All the Spangled Host

by John A. Ryan

  On that small hill they gathered on the appointed day. Those highest in rank in their coloured robes, watched by the others, the humble ones in grey. The sun shone, and this was taken as a sign of approval from Lúgh. He was the one they feared, the only one who showed himself to men, fearless, indifferent. Bóinn they loved, mother of creation and abundance; Lúgh they feared.

  A tall narrow stone had been set firmly upright on the level top of the hill. Then as the druids chanted, the king was presented with the ceremonial spear; he walked with deliberate steps to where the shadow of the stone lay on the ground, raised the spear and held it for a moment poised above his head, then brought it down on the end of the shadow, and the throng gave three great shouts.

  When a fence had been constructed around that bend of the Boyne, none were allowed inside but those of high rank, the learned ones, and those whose labour or skill or building craft was needed. At first their work centred on the tall pillar-stone and its shadow. Men whose study was the heavens and their changes, moon and stars, now turned their minds more particularly to the movement of the sun as shown by the shadow’s movements, and if any one of these astronomers felt vaguely uneasy (because this was Lúgh, the sun-god, whom they dared not look at), none spoke of his misgiving since the work had been agreed by all the tribe. They marked and recorded at every noon when sunlight threw a shadow. Until the summer solstice that shadow shortened; by slow degrees from that time on it grew in length. What was new in this was the exact recording of their knowledge. Those who directed and recorded were men who had learned many many things, yet were not satisfied, but wanted to know more. They lusted after knowledge of all kinds, of the heavens, of the gods, of man and his place on the earth, of life and death, good and evil, and yet seemed unaware, or indifferent, that that insatiable curiosity does not make men happy but that great sorrows brood there. Whatever fears they may have had, however, were set aside; they continued their research and when they were certain that they knew all they needed about the winter sun’s movement, and not until then, the building of the great Brú began.

  Twenty years of their lives they gave to its building, years of unremitting labour. More than a thousand workmen, women too and children, each in accordance with ability, all helped. And not a few who toiled hard and willingly and had seen its simple beginning died without seeing the final achievement. Hundreds of thousands of tons of stone, timber, sand and earth went into the making of this vast dwelling for the goddess. The world’s biggest house, Brú na Bóinne, a circular mound ninety paces across from side to side and covering an acre of ground. Ten spear-lengths in height. Quartz and granite had to be shipped from the Wicklows and the Mournes, though most of the rock was quarried nearby, and thousands, many thousands of water-rolled stones were taken from the river, just half a mile away. The sacred stones were chosen by their king, advised by those who had experience of the many different rocks; then the most gifted masons exercised their cunning to produce works of beauty.

  And beneath this marvellous cairn was a greater marvel; on the south-eastern side was the high luminous doorway, with its slit-window above, then a passage leading for five and twenty paces between rows of tall boulders to a chamber at the heart of the Brú, where the stoneworkers had applied their rich lithic art to the walls and the great stone basin. This was the sanctuary of the goddess Bóinn, adorned with every bright wonder.

  The last carpet of fine sand was laid on the floor of the sanctuary in autumn of the final year. Should the massive door be rolled shut for security, or left open in welcome? Open, they decided, though no doubt if the goddess wished to come or go a closed door would be no deterrent. They prepared for winter; when crops had been harvested and the days began to shorten, they must often have gazed proudly at the green mound with its stone girdle that stood looking down on the river, a mound that twenty years before had not existed, the triumphal work of their hands. What surprise if they were proud! Pride, mixed perhaps with some anxiety: the shortest day would soon come, a time of the greatest importance. That day when the pulse of life beats slowest almost to a stop was, they believed, the occasion of Lúgh and Bóinn’s assignation when the two met in joyous embrace, and the generous she-god shared her new fertility with all, with men and women, river and plain, herd and harvest. That was their hope, for despite all their previous experience they still feared the wolves of winter. They feared the dying of the light and what even greater terrors it might forebode.

