Wars of the Irish Kings by David W. McCullough Read Free Book Online Page B

Ireland, the brown bull of Cooley. Stealing the bull, however, requires her to confront Cuchulain, the son of the king of Cooley and Ulster’s greatest hero.
    In the episode that follows, Cuchulain, exhausted and seriously wounded after single-handedly battling the invaders for weeks, is talked into taking a nap by the god Lug, his divine father. The result is disastrous, but Cuchulain’s heroic rage is awesome, and the detailed descriptions of his clothes, weapons, tactics, and chariot (including the charioteer) seem historically inspired.
    The earliest versions of the
The Tain—
containing sections in both prose and verse—date from the seventh and eighth centuries, with later versions appearing in
The Book of the Dun Cow
(c. 1100)
, The Book of Leinster
(c. 1160), and
The Yellow Book of Lecan
(c. 1390). The modern Irish poet Thomas Kinsella made this translation.
    THE FOUR PROVINCES OF Ireland settled down and camped on Murtheimne Plain, at Breslech Mór (the place of their great carnage). They sent their shares of cattle and plunder southward ahead of them to Clithar Bó Ulad, the Cattle-Shelter of Ulster. Cuchulain took his place near them at the gravemound in Lerga. At nightfall his charioteer Laeg mac Riangabra kindled a fire for him. And he saw in the distance over the heads of the fourprovinces of Ireland the fiery flickering of gold weapons in the evening sunset clouds. Rage and fury seized him at the sight of that army, at the great forces of his foes, the immensity of his enemies. He grasped his two spears, his shield and his sword and he shook the shield and rattled the spears and flourished the sword and gave the warrior’s scream from his throat, so that demons and devils and goblins of the glen and fiends of the air replied, so hideous was the call he uttered on high. Then the Nemain stirred the armies to confusion. The weapons and spear-points of the four armed provinces of Ireland shook with panic. One hundred warriors fell dead of fright and terror that night in the heart of the guarded camp.
    Laeg stood in his place and saw a solitary man crossing between the camp of the men of Ireland straight toward him out of the northeast.
    “There is a man coming toward us alone, Little Hound,” Laeg said.
    “What kind of man is he?” Cuchulain said.
    “It is soon told: a tall, broad, fair-seeming man. His close-crossed hair is blond and curled. A green cloak is wrapped about him, held at his breast by a bright silver brooch. He wears a knee-length tunic of kingly silk, red-embroidered in red gold, girded against his white skin. There is a knob of light gold on his black shield. He carries a five-pointed spear in his hand and a forked javelin. His feats and graceful displays are astonishing, yet no one is taking any notice of him and he heeds no one: it is as though they couldn’t see him.”
    “They can’t, my young friend,” Cuchulain said. “This is some friendly one of the
side
[the other world] that has taken pity on me. They know my great distress now on the Táin Bó Cuailnge, alone against all four provinces of Ireland.”
    Cuchulain was right. When the warrior came up to him he said in pity:
    “This is a manly stand, Cuchulain.”
    “It isn’t very much,” Cuchulain said.
    “I am going to help you now,’ the warrior said.
    “Who are you?” Cuchulain said.
    “I am Lug mac Ethnenn, your father from the
síde.”
    “My wounds are heavy. It is time they were let heal.”
    “Sleep a while, then, Cuchulain,” the warrior said, “a heavy sleep of three days and three nights by the gravemound at Lerga. I’ll stand against the armies for that time.”
    He sang to Cuchulain, as men sing to men, until he slept. Then he examined each wound and cleaned it. Lug made this chant:
    “Rise son of mighty Ulster
    with your wounds made whole
a fair man faces your foes
    in the long night over the ford
rest in his human care
    everywhere hosts hewn down
succour has come from