SETANTA RUNS AWAY
“For a boy’s way is the wind’s way.”
--LONGFELLOW
And now the daily life of that remote dun no longer pleased the boy, for
the war-spirit within drave him on. Moreover he longed for comrades and
playfellows, for his fearful mother permitted him no longer to associate
with children of that rude realm whose conversation and behaviour she
misliked for her child. She loved him greatly and perceived not how he
changed, or how the new years in their coming and their going both gave
and took away continually.
In summer the boy sat often with the chief bard under the thatched eaves
of the dun, while the crying swallows above came and went, asking many
questions concerning his forefathers back the ascending line up to Rury,
and again downwards through the ramifications of that mighty stem, and
concerning famous marches and forays, and battles and single combats,
and who was worthy and lived and died well, and who not. More than all
else he delighted to hear about Fergus Mac Roy, who seemed to him the
greatest and best of all the Red Branch. In winter, cradled in strong
arms, he listened to the reminiscences and conversation of the men of
war as they sat and talked round the blazing logs in the hall, while the
light flickered upon warlike faces, and those who drew drink went round
bearing mead and ale.
Upon his seventh birthday early in the morning he ran to his mother and
cried, “Mother, send me now to Emain Macha, to my uncle.”
Dectera grew pale when she heard that word and her knees smote together
with loving fear. For answer she withdrew him from the society of the
men and kept him by herself in the women’s quarter, which was called
grianan. The grianan was in the north end of the palace behind the
king’s throne. In the hall men could see above them the rafters which
upheld the roof and the joining of the great central pillar with the
same. From the upper storey of the grianan a door opened upon the great
hall directly above the throne of the king, and before that door was a
railed gallery.
Thence it was the custom of Dectera to supervise in the morning the
labours of the household thralls and at night to rebuke unseemly
revelry, and at the fit hour to command silence and sleep. Thence too
in the evening, ere he went to his small couch, Setanta would cry out
“good-night” and “good slumber” to his friends in the hall, who laughed
much amongst themselves for the secret of his immurement was not hid.
Moreover, Dectera gave straight commandment to her women, at peril of
her displeasure and of sore bodily chastisement, that they should not
speak to him any word concerning Emain Macha. The boy as yet knew not
where lay the wondrous city, whether in heaven or on earth or beyond
the sea. To him it was still as it were a fairy city or in the land of
dreams.
One day he saw afar upon the plain long lines of lowing kine and
of laden garrans wending north-westward. He questioned his mother
concerning that sight. She answered, “It is the high King’s tribute
out of Murthemney.” [Footnote: A territory conterminous with the modern
County of Louth.]
“Mother,” he said, “how runs the road hence to the great city?”
“That thou shalt not know,” said his mother, looking narrowly on the
boy.
But still the strong spirit from within, irresistible, urged on the lad.
One day while his mother conversed with him, inadvertently she uttered
certain words, and he knew that the road to Emain Macha went past the
mountain of Slieve Fuad. [Footnote: Now the Fews mountain lying on the
direct way between Dundalk and Armagh.] That night he dreamed of Emain
Macha, and he rose up early in the morning and clambered on to the roof
of the palace through a window and gazed long upon the mountain. The
next night too he dreamed of Emain Macha, and heard voices which were
unintelligible, and again the third night he heard the voices and
one voice said, “This our labour is vain, let him alone. He is some
changeling and not of the blood of Rury. He will be a grazier, I think,
and buy cattle and sell them for a profit.” And the other said, “Nay,
let us not leave him yet. Remember how valiantly he faced the fierce
water-dog and slew him at one cast.” When he climbed to the roof, as his
manner was, to gaze at the mountain, he thought that Slieve Fuad nodded
to him and beckoned. He broke fast with his mother and the women that
day and ate and drank silently with bright eyes, and when that meal was
ended he donned his best attire and took his toy weapons and a new ball
and his ashen hurle shod with red bronze.
“Wherefore this holiday attire?” said his mother.
“Because I shall see great people ere I put it off,” he answered.