  They gathered long before sunrise. Ten had been chosen, those of highest honour, who walked in silence one by one through the high doorway and along the narrow passage into the central room. The faint light of a torch threw dancing shadows on the walls, on the roof-corbels, on the granite basin newly filled with water from the river. Outside were grouped those next in importance, among them the astronomers and the directors of the vast undertaking, and by little and little further and further away, the others, until at a distance was the most numerous group, the labourers, the unconsidered, who gazed upward in wonder, patiently or impatiently, with curiosity, with apprehension, perhaps without understanding clearly what to expect. The night was cold; the minutes crept by; chanting could be heard from the hill; then the black silence fell again.

  What were their thoughts, those grey unconsidered? Did they wonder if the huge house that had cost them so much in toil, in injuries and deaths, would make any change in their lives? The open door was meant for Bóinn, but suppose Lúgh entered? And stayed? Suppose he became trapped there, what would that mean? Would it mean that the days, instead of lengthening would get shorter and shorter until – dreadful thought! – no, it was not good to think in that way. Everything would be well, they must trust their leaders. And yet … They had come, indeed, though they hardly knew it, to the dark unspoken thought, too terrifying to be put in words, that lay behind their mid-winter ceremonies.

  It was otherwise with those grouped near the high entrance, whose knowledge and search for knowledge had driven this huge project, who had had a high ambition and seen it carried to completion. The dawn came, and by that timid grey light they saw a clear sky and were elated. Impatiently they awaited the sunrise and when the first bright ray appeared above the horizon, they watched intently. The sun-god leaped boldly up. There was nothing of diffidence or humility in him, yet they must wait until the full circle of brilliance had lifted itself free of the earth before they heard the druids’ secret song. Then they knew with certainty that all was well, was as they had foretold, that a seal had been put on their endeavours, and they were exultant. Fame and reward would be theirs.

  But what of the ten in the central chamber? It was they who saw the marvel most clearly. They saw the powerful pulse of light that entered by the narrow opening in the lintel and penetrated to the very centre of the Brú, bestowing on the goddess the gift of new life, which she in turn would pass on to the water of the river and the soil of the great grassy plain. At once without premeditation they shouted … a shout that stopped again as quickly, as though they realized that noise of any kind was unbecoming. Silence fell. Yes, they knew that success had crowned all they had toiled for. A palace for Bóinn, yes, but did even one or two among them consider something else: that maybe they had gone too far? For the first time human eyes had seen this intercourse of the gods, and would it have been more seemly if it had not been witnessed? It might have been the wish of Bóinn and of Lúgh that their coming together should take place in secret as it had done since the beginning of the world. It had not been their purpose to offend the gods, rather the opposite, but was that the result of all their mighty exertions? They stared at the golden shaft that ran straight from Lúgh through the crevice above the door. It fell in a yellow pool on the sanded floor and the granite basin; it fell on the feet of the occupants, some of whom moved aside as though unhappy at having that bright light shine on them. And they were silent. From outside they heard the sanas-laoi, the druids’ mystic chant, but in the chamber there
was an uneasy silence.

  The days went on, however, and everything seemed as before. Even though in some minds there were small doubts lurking vaguely on the edge of consciousness, those who had worried were calmed as time went by with no sign of change. What should they fear? That they might have roused the anger of the vengeful Lúgh, or that they might have hurt, without meaning to, the gentle goddess who had always shown them warm regard and goodwill? But the spring days lengthened as they had always done, the sun still shone and grasses grew, and the seasons followed one another in their turn. Sun, cloud, wind and rain came in due course. And the river continued to bring out of the south its burden of life-giving water, still flooded the inches in winter with fertile silt, and no-one saw any lessening of Bóinn’s beauty and bounty. Trout and salmon leaped in plenty; insects buzzed in the drowsy summer heat where their cattle stood knee-deep in the shadowed water. Willow and alder, the little gilded fly and the stealthy otter, run ripple and reach. The slow laden craft that swung heavily to the current, the dancing coracle light as a hazel-shell on the brimming water. Swallows swooped to drink on the wing, under dark woods or in glittering sparkles of sunlight, where the silent swans sailed by and the grazing cattle never lifted their heads. The grey heron that fished the shallows, and the sudden flash of blue that said kingfisher. Still pools and gliding pebbly bars, ford and white weir. The shouts and splashing of children at the swimming-stone. And there were also the noisy winter geese that came from no-where, that spoiled the river pastures so that their animals would not graze there, but that stayed only a short time; as soon as days grew long they spread their grey wings and followed the tides northwards, back again to the mysterious land from which they had come.

