Etarcomal’s Well-deserved Fate
So Fergus turned his horses to go back where he had left Cuchulain.
He thought to go alone, attended only by his charioteer, but as
he drove along, the sound of wheels behind him made him turn, and
close to him he saw a youth who, sitting in his chariot, seemed to
follow hard behind, as though to catch him up. Fergus recognized
the rider as a rich young chief, brave but foolhardy, who was
known among the host as one who thought too highly of himself,
considering he had little experience of war.
“Whither away, Etarcomal?” said Fergus, for that was the youth’s
name. “I wish to go with you,” replied the lad; “I hear that you
are on your way to seek this wonderful Cuchulain, of whom all men
talk. I feel inclined myself to have a look at him.”
“I give you sound advice,” said Fergus, “and best it were for you
to heed my words. Turn round your chariot, and go home again.”
“Why so?” Etarcomal asked. “Because I know full well that if you,
with your light-minded insolence, come into contact with this great
Hound of War, in all his fierceness and his terrible strength,
trouble will befall. You will provoke him with your childishness,
and ill will come, before I can prevent it. Go home again, I will
not have you come.” “If we fell out, could you not rescue me?”
Etarcomal said. “No doubt I should endeavour to succour you; but if
you seek a quarrel, or with your foolish words provoke Cuchulain, I
make no promises; you must defend yourself, and take your chance.”
“Truly I seek no quarrel with this valiant mighty chief; I will but
look upon his powerful form and note his face, and then return with
you.” “So be it, then,” said Fergus, “let us on.”
Afar off, Laeg espied them as they came. He and his master sat
beneath the trees close on the borders of a little wood, playing a
game of chess; but none the less he kept a sharp lookout, watching
where lay the distant camp of Meave. A single chariot approaches
from the camp, and furiously it drives across the plain: “I think
he comes to seek us, Cucuc,” said the man. “What sort is the rider
in that chariot?” questioned Cu. “I know him well, and short the
time since he was here before. Like to the side of a massive
mountain, standing sheer from out the plain, the chariot in which
that warrior rides. Mighty as the leafy branching crown of a kingly
tree which grows before a chieftain’s door, the bushy, loose,
dark-ruddy locks upon that warrior’s head. Around him is a mantle
of a noble purple hue, with fringes of bright gold, clasped with
a pin of gleaming gold and set with sparkling stones. In his left
hand he bears his bossy shield and in his right a polished spear,
with rings of metal bound from point to haft. Upon his thigh a
sword so long and great, I took it for the rudder of a boat, or
for a rainbow arched across the skies. Far-travelled and a man of
might, meseems, the guest who cometh here.” “Welcome to me the
coming of this hero and old friend,” Cuchulain cried, “my master
Fergus, who approaches us.”
“I see behind a second smaller chariot, which seems to accompany
the massive chariot of Fergus. Spritely and full of life are the
two prancing chariot-steeds, and young and bright the man who sits
within.”
“’Tis likely that some one of Erin’s youthful chiefs has ventured
out to have a look at me, under the guardianship of Fergus. I hear
they all are talking of me in the camp. Perhaps he wants to have a
bout with me, good Laeg, but better were it that he stayed at home.”
Up dashed the steeds of Fergus’ chariot, and in an instant he had
sprung to earth and stood beside Cuchulain. “Welcome, O Fergus,
old familiar friend. Welcome, my foster-master and my guardian,”
Cuchulain cried, and warmly he embraced him. “Upon this lonely
watch that I am forced to keep all solitary and unaided day by
day against the men of Erin, most welcome the dear face of an old
friend.”
“Then thou art glad indeed?” Fergus exclaimed, surprised.
“Certainly and indeed, I am right glad! Not much have I to offer in
this wild desert place, but all I have is fully at your service.
When o’er the plain a flock of wild-duck wings its way, one of them
you shall have, with, in good times, the full half of another; if
fish come up the estuary, a whole one shall be yours, with all that
appertains to it; a handful of fresh cress straight from the brook,
a spray of marshwort or of green sorrel shall be yours; ’tis all I
have to give. When you are thirsty, from the running stream that
trickles through the sand, you’ll get a drink; and if, some fall of
day, a hero calls you to come down and wage a single combat at the
ford, you shall take rest and sleep, while I will fight your enemy
or keep watch.”
