How Cuchulain got his Name
That evening at supper, Meave sat silent, as though she were
revolving matters in her mind. When supper was ended and she
and her husband and Fergus, with one or two others of her chief
captains, sat in the tent-door around the fire, looking out on the
hosts who rested at close of day by the forest fires, singing and
telling tales, as was their wont after the evening meal, Meave said
to Fergus, “Just now you spoke of that little boy as Setanta, but I
have heard him called Cuchulain, or Culain’s Hound; how did he get
that name?”
And Cormac, Conor’s son, answered eagerly, “I will tell you that
story myself, for I was present, and I know the way of it.”
“Well, tell us now,” said Meave and Ailill both at once. And Cormac
said--“In Ulster, near Cuchulain’s country, was a mighty artificer
and smith, whose name was Culain. Now the custom is, that every
man of means and every owner of land in Ulster, should, once in a
year or so, invite the King and his chiefs to spend a few days, it
may be a week or a fortnight, at his house, that he may give them
entertainment. But Culain owned no lands, nor was he rich, for
only the fruit of his hammer, of his anvil and his tongs, had he.
Nevertheless he desired to entertain the King at a banquet, and he
went to Emain to invite his chief. But he said, ‘I have no lands or
store of wealth; I pray thee, therefore, to bring with thee but a
few of thy prime warriors, because my house cannot contain a great
company of guests.’ So the King said he would go, bringing but a
small retinue with him.
“Culain returned home to prepare his banquet, and when the day
was come, towards evening the King set forth to reach the fort
of Culain. He assumed his light, convenient travelling garb, and
before starting he went down to the green to bid the boy-corps
farewell.
“There he saw a sight so curious that he could not tear himself
away. At one end of the green stood a group of a hundred and fifty
youths, guarding one goal, all striving to prevent the ball of a
single little boy, who was playing against the whole of them, from
getting in; but for all that they could do, he won the game, and
drove his ball home to the goal.
“Then they changed sides, and the little lad defended his one goal
against the hundred and fifty balls of the other youths, all sent
at once across the ground. But though the youths played well,
following up their balls, not one of them went into the hole, for
the little boy caught them one after another just outside, driving
them hither and thither, so that they could not make the goal. But
when his turn came round to make the counter-stroke, he was as
successful as before; nay, he would get the entire set of a hundred
and fifty balls into their hole, for all that they could do.
“Then they played a game of getting each other’s cloaks off without
tearing them, and he would have their mantles off, one after the
other, before they could, on their part, even unfasten the brooch
that held his cloak. When they wrestled with each other, it was
the same thing: he would have them on the ground before all of them
together could upset him, or make him budge a foot.
“As the King stood and watched all this, he said: ‘’Tis well for
the country into which this boy has come! A clever child indeed is
he; were but his acts as a grown man to come up to the promise of
his youth, he might be of some solid use to us; but this is not to
be counted upon.’”
“Then,” Fergus said, breaking in upon the tale, “I was vexed
because the King seemed to doubt the child, whether his after deeds
would equal the promise of his youth; and I spoke up and said,
‘That, O King, I think not wisely said; have no fear for this boy,
for as his childish deeds outstrip the acts of childhood, so will
his manly feats outshine the deeds of heroes and great men.’ Then
the King said to me, ‘Have the child called, that we may take him
with us to the banquet.’
“So when Setanta came, the King invited him; but the boy said,
‘Excuse me now awhile; I cannot go just now.’ ‘How so?’ said the
King, surprised. ‘Because the boy-corps have not yet had enough
of play.’ ‘I cannot wait until they have,’ replied the King: ‘the
night is growing late.’ ‘Wait not at all,’ replied the child; ‘I
will even finish this one game, and will run after you.’ ‘But,
young one, knowest thou the way?’ asked the King. ‘I will follow
the trail made by your company, the wheels of their chariots and
hoofs of the horses on the road,’ he replied.”
“Thereupon,”--continued Cormac,--“Conor starts; and in time for the
banquet he reaches Culain’s house, where, with due honour, he is
received. Fresh rushes had been strewn upon the floor, the tables
all decked out, the fires burning in the middle of the room. A
great vat full of ale stood in the hall, a lofty candlestick gave
light, and round the fires stood servants cooking savoury viands,
holding them on forks or spits of wood. Each man of the King’s
guests entered in order of his rank, and sat at the feast in his
own allotted place, hanging his weapons up above his head. The
King occupied the central seat, his poets, counsellors, and chiefs
sitting on either hand according to their state and dignity. As
they were sitting down, the smith Culain came to Conor and asked
him, ‘Good now, O King, before we sit at meat I would even know
whether anyone at all will follow thee this night to my dwelling,
or is thy whole company gathered now within?’ ‘All are now here,’
said the King, quite forgetting the wee boy; ‘but wherefore askest
thou?’