  This is the river and these are its gifts, gifts of the she-god – water-lily, dragonfly and blue salmon, pulsing current of life. These remained unchanged; and Bóinn’s high cairn also, on its eminence above the valley, became, with time, an accepted and reassuring presence, a reminder of the magnificent self-belief that had enabled them to plan the masterpiece and bring it to triumphant reality, a reminder of that time of exuberant creativity based on a powerful direct certainty and a shining courage. It was the same courage and daring that had brought them to this green land of promise, braving the long sea-lanes and the anger of the storm. Built as a tribute to their benefactress and as a worthy tomb for their kings, Brú na Bóinne stood proudly also as a tribute to their own enterprise and resolve. It is a wonder and a mystery, older than the pyramids of Egypt, fitting monument to a great race of whom little is known, whose only building-tools were of stone or wood and the strength of their limbs. They are a people lost in the dim forgotten years; if they seem to speak still through the Boyne tombs and especially through Bóinn’s regal house, the whisper that comes over that vast emptiness says little more than, ‘See what we have built.’

  The proud cairn guards its secrets, brooding over the bend of the Boyne. It has known great change, all the many changes that the turbulent centuries have brought, but still the tides fill and ebb in storm or calm and grasses grow, the river still sparkles in the sun and larks are singing above the peaceful fields. These things remain, and the kings asleep in the ground.

  Colkitto’s Tooth

  Our history teacher in Avondhu, Mr Cronin, was a man before his time, in having a wide and generous view of what constituted history. With willing help from his friend Mr Nyhan, the undertaker in Mallow, who owned a big black car, we went on fine Saturdays (provided there was no funeral on that day) to various places of interest in or near the town: the site of an ambush, or a dolmen or ring fort, the spa on the edge of town, a ruined abbey or castle, the point on the Blackwater where O’Sullivan Beara forded the river on his epic retreat – any one or more of these might be included, and he could bring together in a short time a great variety of sometimes unexpected characters, such as Fionn mac Cumhaill, the poet Spenser, Tom Barry, Canon Sheehan and the Man from God knows where, whose name I think was Thomas Russell and who came from Mallow, according to Mr Cronin. So God wasn’t the only one who knew. All of them were history, because as our historian explained, ‘They’re all in the past tense.’ Even the railway station and the sugar factory were not ruled out, though he might have found it difficult to explain their tense, as both were still in operation. The historical present, maybe.

  At one Thursday class he announced, ‘Saturday afternoon we go to the site of one of the most important battles to take place in Ireland. I don’t want volunteers; I want enthusiastic volunteers.’ As most of the students would be playing football on Saturday, the number of volunteers was seldom more than six.

  We discussed after class what battle it might be. There seemed little choice. Limerick? But that was a siege rather than a battle. Ballyneety? No, a minor skirmish. And Kinsale was thirty or more miles away, out of our range. We were surprised then when, on the day, we headed a few miles northwest to Kanturk, and on our way there Mr Cronin told us that our destination was Cnoc na nOs. None of us had ever heard of it. He insisted, however, that it was a key battle, even if seldom mentioned in history books, important for the numbers engaged, for the numbers killed and especially for its critical effect on the struggle between the English parliament and King Charles, a struggle which of course involved Ireland too.