She kissed him and he went forth as at other times to play upon the
lawn by himself. The king sat upon a stone seat hard by the door of the
grianan. Under the eaves he sat sunning himself and gazing upon the sea.
The boy kneeled and kissed his hand. His father stroked his head and
said, “Win victory and blessings, dear Setanta.” He looked at the lad as
if he would speak further, but restrained himself and leaned back again
in his seat.
Dectera sat in the window of the upper chamber amongst her women. They
sat around her sewing and embroidering. She herself was embroidering a
new mantle for the boy against his next birthday, though that indeed was
far away, but ever while her hands wrought her eyes were on the lawn.
“Mother,” cried Setanta, “watch this stroke.”
He flung his ball into the air and as it fell met it with his hurle,
leaning back and putting his whole force into the blow, and struck it
into the clouds. It was long before the ball fell. It fell at his feet.
“Mother,” he cried again, “watch this stroke.”
He went to the east mearing of the spacious lawn and struck the ball
to the west. It traversed the great lawn ere it touched the earth and
bounded shining above the trees. Truly it was a marvellous stroke for
one so young. As he went for his ball the boy stood still before the
window. “Give me thy blessing, dear mother,” he said.
“Win victory and blessing for ever, O Setanta,” she answered. “Truly
thou art an expert hurler.”
“These feats,” he replied, “are nothing to what I shall yet do in
needlework, O mother, when I am of age to be trusted with my first
needle, and knighted by thy hands, and enrolled amongst the valiant
company of thy sewing-women.”
“What meaneth the boy?” said his mother, for she perceived that he spoke
awry.
“That his childhood is over, O Dectera,” answered one of her women, “and
that thou art living in the past and in dreams. For who can hold back
Time in his career?”
The queen’s heart leaped when she heard that word, and the blood forsook
her face. She bent down her head over her work and her tears fell.
After a space she looked out again upon the lawn to see if the boy had
returned, but he had not.
She bade her women go and fetch him, and afterwards the whole household.
They called aloud, “Setanta, Setanta,” but there was no answer, only
silence and the watching and mocking trees and a sound like low laughter
in the leaves; for Setanta was far away.
The boy came out of that forest on the west side. Soon he struck the
great road which from Ath-a-clia [Footnote: Ath-a-cliah, i.e., the
Ford of the Hurdles. It was the Irish name for Dublin.] ran through
Murthemney to Emain Macha, and saw before him the purple mountain of
Slieve Fuad. In his left hand was his sheaf of toy javelins; in his
right the hurle; his little shield was strapped upon his back. The boy
went swiftly, for there was power upon him that day, and with his ashen
hurle shod with red bronze ever urged his ball forward. So he went
driving, his ball before him. At other times he would cast a javelin
far out westward and pursue its flight. Ever as he went there ever flew
beside him a grey-necked crow. “It is a good omen,” said the boy, for he
knew that the bird was sacred to the Mor-Reega.
He was amazed at his own speed and the elasticity of his limbs. Once
when he rose after having gathered his thrown javelin, a man stood
beside him who had the port and countenance of some ancient hero, and
whose attire was strange. He was taller and nobler than any living man.
He bore a rod-sling in his right hand, and in his left, in a leash of
bronze, he led a hound. The hound was like white fire. Setanta could
hardly look in that man’s face, but he did. The man smiled and said--
“Whither away, my son?”
“To Emain Macha, to my uncle Concobar,” said the boy.
“Dost thou know me, Setanta?” said the man.
“I think thou art Lu Lam-fada Mac Ethlend,” [Footnote: Lu the
Long-Handed son of Ethlenn. This mysterious being, being one of the
deities of the pagan Irish, seems to have been the Sun-god.] answered
Setanta.
“I am thy friend,” said the man, “fear nothing, for I shall be with thee
always.”
Then the man and the hound disappeared as if they had been resolved
into the rays of the sun; Setanta saw nothing, only the grey-necked crow
starting for flight. Then a second man in a wide blue mantle specked
with white like flying foam came against him and flung his mantle over
Setanta. There was a sound in his ears like the roaring of the sea.
[Footnote: This man was Mananan son of Lir. He was the Sea-god.]
