to Emain of Maca, telling the story of one famous generation of warriors
and fair women who loved and fought there two thousand years ago. The
ideal of beauty was still the golden hair and blue eyes of the De
Danaans, and we cannot doubt that their race persisted side by side with
the Sons of Milid, retaining a certain predominance in the north and
northeast of the island, the first landing-place of the De Danaan
invaders. Of this mingled race was the great Rudraige, from whom the
most famous rulers of Emain descended. Ros was the son of Rudraige, and
from Roeg and Cass, the sons of Ros, came the princes Fergus and
Factna. Factna, son of Cass, wedded the beautiful Nessa, and from their
union sprang Concobar, the great hero and ruler of Ulster--in those days
named Ulad, and the dwellers there the Ulaid. Factna died while Concobar
was yet a boy; and Nessa, left desolate, was yet so beautiful in her
sadness that Fergus became her slave, and sued for her favor, though
himself a king whose favors others sued. Nessa's heart was wholly with
her son, her life wrapt up in his. She answered, therefore, that she
would renounce her mourning and give her widowed hand to Fergus the
king, if the king, on his part, would promise that Nessa's son Concobar
should succeed him, rather than the children of Fergus. Full of longing,
and held in thrall by her beauty, Fergus promised; and this promise was
the beginning of many calamities, for Nessa, the queen, feeling her sway
over Fergus, and full of ambition for her child, won a promise from
Fergus that the youth should sit beside him on the throne, hearing all
pleadings and disputes, and learning the art of ruling. But the spirit
of Concobar was subtle and strong and masterful, and he quickly took the
greater place in the councils of the Ulaid, until Nessa, still confident
in her charm, took a promise from Fergus that Concobar should reign
for one year.
Fergus, great-hearted warrior, but tender and gentle and fond of feasts
and merrymaking, was very willing to lift the cares of rule from his
shoulders to the younger shoulders of Nessa's son, and the one year thus
granted became many years, so that Fergus never again mounted his
throne. Yet for the love he bore to Nessa, Fergus willingly admitted his
stepson's rule, and remained faithfully upholding him, ever merry at the
banquets, and leading the martial sports and exercises of the youths,
the sons of chieftains, at the court. Thus Concobar, son of Nessa, came
to be ruler over the great fort of Emain, with its citadel, its
earthworks and outer forts, its strong stockade and moat; ruler of
these, and of the chiefs of the Ulaid, and chief commander of all the
fighting-men that followed them. To him came the tribute of cattle and
horses, of scarlet cloaks and dyed fabrics, purple and blue and green,
and the beryls and emeralds from the mountains of Mourne where the sea
thunders in the caves, near the great fort of Rudraige. Fergus was lord
only of the banqueting-hall and of the merrymakings of the young chiefs;
but in all else the will of Concobar was supreme and his word was law.
It happened that before this a child had been born, a girl
golden-haired and with blue eyes, of whom the Druids had foretold many
dark and terrible things. That the evil might not be wrought through
this child of sad destiny, the king had from her earliest childhood kept
her securely hidden in a lonely fort, and there Deirdré grew in
solitude, daily increasing in beauty and winsomeness. She so won the
love of those set in guard over her that they relaxed something of the
strictness of their watch, letting her wander a little in the meadows
and the verges of the woods, gathering flowers, and watching the life of
birds and wild things there.
Among the chieftains of the court of Emain was one Usnac, of whom were
three sons, with Naisi strongest and handsomest of the three. Naisi was
dark, with black locks hanging upon his shoulders and dark, gleaming
eyes; and so strongly is unlike drawn to unlike that golden-haired
Deirdré, seeing him in one of her wanderings, felt her heart go forth to
him utterly. Falling into talk with him, they exchanged promises of
enduring love. Thus the heart of Naisi went to Deirdré, as hers had gone
to him, so that all things were changed for them, growing radiant with
tremulous hope and wistful with longing. Yet the fate that lay upon
Deirdré was heavy, and all men dreaded it but Naisi; so that even his
brothers, the sons of Usnac, feared greatly and would have dissuaded him
from giving his life to the ill-fated one. But Naisi would not be
dissuaded; so they met secretly many times, in the twilight at the verge
of the wood, Deirdré's golden hair catching the last gleam of sunlight
and holding it long into the darkness, while the black locks of Naisi,
even ere sunset, foreshadowed the coming night. In their hearts it was
not otherwise; for Deirdré, full of wonder at the change that had come
over her, at the song of the birds that echoed ever around her even in
her dreams, at the radiance of the flowers and trees, the sunshine on
the waters of the river, the vivid gladness over all,--Deirdré knew
nothing of the dread doom that was upon her, and was all joy and
wonderment at the meetings with her lover, full of fancies and tender
words and shy caresses; but Naisi, who knew well the fate that
overshadowed them like a black cloud above a cliff of the sea, strove to
be glad and show a bold face to his mistress, though his heart many a
time grew cold within him, thinking on what had befallen and what
might befall.