  We stopped at the hill that gives its name to the battle and he gave us some details of it: the English army under Lord Inchiquin was only a little over half the strength of the Confederates whose commander was Lord Taafe. Taafe’s second-in-command was the redoubtable Alexander Mac Donald, Alastair to the Scots, and known to the English as Colkitto (a corruption of Mac Cholla Chiotaigh) who led a thousand Mac Donalds of Islay, Kintyre and Antrim, with other clansmen from Keppoch, Atholl and Badenoch. He and his men had fought all through the Scottish campaigns under James Graham, Earl of Montrose, the Royalist general. Montrose’s great gifts as a commander and the fierce courage of the battle-hardened Highlanders had brought victory after victory, including Inverlochy, a triumph of strategy, where 1700 Campbells were killed, and the power of that great clan broken, and also Auldearn, where Alastair so distinguished himself that he was knighted on the battlefield by his commander. Montrose, brilliant strategist and tactician, defeated every Parliamentary army sent against him, and in all those battles the presence of Colkitto and his men was decisive. When it seemed safe to do so, he left with half his Highlanders to attend to some private Mac Donald business in the west, leaving the remainder under the command of his Irish Lieutenant, Maghnus Ó Catháin, and it was while Colkitto was away that Montrose was surprised and defeated at Philiphaugh.

  After the royalist cause had been lost in Scotland, Alastair and his mercenaries came to Ireland to fight with the Confederates against the Parliamentary forces. To both the Scots and the Irish he had become a hero, another Cúchulainn whose very appearance and legendary fighting qualities were worth a thousand men and whose fame outshone even that of the great Montrose. Tradition makes him eight feet tall, which may be an exaggeration, but big he was and powerful; such a man wielding a claymore would be a dangerous enemy for anyone to face, but the fact that he was left-handed, ciotach, made him doubly difficult to deal with.

  At Cnoc na nOs, Alastair commanded the right wing of the Irish army, and when battle was joined he and his Highlanders charged the English immediately in front of them and drove them back in disarray. The very success of that charge may have contributed to what followed. Both Inchiquin and Taafe must have seen the danger to the exposed right flank of the Confederate army, but the able and experienced Inchiquin was first to react; he sent his cavalry around to take the Irish in flank and rear, they gained the crest of the hill, Taafe’s line broke and fled, and the day was lost. It became a massacre.

  The memory of the thousands left dead or dying on the slopes of Cnoc na nOs remained for long a bitter wound in the hearts of the people and became the subject of many songs of sorrow and lament. For the Confederat
e cause it was disastrous.

  The battle-site on the day we visited was calm and sunlit, a green hill where shadows drifted, sheep and their lambs in the fields, a hawk hovering above. Afterwards we were brought to see a monument where there was a great mound of bones, the remains of Taafe’s army of Irish and of Alastair’s ‘redshanks’. The bones were contained within a structure of cut stone and iron bars; it was possible to reach in between the bars and touch the skulls, which I did. I did more – I prised a canine tooth from its socket (young fellows of fifteen are generally not squeamish in such matters). I kept it in my pocket and liked to pretend it was Colkitto’s tooth, that fearsome warrior who had faced and vanquished a thousand enemies, and whom I imagined towering, kilted, bearded, his claidheamh mór in his huge left hand, his open mouth yelling a defiant battle-cry through his gapped teeth.

  Since my first visit, I have learned more about that battle in 1647. Mr Cronin’s opinion of its importance was difficult to deny; after that sad day, Taafe’s great army of perhaps 8,500 men was no more, and that loss may have meant the difference between victory and defeat for the Confederates in Ireland, and who knows, for the royalist cause in England too.

  As to that eye-tooth, the chance of its being Alastair’s was always remote, since thousands fell that day. But I was a slow learner, or maybe I just wanted to ignore the facts. My faith in my talisman weakened, however, when I learned later that Alastair had not been killed in the fighting, but had been forced to surrender and had been put to death afterwards by order of Inchiquin, in contravention of accepted rules of war. And when one day I discovered that the tooth was missing from my pocket, I felt no regret; by that time I knew that shortly after his death, Colkitto’s body had been carried to the quiet cemetery at Clonmeen and buried with dignity, and there he sleeps, far from the noise of battle and the scenes of his triumphs, in a peaceful place where few remember even his name.