one of the valorous warriors of Ulaid.
Beautiful his brilliance,
bright of eye to women.
Welcome, Cú Chulaind!
‘What have you done, Cú Chulaind?’ Lí Ban asked. Cú Chulaind answered:
I have cast my spear
into the camp of Éogan Indber;
I do not know, famous its path,
whether my shot hit or missed.
Whether better or worse for my strength,
I have never yet in fair play
cast ignorantly at a man in the mist –
perhaps not a soul is left alive.
A fair shining host with splendid horses
pursued me from every direction:
the people of Manandán son of Ler
whom Éogan Indber summoned.
Whichever way I turned
when my full fury came upon me,
it was one man against three thousand,
and I sent them towards death.
I heard Echu luil groan,
a sound that came from the heart;
if that truly was one man, and not an army,
then my cast was well aimed.
Cú Chulaind slept with Fand, then, and he stayed with her for a month. When he bade her farewell, she said to him ‘Where will we meet?’ They decided upon Ibor Cind Tráchta. This was told to Emer, and she prepared knives with which to kill Fand. Fifty women accompanied Emer to the place of the meeting. Cú Chulaind and Lóeg were playing fidchell and did not notice the advancing women, but Fand noticed, and she said to Lóeg ‘Look over at what I am seeing.’ ‘What is it?’ asked Lóeg, and he looked.
Fand then said ‘Lóeg, look behind you. Listening to you is a troop of clever, capable women, glittering sharp knives in their right hands and gold on their breasts. When warriors go to their battle chariots, a fair form will be seen: Emer daughter of Forgall in a new guise.’
‘Have no fear,’ replied Cú Chulaind, ‘for she will not come at all. Step up into my powerful chariot, with its sunny seat, and I will protect you from every woman in the four quarters of Ériu, for though the daughter of Forgall may boast to her companions about her mighty deeds, she is not likely to challenge me.’ He said to Emer, then, ‘I avoid you, woman, as every man avoids the one he loves. I will not strike your hard spear, held with trembling hand; neither do you threaten me with your thin, feeble knife and weak, restrained anger, for the strength of women is insufficient to demand my full power.’
‘Why, then, Cú Chulaind, have you dishonoured me before the women of the province and the women of Ériu and all people of rank?’ asked Emer. ‘It is under your protection I have come, under the great power of your guarantee; and though the pride of mighty conflicts makes you boastful, perhaps your attempt to leave me will fail, lad, however much you try.’
‘Emer, why will you not permit me to meet this woman?’ replied Cú Chulaind. ‘She is pure and modest, fair and clever and worthy of a king. A handsome sight she is on the waves of the great-tided sea, with her shapeliness and beauty and noble family, her embroidery and handiwork, her good sense and prudence and steadfastness, her abundance of horses and herds of cattle. Whatever you may promise, there is nothing under heaven her husband could desire that she would not do. Neither will you find a handsome, combat-scarred, battle-victorious champion to equal me.’
‘Perhaps this woman you have chosen is no better than I,’ answered Emer. ‘But what’s red is beautiful, what’s new is bright, what’s tall is fair, what’s familiar is stale. The unknown is honoured, the known is neglected – until all is known. Lad, we lived together in harmony once, and we could do so again if only I still pleased you.’
Cú Chulaind grew melancholy at this, and he said ‘By my word, you do please me, and you will as long as you live.’ ‘Leave me, then,’ said Fand. ‘Better to leave me,’ said Emer. ‘No, I should be left,’ said Fand, ‘for it is I who was threatened just now.’ And she began to cry and grieve, for being abandoned was shameful to her; she went to her house, and the great love she bore Cú Chulaind troubled her, and she recited this poem:
I will continue my journey
though I prefer my great adventure here;
whoever might come, great his fame,
I would prefer to remain with Cú Chulaind.
I would prefer to remain here –
that I grant willingly –
than to go, it may surprise you to learn,
to the sun-house of Áed Abrat.
Emer, the man is yours,
and may you enjoy him, good woman.
What my hand cannot obtain
I must still desire.
Many a man has sought me,
both openly and in secret;
yet I never went to meet them,
for I was upright.