“Truly I well believe it,” Fergus said. “Too well I know what
straits for food and drink have fallen on thee in this raid, and
well I know thy hospitable mind. But at this time we seek not food
and drink, nor can we stay for combats or for rest; I come at
Ailill’s and at Meave’s command, to tell thee what we think are thy
conditions, and that we will hold and keep to them.”
“I too will keep the compact brought by Fergus’ hand, and to the
letter I will carry it out,” the hero said; “only abide awhile with
me, and let us waste a little time in talk of olden days.”
“I dare not stay to talk at this time, O beloved foster-son,”
Fergus replied; “the men of Erin doubt me, and will think that I
am proving traitor to their cause, and betraying them to thee;
for well they know I love thee, though, alas! at this time I am
fighting with my country’s foes and thine. One thing I ask of thee
for old affection’s sake, because thou art my pupil and my friend,
that if at any moment in this war, thou and myself art found
opposing each the other face to face, thou then wilt turn and flee
before me, that upon my pupil and my foster-son I be not forced to
redden my sword in fight. Promise me this.”
“Though I be indeed thy pupil and thy foster-son,” replied the
youth, “yet loth am I to promise this; never have I turned my back
on any friend or foe, and to flee even before thee, O Fergus, likes
me not. Ask me not this, but any other thing gladly and joyfully
I grant to thee.” “No need for thee to feel like this,” Fergus
replied; “no shame to thee is what I contemplate, but only that our
ancient love and friendship be not marred. Do in this thing but
what I ask, and I in my turn, in the final battle of the Raid, when
thou art wounded sore and drenched with blood, will turn and flee
from thee. And surely if the men of Erin see Fergus in flight, they
too will fly, and all the host of Meave will scatter and disperse,
like clouds before the sun.”
“On these terms willingly I give my word; for so will Ulster profit
by my flight. Now fare thee well, good Fergus. Bid the host of
Meave to send their strongest and their best to combat with me, one
by one, and I will give a good account to Ulster of them, or will
die.” Then a right loving leave they took each of the other, and
Fergus set out to return to the camp.
But the lad Etarcomal sat on still, looking at Cuchulain, and for
the first time the hero noticed him.
“Who are you, and what are you staring at, fellow?” he asked. “I
look at you,” he said. “You can see me easily enough, I am not very
big. But if you knew it, little animals can be dangerous sometimes,
and so can I. But now that you have had a good look at me, tell me
what you think of me.”
“I do not think much of you,” Etarcomal said. “You seem to me a
very nice, wonderfully pretty youth and clever at playing sports
and feats; but that anyone should think of you as a good warrior or
a brave man, or should call you the ‘Hero of Valour’ or the ‘Hammer
of Destruction,’ that I cannot understand. I do not know, indeed,
why anyone should be afraid of you. I am not afraid of you at all.”
“I am aware,” said Cuchulain, “that you came hither under the
protection of my master Fergus, and that he is surety for your safe
return; but by the gods whom I adore, I swear that if it were not
for the honour of Fergus, only your broken bones and disjointed
members should have been sent back to Meave after those insolent
words.”
“No need to threaten me,” said Etarcomal; “I was here when you
made an agreement with Fergus to fight every day one of the men of
Ireland. By that wonderful agreement that he made with you, none
other of the men of Erin shall come to-morrow to meet you but only
I myself. To-day I do not touch you, but let you live a little
longer.”
“However early you may choose to come to the ford,” said Cuchulain,
“you will find me there before you. I promise you I will not run
away.”
Etarcomal turned his chariot to drive back to the camp. But hardly
had he started when he exclaimed, “Do you know, fellow, I have
promised to fight the famous Cuchulain to-morrow at the dawn? Now,
do you think it best to wait till then, or to go back and fight him
now? I do not know that I can wait.”
“I should say,” replied the charioteer, “that if you mean to fight
Cuchulain at all, ’twere better to get it over while he is close
at hand.” “Turn the chariot, and drive it left-handwise towards
Cuchulain, for by that sign we challenge him. I swear by all my
gods, I never will go back until I take the head of this wild
youth, and stick it up on high before the host.”
Laeg saw the chariot returning over the plain. “The last
chariot-rider who went from us is coming back again, Cucuc!” said
he. “What does he want?” said Cu. “He is challenging us by driving
with the left side of the chariot towards us,” answered Laeg.
