The Fight with Spits of Holly-Wood
Thenceforward day by day some warrior of the camp of Meave and
Ailill went forth to fight Cuchulain, and day by day they fell
before him. But at first, because he was young, the prime warriors
of Connaught despised him, and refused to fight with him, and Meave
offered them great gifts and made large promises to persuade them
to contend with him. Among the chiefs was a rough burly man and a
good fighter, whose name was Nacrantal, whom Meave used all her
arts to force to challenge Cuchulain. And in the end, when she had
promised him large gifts of land and even Finnabar, her daughter,
to be his wife, he was induced to go. But even so he went not out
as though to fight an equal. No arms or armour would he take, but
for his sole protection nine spits of holly-wood, sharp at the
points and hardened in the fire.
With these small weapons in his hand, one morning early he set
forth to seek Cuchulain. He found the hero busied in pursuing
wild-fowl that were flying overhead; for from the birds of the air
and fish of the streams, and from the berries of the hedge and
cresses of the brook, long had he been obliged to get his daily
meal. And even now, although at times Meave kept her word and sent
provision over to her foe, yet often she forgot or failed to keep
her promise, so angry was she when from day to day her strong men
were cut down before his sword.
He spied Nacrantal advancing thus unarmed, and, all as though he
had not seen him come, he went on with the stalking of the birds.
Closer the warrior drew and with good aim he flung his spits of
wood to pierce Cuchulain. But still the youth, not stopping for a
moment in his task, leaped lightly over each spit as it fell, so
that they struck the ground quite harmlessly, not one of them so
much as touching him. The nine spits thrown, Nacrantal turned away
and sought the camp. “Not much I think of this renowned Cuchulain
of whom men talk so big; hardly had he perceived me coming up, than
off he ran as fast as he could go!”
“We thought as much,” said Meave; “right well we knew that if a
warrior brave and fully trained were sent against him, soon would
this beardless braggart take to his heels.”
When Fergus heard these boasts of Meave, he grew ashamed; for
strange, indeed, it seemed to him to hear it said that his young
foster-son would flee from any single man, however bold or stout
that man might be. Straightway he called for one of the princes of
Ulster who was in Meave’s camp, and sent him to Cuchulain. This was
the message that he bore. “Fergus would have Cuchulain understand,
that though when standing before warriors he once had done great
deeds, better it were that he should hide himself in some secret
place where none could find him or hear of him more, than that he
should run away from any single man, whoever that man might be.
Say to Cuchulain that not greater is the shame that falls upon
himself, than Ulster’s shame and ignominy and disgrace, because he
stands to watch the border-land in Ulster’s stead.”
“Who said I ran away?” Cuchulain said, surprised, when the message
was delivered to him. “Who dared to brag and tell such tales of me?”
“Nacrantal told this story in the camp, and all the warriors boast
among themselves that at the very sight of a trained warrior you
were afraid and quickly put to flight.”
“Did you and Fergus heed a boast like that?” replied the youth. “Do
you and Fergus not yet understand that I, Cuchulain, fight no men
unarmed, or messengers, or charioteers, but only men-at-arms, fully
equipped? That man came out against me all unarmed; no weapons
in his hand but bits of wood, with which he played some childish
games, throwing them in the air. Let but Nacrantal come to-morrow
morn and fight me like a warrior at the ford, with all his weapons,
man-like, in his hand; he then shall take his answer back from me.
And tell him, that if he comes before the day dawn, or long after
it, he will find Cuchulain waiting there for him.”
Long and tedious seemed that night to Nacrantal, for eagerly he
watched the coming of the hour when he should meet Cuchulain at
the ford, and make an end of him. Early he rose, and bade his
charioteer to bring his heavy weapons in a cart, while he went
forwards to the meeting-place. There at the ford he saw Cuchulain
stand, awaiting his coming, as he had promised.
“Are you Cuchulain?” said Nacrantal, for now he stood much closer
to him and observed his youthfulness.
“What if I were?” said he. “If you are Cuchulain, indeed, I am come
here to tell you that I will not fight with any beardless boy;
not in the least inclined am I to carry back to camp the head of a
little playful lamb!”
“I am not the man you seek at all,” Cuchulain cried; “go round the
hill and you will find him there.”
Now while Nacrantal made his way to the other side of the hill,
Cuchulain came to Laeg, his charioteer. “Smear me a false beard
with blackberry juice,” he said. “No warrior of fame will fight
with me, because I have no beard.” Laeg took the juice of
blackberries, and sheep’s wool, and with it made a long two-pointed
beard, such as prime warriors wore, and twined the ends and caught
them in his belt, dyeing it black with juice. Then on the hero came
anger and his battle-fury, such as came on him when a combat lay
before him with a good warrior, or when he alone should fight a
host.
A subtle change came over all his face. The radiant youthfulness
passed away, and all the boyishness Nacrantal had seen a while ago,
and in its place a stern ferocious look, as of a prime warrior
waiting for his foe. His stature seemed to grow, his form to
enlarge, and terrible in its strength and fierceness was his aspect
as he donned his fighting-gear. He grasped his weapons in his hand,
and with great strides he hastened round the hill.
So great his wrath and eagerness for combat, that as he passed a
standing pillar-stone no smaller than himself, in flinging his
mantle round him as he went he caught the stone up in his mantle’s
folds and carried it along with him, but never was he conscious of
its weight, or even knew he carried it.
Now in this guise Nacrantal knew him not. “Where is Cuchulain?”
inquired he of the men who came with him. “The lad said that we
should find him round the hill.”
“Cuchulain stands before you yonder,” said the Ulstermen who had
come out to watch the fight.
“It was not thus that he appeared before me yesterday,” Nacrantal
said. “Cuchulain seemed a stripling, and his beard not grown, but
this prime warrior hath a mighty beard.”
“Nevertheless, I counsel you, defend yourself from this prime
warrior,” Fergus replied; “that will be much the same to you as
though you did contend with Cuchulain himself.”
Then Nacrantal made a furious onset at Cuchulain with his sword,
but it struck on the pillar-stone that he carried beneath his
cloak, and broke off short, close to his hand. Before he could
recover from the thrust, Cuchulain sprang upon him, and lifting
his sword on high with both hands, he brought it down on his
adversary’s head, and there on his own shield he fell dead, smitten
with one blow. “Alas!” said Nacrantal as he fell, “they said true
who said that you were the best warrior in all Ireland.”
From that time forward, it was not easy for Meave to get her men of
war to enter into combat with Cuchulain; for each one of them said,
“Not I; I will not go, why should my clan furnish a man to go out
to certain death?” So Meave was forced to promise great rewards and
possessions to her warriors before she could induce them to take
arms against Cuchulain.