Wretched she who gives her love
if he takes no notice of her;
better to put such thoughts aside
unless she is loved as she loves.
Fifty women came here,
Emer of the yellow hair,
to fall upon Fand–a bad idea –
and kill her in her misery.
But I have three fifties of women,
beautiful and unmarried, at home
with me in my fort –
they would not desert me.
When Manandán learned that Fand was in danger from the women of Ulaid and that she was being forsaken by Cú Chulaind, he came west after her and stood before her, and no one but Fand could see him. When she perceived him, Fand felt deep regret and sadness, and she recited this poem:
See the warlike son of Ler
on the plains of Éogan Indber:
Manandán, lord of the world –
once I held him dear.
Then, I would have wept,
but my proud spirit does not love now –
love is a vain thing
that goes about heedlessly and foolishly.
When Manandán and I lived
in the sun-house at Dún Indber,
we both thought it likely
we would never separate.
When fair Manandán married me,
I was a proper wife:
he never won from me
the odd game of fidchell.
When fair Manandán married me,
I was a proper wife:
a bracelet of gold he gave me,
the price of making me blush.
Outside on the heath I had
fifty beautiful women;
I gave him fifty men
in addition to the fifty women.
Two hundred, and no mistake,
the people of our house:
one hundred strong, healthy men,
one hundred fair, thriving women.
Across the ocean I see
(and he who does not is no fool)
the horseman of the foaming sea,
he who does not follow the long ships.
Your going past us now
none but the Síde might perceive;
your keen sight magnifies the tiniest host,
though it be far distant.
That keen sight would be useful to me,
for the senses of women are foolish:
the one whom I loved so completely
has put me in danger here.
Farewell to you, dear Cú!
I leave you with head held high.
I wish that I were not going –
every rule is good until broken.
Time for me to set out, now –
there is someone who finds that difficult.
My distress is great,
O Lóeg, O son of Ríangabur.
I will go with my own husband, now,
for he will not deny me.
Lest you say I left in secret,
look now, if you wish.
Fand set out after Manandán, then, and he greeted her and said ‘Well, woman, are you waiting for Cú Chulaind or wi
ll you go with me?’ ‘By my word, there is a man I would prefer as husband. But it is with you I will go; I will not wait for Cú Chulaind, for he has betrayed me. Another thing, good person, you have no other worthy queen, but Cú Chulaind does.’
When Cú Chulaind perceived that Fand was leaving with Manandán, he asked Lóeg ‘What is this?’ ‘Not difficult that – Fand is going away with Manandán son of Ler, for she did not please you.’ At that, Cú Chulaind made three high leaps and three southerly leaps, towards Lúachair; he was a long time in the mountains without food or water, sleeping each night on Slige Midlúachra.
Emer went to Conchubur in Emuin and told him of Cú Chulaind’s state, and Conchubur ordered the poets and artisans and druids of Ulaid to find Cú Chulaind and secure him and bring him back. Cú Chulaind tried to kill the artisans, but the druids sang spells over him until his hands and feet were bound and he came to his senses. He asked for a drink; the druids brought a drink of forgetfulness, and, when he drank that, he forgot Fand and everything he had done. Since Emer was no better off, they brought her a drink that she might forget her jealousy. Moreover, Manandán shook his cloak between Cú Chulaind and Fand, that they might never meet again.
The Tale of Macc Da Thó’s Pig
Introduction
Although ‘The Tale of Macc Da Thó’s Pig’, with its feasting and fighting, may seem the quintessential Ulster Cycle story, its antiquity is open to doubt. Every other important figure of the Ulster Cycle – Aillill, Medb and Cet of the Connachta; Conchubur, Fergus, Lóegure, Conall Cernach and all the Ulaid warriors – is present; but Cú Chulaind is not only absent, he is not even mentioned. One could argue that Cú Chulaind is a late addition to the traditions of the Ulaid and that this story predates his arrival.
