Early Irish Myths and Sagas (12 page)

‘The young lad was sleeping, then, his feet in the lap of the one man and his head in the lap of the other,’ Ingcél continued. ‘He awoke from his sleep, then, and recited this poem: “The cry of Ossar. Ossar the hound. A shout of youths
going up from the marsh of Tule Gossi. A cold wind across a dangerous blade. A night for destroying a king. It is heard again, the cry of Ossar, Ossar the hound. Battle is declared. The end of a people. The destruction of a hostel. Saddened fiana. Wounded men. A fearful wind. The carrying off of spears. Pain against unfair odds. The fall of a house. Temuir desolate. Unknown heirs. Weeping over Conare. Destruction of corn. A shout. A cry. The destruction of the king of Ériu. Chariots whirling about. Hardship for the king of Temuir.’ The third time he said:
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“The cry of Ossar. Ossar the hound. A combat of heroes. Youths in slaughter. Slaughter will be done. Champions will be destroyed. Men will bend. Warriors will be despoiled. A bellowing encounter. Shouts raised. Concern shown. An abundance of spectres. A prostrate host. The overthrowing of enemies. A combat of men on the Dothra. Hardship for the king of Temuir. Men cut down in youth.” Explain that, Fer Rogain – who recited that poem?’

‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘Indeed, it is not a moon without a king. The most splendid and distinguished and handsome and powerful king who has ever come into the world that one – the kindest and gentlest and most humble as well. Conare Mar son of Eterscélae is his name, and he is the high king of Ériu. There is no flaw in him, not as to form or shape or clothing, or size or arrangement or proportion, or eye or hair or whiteness, or wisdom or pleasingness or eloquence, or weapons or equipment or attire, or splendour or abundance or dignity, or bearing or prowess or ancestry. Great the youth of this man, who seems simple and sleepy until he undertakes a feat of arms; but if his ardour and fury are aroused while the fiana of Ériu and Albu are about him in his house, then there will be no destruction of the hostel. Six hundred will fall by him before he reaches his weapons, and once he has obtained his weapons, six hundred more will fall at the first onslaught. I swear by the
god my people swear by, if his drink is not taken from him, he will reach men from Tond Chlidnai to Tond Essa Rúaid, even though he is alone in the house. There are nine entrances to the house, and at each entrance one hundred heroes will fall, and when everyone has stopped fighting, it is then that he will be performing feats of arms. If he encounters you outside the hostel, as numerous as hailstones or blades of grass or stars in the sky will be your cloven heads and cloven skulls and heaps of entrails that he crushes after he has scattered you about the ridges. But I do not believe that he will succeed in leaving the house. Dear to him are the two men in his apartment, his two foster-brothers, Driss and Sníthe. Three fifties of heroes will fall by each man at the entrance to the hostel, and no farther than a foot away, on this Side and that, will they fall.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of those two men and the prince who is between them, the high king of Ériu, Conare Már son of Eterscélae,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘It would be grievous to extinguish that reign.’ ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘Indeed, Ingcél, the destruction is yours by right,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You will come to no harm. It will be harder on me, however.’ ‘No lie that,’ said Ingcél. ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

‘I saw twelve men gathered round the apartment in a circle,’ said Ingcél, ‘and they had silver swords. Fair yellow manes they had, and bright tunics, and all were equal in form and shape and appearance. All had ivory-hilted swords in their hands, and they did not put them down unless they were holding horsewhips as they gathered round the apartment. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’

‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘The guards of the king of Temuir they: the three Londs of Life, the three Arts of Áth Clíath, the three Bodars of Buaignige and the three
Trénfers of Cuilne. I swear by the god my people swear by, when they destroy, the dead outnumber the living. Twelve hundred will fall by them at the first onslaught, and a man for each weapon, and a man for each of them, and they will match the performance of any band in the hostel; they will boast of victories over kings and royal heirs and plundering chieftains, and, though wounded, they will escape afterwards.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of those twelve,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

‘I saw a red-freckled lad in a crimson cloak,’ said Ingcél, ‘and he was weeping in the house. Wherever the thirty hundred men were, each of them would take the lad to his breast. He was sitting on a bright silver chair in the middle of the house and sobbing, and the household were sorrowful from listening to him. The lad had three colours of hair: green, yellow crimson and pure gold. I do not know whether each hair is multihued or whether he has three different hairs. But I do know that there is something he fears tonight. I saw three fifties of lads in silver chairs round him, and those red-freckled lads had fifteen reeds in their hands, with a thorn spike at the top of each reed. We were fifteen men, and our fifteen right eyes were being blinded by him, and one of the seven pupils in my eye was being blinded by him. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’

‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain, and he wept until tears of blood poured forth. ‘Wretched that one, for he has been named by the men of Ériu against the men of Albu as a champion of hospitality and shape and form and horsemanship. It is grievous. He is a pig that falls before acorns. The making of a king, he is the best ever to come into Ériu. The infant son of Conare, Lé Fer Flaith is his name, and he is seven years old. I think it not unlikely that he is foredoomed,
and that by reason of the various hues of his hair. The three fifties of lads round him are his special household.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of this one lad,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

‘I saw six men before the same apartment,’ said Ingcél. ‘Fair yellow manes they had, and green cloaks, and tin brooches for the cloaks. All were mounted like Conall Cernach. Each man could put his cloak round the other as quickly as a mill wheel; the eye could scarcely follow it. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’

‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘The six servers of the king of Temuir they: Úan, Bróen, Banda, Delt, Drúcht and Dathen. That trick does not interfere with their serving, and neither does their intelligence. They are the chieftains of the youth in the hostel. Three champions, equally matched, will fall by them, and they will match the performance of any six men in the hostel, and they will escape afterwards, for they are of the Síde. They are the best servers in Ériu.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of those six,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will-come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