“I do not want to fight the boy,” Cuchulain said. “Shamed should I
be were I to slay a lad who came hither under the guardianship of
Fergus. Get me my sword out of its sheath, however, Laeg; I’ll give
him a good fright and send him home.”
Etarcomal came up. “What do you want now, fellow?” cried Cuchulain,
vexed. “I am come back to fight you,” said the lad. “I will not
fight you, now or any time,” Cuchulain said. “By all the rules of
war you are obliged to fight, for I have challenged you.”
Then Cuchulain took his sword, and with one stroke he sliced away
the sod beneath Etarcomal’s feet, laying him flat upon the ground,
his face turned upwards. “Now go,” Cuchulain said, “I wash my hands
of you. Had you not come under the care of my good master Fergus,
I would have cut you into little bits a while ago. Beware, for I
have given you a warning.” Slowly Etarcomal rose from the ground.
“I will not budge a step until I have your head,” he said doggedly,
though in his heart he began to be afraid. Then Cuchulain played
on him another sword-feat; with one clean stroke he shore off all
his hair, from back to front, from ear to ear, till not a hair
remained; but not a single drop of blood he drew or even scratched
his skin. “Now off with you,” he said a second time, “you look
absurd enough, I promise you. The men of Erin and the chiefs will
laugh when you go back, and cool your pride a bit.”
“I will not stir until I have your head; either you gain the
victory over me, and win renown, or I take off your head from you,
and get the glory and the praise of it,” he sullenly replied.
“Well, let it be as you desire, then, and I am he who takes your
head from you, and I shall win the glory and renown of which you
make so much.” And at that word, with one stroke of his weapon
Cuchulain smote the boy, and cut him right in twain, so that he
fell divided to the ground. Terrified, the charioteer turned round
the horse’s head and fled back towards the camp. Close to the tents
he came on Fergus, who leisurely and thoughtfully drove home. He
saw the empty chariot passing him. “Where is your master, fellow?”
Fergus cried. “Has he not come with you?” “Even now he has been
cut in twain by that fierce, powerful hero, at the ford,” the man
cried, looking scared; and, waiting not for any answer, he tore on
to the camp.
“O come, my wild young fosterling,” thought Fergus to himself,
“this is too bad indeed, to slay a lad who came under my
protection. Turn back the chariot,” said he aloud, “we go back to
Cuchulain at the ford.”
No sooner had they come where Cuchulain stood brooding above the
body of Etarcomal, and wiping down his bloody sword, than Fergus
called aloud, “What came to you, you hasty sprite, you hot-headed
young fury; could you not keep your hands from slaying even a lad
who came merely to look at you and under my protection? This act of
yours I do not understand at all. It is not like the deed or custom
of my foster-son.”
“Be not so angry, O my friend and master,” gently Cuchulain
replied; “all that I could I did to send him safely home. Ask
his own charioteer all that has taken place. He would not take a
warning, and in the end I must have stood and had my head chopped
off without defence, or, as I did, taken his head from him. Would
it have pleased you better had I let the lad take off my head from
me?”
“Indeed, I should not have been pleased at all; the lad was
insolent and foolhardy, and right well deserved his ignominious
death. Tie his feet to the chariot-tail, my charioteer, and I will
take him home.” So to his own chariot Fergus tied the boy, and
dragged him back to camp. Meave saw them come, and heard the people
shouting as they passed, the bleeding body draggled in the dust.
“Why, how is this?” she cried. “Is this, O Fergus of the mighty
deeds, the fashion in which you bring back the tender whelp who
went out from us but some hours ago, brilliant in life and gaiety
and youth? the whelp we sent out safely, as we thought, in Fergus’
guardianship? Of wondrous value is the guardianship of Fergus; and
safe is he who trusts himself to it!”
“It is not well, O Queen, that whelps so brazen and untried as this
should face the Hound of War; let them remain henceforth in safety
in their kennels, gnawing their bones. The lad Etarcomal was bold
and insolent; full well he reaped the fate he brought upon himself!”
Sadly, but with all honour, they buried Etarcomal, heaping his
grave, and rearing a stone above it with his name engraven
thereupon in ogam lines. That night Cuchulain did not molest the
men of Erin because they were occupied with funeral rites; but
provisions and apparel were sent to him, according to the treaty
made between them.