For the old foretelling of the star-watchers was not the only doom laid
upon Deirdré. Concobar the king, stern and masterful, crafty and secret
in counsel though swift as an eagle to slay,--Concobar the king had
watched Deirdré in her captivity, ever unseen of her, and his heart had
been moved by the fair softness of her skin, the glow of her cheek, the
brightness of her eyes and hair; so that the king had steadfastly
determined in his mind that Deirdré should be his, in scorn of all
prophecies and warnings; that her beauty should be for him alone. This
the king had determined; and it was known to Naisi the son of Usnac. It
was known to him also that what Concobar the king determined, he
steadfastly carried out; for the will of Concobar was strong and
masterful over all around him.
Therefore at their meetings two clouds lay upon the heart of Naisi: the
presentment of the king's power and anger, and his relentless hand
pursuing through the night, and the darker dread of the sightless doom
pronounced of old at the birth of Deirdré, of which the will of Concobar
was but the tool. There was gloom in his eyes and silence on his lips
and a secret dread in his heart. Deirdré wondered at it, her own heart
being so full of gladness, her eyes sparkling, and endearing words ever
ready on her lips. Deirdré wondered, yet found a new delight and
wonderment in the silence of Naisi, and the gloomy lightning in his
eyes, as being the more contrasted with herself, and therefore the more
to be beloved.
Yet the time came when Naisi determined to tell her all and risk the
worst that fate could do against them, finding death with her greatly
better than life without her. Yet death with her was not to be granted
to him. Deirdré heard, wondering and trembling, and Naisi must tell her
the tale many times before she understood,--so utter had been her
solitude and so perfect was yet her ignorance of all things beyond the
fort where she was captive, and of all the doings of men. Concobar was
not even a name to her, and she knew nothing of his power or the
stronghold of Emain, the armies of the Ulaid, or the tributes of gold
and cattle and horses. Spears and swords and those who wielded them were
not even dreams to her until the coming of Naisi, when his gloom blended
with her sunshine.
Talking long through the twilight, until the red gold of the west was
dulled to bronze over the hills, and the bronze tarnished and darkened
with the coming of the eastern stars, they planned together what they
should do; and, the heart of Deirdré at last growing resolute, they made
their way through the night to where the brothers of Naisi were, and all
fled together towards the northern sea. Amongst the fishermen of the
north they found those who were willing to carry them beyond the reach
of Concobar's anger, and with a southerly breeze set sail for the
distant headlands of Scotland, that they had seen from the cliff-top
lying like blue clouds along the horizon. They set forth early in the
morning, as the sun came up out of the east over blue Alban capes, and
when the sun went down it reddened the dark rocks of Islay; so that,
making for the shore, they camped that night under the Islay Hills. On
their setting forth again, the sea was like a wild grey lake between
Jura on the left and the long headland of Cantyre on their right; and
thus they sped forward between long ranks of gloomy hills, growing ever
nearer them on both sides, till they passed through the Sound of Jura
and rounded into Loch Etive.
There they made the land, drawing up under the shadow of dark hills, and
there they dwelt for many a day. Very familiar to Deirdré, though at
first strange and wild and terrible beyond words, grew that vast
amphitheatre of hills in their eternal grayness, with the long Loch
stretching down like a horn through their midst. Very familiar to
inland-bred Deirdré, though at first strange and fearful, grew the gray
surges of the incoming tides, the white foam of the waves seething along
boulders of granite, and the long arms of seaweed waving as she peered
downward into the clear green water. Very familiar to Deirdré, though at
first strange and confusing, grew the arms of Naisi around her in the
darkness and his warm lips on her cheek. Happy were those wild days in
the great glen of Etive, and dear did the sons of Usnac grow to her
heart, loved as brothers by her who never knew a brother, or the
gentleness of a mother's watching, or the solace of dear kindred.