There are, however, other puzzling elements. The pig of the title is so large that forty oxen can be laid across it; such a beast could be mythic in origin, but it could also be satiric. In ‘The Cattle Raid of Cúailnge’, Ulaid and Connachta go to war over a mythic beast, the finest bull in Ireland; in this tale, the two provinces fall out over a dog. Macc Da Thó promises the dog to both Ulaid and Connachta, then feigns innocence when they show up to collect on the same day. During the bragging contest for the right to carve the pig, the Ulaid warriors – the heroes of any ordinary Ulster Cycle story – not only are shamed but are made to look ridiculous: Lóegure has been speared and chased from the border, Óengus’s father has had his left hand cut off, Éogan has had an eye put out, and so on. And Fer Loga’s demand that the nubile women of Ulaid sing ‘Fer Loga Is My Darling’ to him every night is so comical its inclusion cannot possibly be inadvertent. Some of the rhetorical verse is old and obscure; but it is hard to resist the conclusion that ‘The Tale of Macc Da Thó’s Pig’ is at later story, a parody of the Ulster Cycle in general and of ‘The Cattle Raid of Cúailnge’ in particular.
The Story of Macc Da Thó’s Pig
There was once a famous king of Lagin named Macc Da Thó, and he possessed a hound. This dog, whose name was Ailbe, protected all of Lagin, so that its fame grew throughout Ériu. Messengers from Ailill and Medb came to ask for Ailbe; at the same time, however, arrived messengers from Conchubur and the Ulaid, and with the same request.
A welcome was given to all, and they were shown into Macc Da Thó’s hostel. This was one of the five hostels in Ériu at that time, this and Da Derga’s hostel in the territory of Cúalu and Forgall Manach’s and Macc Da Réo’s in Bréifne and Da Choca’s in western Mide. Seven doors had Macc Da Thó’s hostel, and seven entrances and seven hearths and seven cauldrons. Each cauldron contained beef and salted pork, and as each man passed by he thrust the flesh-fork into the cauldron, and what he brought up is what he ate; if he brought up nothing on the first try, he got no second chance.
Before being taken to the cauldrons, however, the messengers were first shown to Macc Da Thó’s couch, in order that their requests might be granted. ‘It is to ask for the hound that we have come,’ said the messengers from Connachta (that is, from Ailill and Medb). ‘You will receive one hundred and sixty milch cows immediately, and a chariot, and the two best horses in Connachta, and as much again at the end of the year.’ ‘It is to ask for the hound that we have come from Conchubur,’ said the messengers from maid, ‘since he is no worse a friend for giving jewellery and cattle and everything else from the north, and since a great friendship will result.’
These messages so confounded Macc Da Thó that he went three days without food or drink, and at night he tossed and turned. His wife said ‘You are a long time fasting. You have food, but you eat nothing – what is wrong?’ When he did not reply, she went on:
‘Sleeplessness has come to Macc Da Thó’s house.
He has need of advice but he speaks to no one.
‘He turns away to the wall,
a warrior in fierce combat.
His clever wife observes that her husband cannot sleep.’
‘Crumthand Níad Náir says
“Tell no secret to a woman.
A woman’s secret is not kept; jewels are not given to slaves.” ’
‘You may speak to a woman
if no disaster ensues –
my mind may comprehend what yours does not.’
‘Evil the day they came for
the hound of Macc Da Thó.
Many a good man will die; the battle will be indescribable.
‘If Conchubur is refused,
there will be trouble for certain:
his hosts will not leave any land or cattle with me.
‘If Ailill is disappointed,
Ériu will be devastated.
Cet will carry us off; we will be reduced to ashes.’
‘I have advice for you,
and the result will not be bad:
give the dog to both sides – let them fight over it.’
‘The advice you offer
renews my spirit.
God sent Ailbe; the dog’s origin is unknown.’
After that, Macc Da Thó rose and was jubilant, saying ‘Joy to us and to our guests.’ The messengers stayed three days and three nights. He took them aside then – first the messengers of Connachta, to whom he said ‘Great my perplexity and doubt, but I have decided to give the hound to Ailill and Medb. Let them bring a large, magnificent host to fetch it, and they will have food and drink and presents, and the dog will be theirs.’ The Connachta thanked him. Macc Da Thó went then to the messengers of Ulaid and said ‘Free of doubt at last, I have awarded the hound to Conchubur. Let the chieftains of Ulaid come for Ailbe with a proud host; they will receive presents and be welcome.’