“‘It is only that I have an excellent watch-dog, fierce and strong;
and when his chain is taken off, and he is set free to guard the
house, no one dare come anywhere within the same district with him;
he is furious with all but me, and he has the strength and savage
force of a hundred ordinary watch-dogs. This dog was brought to me
from Spain, and no dog in the country can equal him.’ ‘Let him be
set loose, for all are here,’ said Conor; ‘well will he guard this
place for us.’
“So Culain loosed the dog, and with one spring it bounded forth out
of the court of the house and over the wall of the rath, making a
circuit of the entire district; and when it came back panting, with
its tongue hanging from its jaws, it took up its usual position in
front of the house, and there crouched with its head upon its paws,
watching the high road to Emain. Surely an extraordinarily cruel
and fierce and savage dog was he.
“When the boy-corps broke up that night, each of the lads returning
to the house of his parent or his fosterer or guardian, Setanta,
trusting to the trail of the company that went with Conor, struck
out for Culain’s house. With his club and ball he ran forward, and
the distance seemed short on account of his interest in the game.
As soon as he arrived on the green of Culain’s fort, the mastiff
noticed him, and set up such a howling as echoed loud through all
the country-side. Inside the house the King and his followers
heard, but were struck dumb with fear, nor dared to move, thinking
surely to find the little lad dead at the door of the fort. As for
the hound himself, he thought with but one gulp to swallow Setanta
whole. Now the little lad was without any means of defence beyond
his ball and hurley-stick. He never left his play till he came
near. Then, as the hound charged open-jawed, with all his strength
he threw the ball right into the creature’s mouth; and as for a
moment the hound stopped short, choking as the ball passed down its
throat, the lad seized hold of the mastiff’s open jaws, grasping
its throat with one hand and the back of its head with the other,
and so violently did he strike its head against the pillars of the
door, that it was no long time until the creature lay dead upon the
ground.
“When Culain and the warriors within had heard the mastiff howl,
they asked each other, as soon as they got back their voices, ‘What
makes the watch-dog cry?’ ‘Alas!’ the King said, ‘’tis no good luck
that brought us on our present trip.’ ‘Why so?’ inquired all. ‘I
mean that the little boy, my foster-son and Fergus’s, Setanta, son
of Sualtach, it is who promised to come after me; now, even now, he
is doubtless fallen by the hound of Culain.’ Then, when they heard
that it was Conor’s foster-son who was without, on the instant to
one man they rose; and though the doors of the fort were thrown
wide they could not wait for that, but out they stormed over the
walls and ramparts of the fort to find the boy.”
“Quick they were,” said Fergus, interrupting, “yet did I outstrip
them, and at the rampart’s outer door I found the child, and the
great hound dead beside him. Without a pause I picked up the boy
and hoisted him on my shoulder, and thus, with all the heroes
following, we came to Conor, and I placed him between the monarch’s
knees.”
“Yes, so it was,” said Cormac, taking up the story again where he
had left it; “but let me tell of Culain. The smith went out to find
his dog, and when he saw him lying there, knocked almost to pieces
and quite dead, his heart was vexed within him. He went back to the
house, and said, ‘’Twas no good luck that urged me to make this
feast for thee, O King; would I had not prepared a banquet. My life
is a life lost, and my substance is but substance wasted without
my dog. He was a defence and protection to our property and our
cattle, to every beast we had and to our house. Little boy,’ said
he, ‘you are welcome for your people’s sake, you are not welcome
for your own; that was a good member of my family thou didst take
from me, a safeguard of raiment, of flocks and herds.’ ‘Be not
vexed thereat,’ replied the child, ‘for I myself will fix on my own
punishment. This shall it be. If in all Ireland a whelp of that
dog’s breed is to be found, ’tis I myself will rear him up for thee
till he be fit to take the watch-dog’s place. In the meantime, O
Culain, I myself will be your hound for defence of your cattle and
for your own defence, until the dog be grown and capable of action;
I will defend the territory, and no cattle or beast or store of
thine shall be taken from thee, without my knowing it.’
“‘Well hast thou made the award,’ said they all, ‘and henceforward
shall your name be changed; you shall no longer be called Setanta;
Cu-Chulain, or the “Hound of Culain,” shall your name be.’
“‘I like my own name best,’ the child objected. ‘Ah, say not so,’
replied the magician, ‘for one day will the name of Cuchulain ring
in all men’s mouths; among the brave ones of the whole wide world
Cuchulain’s name shall find a place. Renowned and famous shall he
be, beloved and feared by all.’ ‘If that is so, then am I well
content,’ replied the boy.
“So from that day forth the name Cuchulain clung to him, until the
time came when he was no longer remembered as the Hound of Culain’s
Fort, but as the guardian and watch-dog of defence to the Province
against her foes; and then men loved best to call him ‘The Hound of
Ulster.’
“Now,” continued Cormac, “it would be reasonable to expect that the
little boy, who, at the age of six or seven years slew a dog whom a
whole company would not dare to touch when he was at large, would,
at the age of a grown youth, be formidable to Ulster’s foes.”
And Meave was forced to admit that it was likely that he would.