The sons of Usnac sped forth before dawn among the hills from their
green dwelling roofed with pine branches and reeds and moss; early they
went forth to track the deer, pursuing them with their arrows, till the
red flank of the buck was laced with brighter red. One of the three ever
stayed behind with Deirdré, whether it was Naisi himself, or Alny, or
Ardan, and the two thus remaining were like children playing together,
whether gathering sticks and dry rushes and long spears of withered
grass for their fire, or wandering by the white curling waves, or
sending flat pebbles skipping over the wavelets; and the sound of their
laughter many a time echoed along the Loch's green waters and up the
hills, till the does peered and wondered from among the heather, and the
heron, startled at his fishing, flew upwards croaking, with flapping
wings. Happy were those days for Deirdré, and with utter sadness she
looked back to them afterwards, when the doom foretold had fallen upon
her. Happy sped the days, till once in the gray of the dawn, while
Deirdré was resting in their green refuge with Naisi, she cried out in
her sleep and waked, telling him, weeping, that she had heard the voice
of the bird of doom in her dreams.
The voice she heard was indeed the voice of their doom; yet it was a
cheerful voice, full of friendly gladness; the voice of Fergus, son of
Roeg, former King of Emain, and now come to Loch Etive as messenger of
Concobar, Fergus came up from the sea-beach towards the answering shout
of the sons of Usnac, and glad greetings passed among them at the door
of their refuge. Fergus looked long in admiration at the blue eyes and
golden locks, the clear skin and gentle breast of Deirdré, nor
wondered, as he looked, that Naisi had dared fate to possess her. Then
Fergus told the story of his coming; how they had discovered the flight
of the sons of Usnac from Emain, and how terrible was the black anger of
Concobar; what passionate fire had gleamed in his eyes as he tossed the
golden locks back from his shoulders and grasped the haft of his spear,
and pledged himself to be avenged on Naisi and all his kin, swearing
that he would have Deirdré back again.
Thus Fergus told the tale, laughingly, as at a danger that was past, a
storm-cloud that had lost its arrows of white hail and was no longer
fearful. For, he said, Concobar had forgotten his anger, had promised a
truce to the sons of Usnac, and most of all to Naisi, and had bidden
them return as his guests to Emain of Maca, where Deirdré should dwell
happy with her beloved. The comrades of Fergus by this time had tied
their boat and come up from the shore, and the sons of Usnac were ready
to depart. Yet Deirdré's heart misgave her as she thought of the days
among those purple hills and granite rocks, by the long green water of
the Loch, and her clear-seeing soul spoke words of doom for them all:
words soon to be fulfilled. Amongst the comrades of Fergus were certain
of the adherents of Concobar, treacherous as he; for he had no thought
of pardoning the sons of Usnac, nor any intent but to draw Deirdré back
within his reach; the image of her bright eyes and the redness of her
lips, and her soft breast and shining hair was ever before him, and his
heart gnawed within him for longing and the bitterness of desire.
Therefore he had designed this embassy; and Fergus, believing all things
and trusting all things, had gladly undertaken to be the messenger of
forgiveness; fated, instead, to be the instrument of betrayal. So they
turned their faces homewards towards Emain, Deirdré full of desponding,
as one whose day of grace is past. They set sail again through the long
Sound of Jura, with the islands now on their right hand and the gray
hills of Cantyre on their left. So they passed Jura, and later Islay,
and came at last under the cliffs of Rathlin and the white Antrim
headlands. Deirdré's heart never lightened, nor did laughter play about
her lips or in her eyes through all the time of her journey, but sadness
lay ever upon her, like the heavy darkness of a winter's night, when a
storm is gathering out of the West. But Fergus made merry, rejoicing at
the reconciling; bidden to a treacherous banquet by the partisans of
Concobar, his heart never misgave him, but giving the charge of Deirdré
and the sons of Usnac to his sons, he went to the banquet, delaying long
in carousing and singing, while Deirdré and the three brothers were
carried southwards to Emain. There the treachery plotted against them
was carried out, as they sat in the banquet-hall; for Concobar's men
brought against them the power of cowardly flames, setting fire to the
hall, and slaying the sons of Usnac as they hurried forth from under the
burning roof.
One of the sons of Fergus shamefully betrayed them, bought by the gold
and promises of Concobar, but the other bravely fell, fighting back to
back with one of the sons of Usnac, when they fell overpowered by the
warriors of Concobar. Thus was the doom of Deirdré consummated, her
lover treacherously done to death, and she herself condemned to bear the
hated caress of Concobar, thinking ever of those other lips, in the days
of her joy among the northern hills. This is the lament of Deirdré for
Usnac's sons:
The lions of the hill are gone,
And I am left alone, alone;
Dig the grave both wide and deep,
For I am sick and fain would sleep!