Chariots and horses came from the east after that. Setanta recognised
those who urged on the steeds, they were his own people. “Surely,” he
said, “I shall be taken now.” The men drave past him. “If I mistake
not,” he said, “the man who flung his mantle over me was Mananan the son
of Lir.”
Divers persons, noble and ignoble, passed him on the way, some riding in
chariots, some going on foot. They went as though they saw him not.
In the evening he came to Slieve Fuad. He gathered a bed of dried moss
and heaped moss upon his shield for a pillow. He wrapped himself in his
mantle, and lay down to sleep, and felt neither cold nor hunger. While
he slept a great steed, a stallion, grey to whiteness, came close to
him, and walked all round him, and smelt him, and stayed by him till the
morning.
Setanta was awaked by the loud singing of the birds. Light of heart the
boy started from his mossy couch and wondered at that tuneful chorus.
The dawning day trembled through the trees still half-bare, for it was
the month of May.
“Horses have been here in the night,” said the boy, “one horse. What
mighty hoof marks!” He wondered the more seeing how the marks encircled
him. “I too will one day have a chariot and horses, and a deft
charioteer.” He stood musing, “Is it the grey of Macha? [Footnote: The
goddess Macha, already referred to, had a horse which was called the
Grey of Macha--Liath-Macha. He was said to be still alive dwelling
invisibly in Erin.] They say that he haunts this mountain.” He hastened
to the brook, and finding a deep pool, bathed in the clear pure water
and dried himself in his woollen bratta [Footnote: The Gaelic word for
mantle.] of divers colours. Very happy and joyous was Setanta that day.
And he spread out the bratta to dry, and put on his shirt of fine linen
and his woollen tunic that reached to the knees in many plaits. Shoes he
had none; bare and naked were his swift feet.
“This is the mountain of Fuad the son of Brogan,” [Footnote: An ancient
Milesian hero. Brogan was uncle of Milesius.] said he. “I would I
knew where lies his cairn in this great forest that I might pay my
stone-tribute to the hero.” Soon he found it and laid his stone upon the
heap. He climbed to the hill’s brow and looked westward and saw far away
the white shining duns of the marvellous city from which, even now, the
morning smoke went up into the windless air. He trembled, and rejoiced,
and wept. He stood a long time there gazing at Emain Macha. Descending,
he struck again the great road, but he went slowly; he cast not his
javelins and drave not his ball. Again, from a rising ground he saw
Emain Macha, this time near at hand. He remained there a long time
filled with awe and fear. He covered his head with his mantle and wept
aloud, and said he would return to Dun Dalgan, that he dared not set
unworthy feet in that holy place.
Then he heard the cheerful voices of the boys as they brake from the
royal palace and ran down the wide smooth lawn to the hurling-ground.
His heart yearned for their companionship, yet he feared greatly, and
his mind misgave him as to the manner in which they would receive him.
He longed to go to them and say, “I am little Setanta, and my uncle is
the king, and I would be your friend and playfellow.” Hope and love and
fear confused his mind. Yet it came to him that he was urged forwards,
by whom he knew not. Reluctantly, with many pausings, he drew nigh to
the players and stood solitary on the edge of the lawn southwards, for
the company that held that barrier were the weaker. He hoped that some
one would call to him and welcome him, but none called or welcomed.
Silently the child wept, and the front of his mantle was steeped in his
tears. Some looked at him, but with looks of cold surprise, as though
they said, “Who is this stranger boy and what doth he here? Would that
he took himself away out of this and went elsewhere.” The boy thought
that he would be welcomed and made much of because he was a king’s son
and nephew of the high King of Ulla, and on account of his skill in
hurling, and because he himself longed so exceedingly for companions and
comrades, and because there were within him such fountains of affection
and loving kindness. And many a time happy visions had passed before
his eyes awake or asleep of the meeting between himself and his future
comrades, but the event itself when it happened was by no means what he
had anticipated. For no one kissed him and bade him welcome or took him
by the right hand and led him in, and no one seemed glad of his coming
and he was here of no account at all. Bitter truly was thy weeping, dear
Setanta.