Now the people from Connachta and Ulaid proposed to come on the same day, and neither province forgot to show up, either. The two provinces arrived at the door of Macc Da Thó’s hostel. He himself came to greet them and make them welcome, saying ‘We were not expecting you, warriors! Nevertheless, I welcome you! Come into the courtyard!’ They all trooped in, the Connachta to one side of the hostel, the Ulaid to the other. The hostel was not small, with seven entrances and fifty paces between each pair of doorways. Still, the faces round the feast inside were not friendly, for many had done injury to others there.
Macc Da Thó’s pig was slaughtered for the feast. This pig had been nourished by sixty milch cows for seven years, and it was brought in to the feast with forty oxen laid across it. Macc Da Thó himself presided over the feast, saying ‘Welcome! This may not be worthy of you, but there are pigs and oxen in Lagin, and whatever is wanting today will be slaughtered for you tomorrow.’ ‘The pig looks good,’ said Conchubur. ‘It does, indeed,’ said Ailill, ‘but how should it be divided, Conchubur?’ ‘How else,’ said Bricriu son of Carbad from his couch overhead, ‘where the heroes of Ériu are assembled but by combat? You have all flattened each other’s noses before.’ ‘Let that be done,’ said Ailill. ‘Fine,’ said Conchubur, ‘for we have youths who have strolled about the border.’ ‘The worth of your young men will be tested tonight
, Conchubur,’ said Senláech of the Araid, from Crúachu Con Alad in the west. ‘Often enough I have left them sitting in the muddy water of Lúachair Dedad; often enough they have left fat oxen with me.’ ‘The ox you left with us was fatter,’ said Muinremur son of Gerrgend, ‘for it was your own brother, Crúaichniu son of Rúadluim from Crúachu Con Alad.’ ‘Crúaichniu was worth no more,’ replied Lugaid son of Cú Ruí, ‘than Inloth Már son of Fergus son of Léti, whom Echbél son of Dedad left dead at Temuir Lúachra.’ ‘What do you say,’ boasted Celtchair son of Uthechar, ‘to my having killed Congachnes son of Dedad and taken his head?’
At length one man triumphed over all Ériu: Cet son of Mágu from Connachta. He hung his weapons over those of everyone else; then he took knife in hand and sat down to the pig, saying ‘Find among the men of Ériu one to match me in feats – otherwise I will carve the pig.’ Inasmuch as his equal had not been found, the Ulaid fell silent. ‘Just look at that, Lóegure,’ said Conchubur at length. Lóegure spoke then: ‘It is not right that Cet should carve the pig before our very eyes.’ Cet answered ‘One moment, Lóegure, that I might speak with you. You Ulaid have a custom: every one of you who takes arms makes Connachta his object. You came to the border, then, and I met you; you abandoned your horses and chariot and charioteer and escaped with my spear through you. Is that how you propose to take the pig?’ Lóegure sat down.
A tall fair warrior arose from his couch and said ‘It is not right that Cet should carve the pig before our very eyes.’ ‘Who is this?’ asked Cet. ‘Óengus son of Lám Gabuid,’ said the Ulaid, ‘and a better warrior than you.’ ‘Why is his father called Lám Gabuid?’ ‘Why indeed?’ the Ulaid asked. ‘I know why,’ said Cet. ‘Once I came east. There was screaming. People came, Lám Gabuid too, and he cast his great spear at me, but I threw it back so that it cut off his hand and left it on the ground. What could bring his son to challenge me?’ Óengus sat down.
‘On with the contest, or I will carve the pig,’ said Cet. ‘It is not right that Cet should carve the pig,’ said another tall, fair Ulaid warrior. ‘Who is this?’ asked Cet. ‘Éogan son of Durthacht, the king of Fernmag.’ ‘I have seen him before,’ said Cet. ‘Where have you seen me?’ asked Éogan. ‘At the entrance to your house, when I was stealing your cattle. Everyone in your land screamed, and that brought you. You cast a spear at me that stuck in my shield; I cast the same spear back at you so that it went through your head and put out one eye. That is why you are one-eyed before the men of Ériu.’ Éogan sat down.
Early Irish Myths and Sagas Page 17