The falcons of the wood are flown,
And I am left alone, alone;
Dig the grave both deep and wide,
And let us slumber side by side.
Lay their spears and bucklers bright
By the warriors' sides aright;
Many a day the three before me
On their linked bucklers bore me.
Dig the grave both wide and deep,
Sick I am and fain would sleep.
Dig the grave both deep and wide,
And let us slumber side by side.
VI.
CUCULAIN THE HERO.
B.C. 50--A.D. 50.
The treacherous death of Naisi and his brothers Ardan and Alny, and her
own bereavement and misery, were not the end of the doom pronounced at
her birth for Deirdré, but rather the beginning. Yet the burden of the
evils that followed fell on Concobar and his lands and his warriors.
For Fergus, son of Roeg, former king over Emain, who had stayed behind
his charges feasting and banqueting, came presently to Emain, fearing
nothing and thinking no evil, but still warm with the reconciliation
that he had accomplished; and, coming to Emain of Maca, found the sons
of Usnac dead, with the sods still soft on their graves, and his own son
also dead, Deirdré in the hands of Concobar, and the plighted word of
Fergus and his generous pledge of safety most traitorously and basely
broken; broken by Concobar, whom he himself had guarded and set upon
the throne.
Fergus changed from gladness to fierce wrath, and his countenance was
altered with anger, as he uttered his bitter indignation against
Concobar to the warriors and heroes of Emain and the men of Ulad. The
warriors were parted in two by his words, swaying to the right and to
the left, as tall wheat sways before one who passes through it. For some
of them sided with Fergus, saying that he had done great wrong to put
Concobar on the throne, and that even now he should cast him down again,
for the baseness and treachery of his deed; but others took Concobar's
part, saying that the first betraying was Naisi's, who stole away
Deirdré,--the hostage, as it were, of evil doom, so that he drew the
doom upon himself. They further said that Concobar was chief and ruler
among them, the strong and masterful leader, able to uphold their cause
amongst men. So indeed it befell, for the sedition of Fergus and his
fight to avenge his wrong upon Concobar failed, so that he fled defeated
to Meave, Queen of Connacht, at her stronghold amid the lakes whence
issues forth the Shannon.
[Illustration: Honeycomb, Giant's Causeway.]
Meave, whose power and genius overtopped her lord Ailill, received the
exiled king gladly, and put many honors upon him, holding him as the
pillar of her army, with the two thousand men of the Ulaid who came
with him;--those who had fought for him against the party of Concobar.
At Cruacan, on the hillside, with the lakes of the Great River all
around them, with the sun setting red behind the Curlew hills, with
green meadows and beech-woods to gladden them, Meave and Ailill kept
their court, and thence they sent many forays against Emain of Maca and
Concobar, with Fergus the fallen king ever raging in the van, and, for
the wrong that was done him, working measureless wrong on his own
kingdom and the kingdom of his fathers.
After many a foray had gone forth against Ulad, crossing the level
plains, it befell that Meave and Ailill her lord disputed between them
as to which had the greatest wealth; nor would either yield until their
most precious possessions had been brought and matched the one against
the other. Their jewels of gold, wonderfully wrought, and set with
emeralds and beryls and red carbuncles, were brought forth, their
crescents for the brow, with hammered tracery upon them, their necklets
and torques, like twisted ribbons of gold, their bracelets and arm-rings
set with gold, their gems of silver and all their adornments, cloaks of
scarlet and blue and purple, were all brought, and no advantage in the
one was found over the other. Their battle-steeds also were brought,
their horses for chariots; and likewise their herds of lowing wealth,
their sheep with soft fleeces. When the cattle were driven up before
them, it was found that among the herds of Ailill was one bull,
matchless, with white horns shining and polished; and equal to this bull
was none among the herds of the queen. She would not admit her lord's
advantage, but sent forthwith to seek where another bull like the bull
of Ailill might be found, and tidings were brought to her of the brown
bull of Cuailgne,--of Cuailgne named after a chief of the Sons of Milid,
fallen ages ago in the pursuit of the De Danaans, when the De Danaans
retreated before the Sons of Milid from the southern headland of Slieve
Mish to the ford at green Tailten by the Boyne, and thence further
northwards to where Cuailgne of the Sons of Milid was killed. At that
same place had grown up a dwelling with a fortress, and there was the
brown bull that Meave heard the report of. She sent, therefore, and her
embassy bore orders to Dairé, the owner of the bull, asking that the
bull might be sent to her for a year, and offering fifty heifers in
payment. Dairé received her messengers well, and willingly consented to
her request; but the messengers of Meave from feasting fell to
drinking, from drinking to boasting; one of them declaring that it was a
small thing that Dairé had granted the request, since they themselves
would have compelled him, even unwillingly, and would have driven off
the brown bull by force. The taunt stung Dairé, after his hospitality,
and in wrath he sent them forth empty-handed, and so they came
slighted to Meave.