‘I saw a strapping fellow before the same apartment in the centre of the house,’ said Ingcél. ‘A shameful haircut he had, and every hair on his head was as white as a mountain bog. Gold earrings on his ears, and a cloak of many colours about him; nine swords in his hands, and nine silver shields and nine apples of gold. He threw up the swords and shields and apples, and only one remained in his hand, but none fell to the ground, and their movement was like that of bees going past one another on a beautiful day. When I saw him, he was at his most splendid; but as I looked, everything
fell to the floor, and a great clatter arose about him. The ruler said to the trickster, then, “We have known each other since I was a lad, and never before has that trick failed you.” “Alas, alas, fair popa Conare,” the trickster replied, “it was proper that this should happen, for a keen, baleful eye is staring at me. A man with three pupils is watching the passing of three companies, and his watching is nothing at all for him. Baleful that. A battle will be fought; it will be remembered until the day of Judgement, and there will be evil at the entrance to the hostel.” After that, he took his swords in hand, and his silver shields and his apples of gold, and everything fell on the floor again, and there was a great clatter. He put everything away, then, and abandoned his feat and said “Fer Calliu, rise now, do not permit the slaughter of your pig. Find out who is at the entrance to the house doing injury to the men of the hostel.” “Fer Cúailge, Fer Lé, Fer Gar, Fer Rogel and Fer Rogain are there,” said Fer Calliu. “They have announced a deed that was not expected, Conare’s forgiveness by the five sons of Dond Désa, his five beloved foster-brothers.” Explain that, Fer Rogain – who recited that poem?’

‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘That one was Tulchaíne, the royal fool of the king of Temuir, Conare’s trickster, a man of great power. Three nines will fall by him at the first onslaught, and he will match the performance of anyone in the hostel, and, though wounded, he will escape afterwards.’ ‘On his account alone, there should be no destruction. Happy the man who spares him,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

‘I saw nine men before the same apartment,’ said Ingcél. ‘Fair yellow manes they had, and short trousers and speckled red tunics and shields lest they be struck. A sword with an
ivory hilt in the hand of each man, and anyone who entered the house would be struck with those swords. No one dared enter the house without their permission. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’

‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘Those are the three Mochmaitnechs of Mide, the three Búadeltachs of Brega and the three Sostachs of Slíab Fúait. Nine tens will fall by them at the first onslaught, and they will match the performance of anyone in the hostel, and, though wounded, they will escape afterwards.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of those nine,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

‘I saw another apartment, with two men in it,’ said Ingcél. ‘Stout and strong they were, with short trousers, and they were dusky red; short hair at the back of their heads and long hair on top. Each was as quick as a mill wheel going past the other, the one going to the apartment, the other to the hearth. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’

‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘Nía and Bruithne they, Conare’s two servers, the best pair in Ériu. That is why they are swarthy and why their hair stands up – because they visit the fire so often. No pair in the world are better servers than they. Three nines will fall by them at the first onslaught, and a man for each weapon, and a man for each man, and they will match the performance of any pair in the hostel; they will boast of victories over kings and royal heirs and plundering chieftains, and, though wounded, they will escape afterwards.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of those two,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

‘I saw the apartment next to Conare’s,’ said Ingcél. ‘Three chief warriors were there, and they were just turning grey. They wore dark grey shirts, and each of their limbs was as thick as a man’s waist; each man had a huge, black sword, as long as a weaver’s beam, that could split a hair floating on the water. The man in the centre had a great lance, with fifty rivets through it, and its shaft would be a load for a team of oxen. He brandished the lance until sparks as big as eggs all but flew from it, and then he struck the butt against his palm three times. Before them was a great food cauldron, large enough for a bullock, with an appalling dark liquid in it, and the man dipped the lance into the liquid. If the lance was not quenched quickly, it blazed up over its shaft – you would have thought there was a roaring fire in the upper part of the house. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’

‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘Three heroes they, the three best that ever took weapons in Ériu: Senchae son of Ailill, Dubthach Dóeltenga and Goibniu son of Lorgnech. And the lance that was in the hand of Dubthach, that was the Luin of Celtchair son of Uthechar that was found at the battle of Mag Tured. Whenever the blood of enemies is about to flow from the lance, a cauldron full of venom is required to quench it; otherwise, the lance will blaze up in the fist of the man carrying it, and it will pierce him or the lord of the royal house. Each thrust of this lance will kill a man, even if it does not reach him; if the lance is cast, it will kill nine men, and there will be a king or royal heir or plundering chieftain in their number. I swear by what my people swear by, the Lúin of Celtchair will serve drinks of death to a multitude tonight. Three hundred will fall by these three at the first onslaught, and a man for each weapon, and a man for each man, and they will match the performance of any trio in the hostel; they will boast of victories over kings and royal heirs and plundering chieftains,
and, though wounded, they will escape afterwards.’ ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of those three,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.

‘I saw an apartment with three men in it,’ said Ingcél. ‘Three strong, powerful men – a man passing by would not eye their dark, uncouth faces for fear of the terror that would result. Rough-haired garments all about them, and no other clothing on them from head to toe. Their horrible, horselike manes reached their Sides. Furious warriors, they were quick to their swords, and they struck stoutly against enemies. Each bore an iron flail with seven chains; each chain was twisted into three strands, and each had at its end a knob as heavy as a bar for lifting ten pieces of burning metal. Huge oxhides they wore, and the four-cornered clasps that fastened them were as thick as a man’s thighs, and the hair from the hides went through them. Each man had an iron staff as long and thick as an outer yoke; each staff had nine chains of iron, and each chain had a pestle of iron as long and thick as an outer yoke. These men were dejected, and they were horrible to behold; no one in the house was not aware of them. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’