turned to them and wordlessly Pidge held out the pebble with a hand that shook; but the druid smiled and shook his head.
‘It is still for you to do,’ he said.
He took hold of each of them by the hand and he walked with them to the fire, where all three leaped in and walked through the green haze.
Cathbad went with them through this strange shrouding and they realized that they were going through the fighting that had spilled outside into the Third Valley; but everything around them seemed completely unreal.
He went with them all the way to the Eye Of The Needle.