The queen, conceiving her honor impeached, would by no means suffer the
matter so to rest, but stirred up wrath and dissension, till the armies
of Connacht with their allies set forth to sack and burn in Ulad, and at
all hazards to bring the brown bull. Fergus and the men who fought by
his side went with them, and marching thus eastwards they came, after
three days march through fair lands and fertile, to the river Dee--the
frontier of Ulad, and the scene of many well-fought fights.
The army of Ulad was not yet ready to meet them, but one champion with
his band confronted them at the ford. That champion was Cuculain, whose
true name was Setanta, son of Sualtam, chief at Dundelga, and of Dectira
the sister of Concobar. Cuculain was accounted the greatest and most
skillful warrior of his time, and bards for ages after told how he kept
the ford. For by the laws of honor, amongst them, the host from Connacht
could not pass the ford so long as Cuculain held the ford and offered
single combat to the champions. They must take up his challenge one by
one; and while he stood there challenging, the host could not pass.
Many of their champions fell there by the ford, so that queen Meave's
heart chafed within her, and her army was hot to do battle, but still
Cuculain kept the ford. Last of the western champions came forth
Ferdiad, taught in the famous northern school of arms, a dear friend and
companion of Cuculain, who now must meet him to slay or be slain. This
is the story of their combat, as the traditions tell it:
When they ceased fighting on the first day, they cast their weapons away
from them into the hands of their charioteers. Each of them approached
the other forthwith, and each put his hand round the other's neck, and
gave him three kisses. Their horses were in the same paddock that night,
and their charioteers at the same fire; and their charioteers spread
beds of green rushes for them, with wounded men's pillows to them. The
men of healing came to heal and solace them, applying herbs that should
assuage to every cut or gash upon their bodies, and to all their
wounds. Of every healing herb that was laid on the hurts of Cuculain, he
sent an equal share to Ferdiad, sending it westward over the ford, so
that men might not say that through the healing virtue of the herbs he
was able to overcome him. And of all food and invigorating drink that
was set before Ferdiad, he sent an equal portion northwards over the
ford to Cuculain, for those that prepared food for him were more than
those who made ready food for Cuculain. Thus that night they rested.
They fought with spears on the next day, and so great was the strength
of each, so dire their skill in combat, that both were grievously
wounded, for all the protection of their shields. The men of healing art
could do little for them beyond the staunching of their blood, that it
might not flow from their wounds, laying herbs upon their red wounds.
On the third day they arose early in the morning and came forward to the
place of combat. Cuculain saw that the face of Ferdiad was dark as a
black cloud, and thus addressed him: "Thy face is darkened, Ferdiad, and
thine eye has lost its fire, nor are the form and features thine!" And
Ferdiad answered, "O, Cuculain, it is not from fear or dread that my
face is changed, for I am ready to meet all champions in the fight."
Cuculain reproached him, wondering that, for the persuasions of Meave,
Ferdiad was willing thus to fight against his friend, coming to spoil
his land. But Ferdiad replied that fate compelled him, since every man
is constrained to come unto the sod where shall be his last
resting-place. That day the heroes fought with swords, but such was the
skill of both that neither could break down the other's guard.
In the dusk they cast away their weapons, ceasing from the fight; and
though the meeting of the two had been full of vigor and friendship in
the morning, yet was their parting at night mournful and full of sorrow.
That night their horses were not in the same enclosure, nor did their
charioteers rest at the same fire.
Then Ferdiad arose early in the morning and went forth to the place of
contest, knowing well that that day would decide whether he should fall
or Cuculain; knowing that the sun would set on one of them dead that
night. Cuculain, seeing him come forth, spoke thus to his charioteer: "I
see the might and skill of Ferdiad, coming forth to the combat. If it be
I that shall begin to yield to-day, do thou stir my valor, uttering
reproaches and words of condemnation against me, so that my wrath shall
grow upon me, enkindling me again for the battle." And the charioteer
assented and promised.