CHAPTER TEN
Farbeg Drinks a Giant Skinful, or Two!

The people of Eamhain Macha, relieved that the tense interlude in the garden was over, straightened their aching backs, shook loose their taut muscle and breathed in the cool night air.

Although the new moon was no more than a lopsided smile in the east, the sky was brightly lit in every direction by a red glow.

As the men and women cooled after their labours, filed back into the hall, now vacated by the leering couple and their glass chamber. Taking their places at the tables again they began to chatter with new-found elation about Cúchulainn and the preternatural wonders they had witnessed.

The servants appeared again, bearing great flagons of wine, bowls of fruit and nuts from the great storeroom in the orchard. The musicians, somewhat timorously, mounted the dais once more and began to play and sing.

As the night wore on the people of Eamhain Macha drank prodigious quantities of wine; and still they called for more. The noise level grew higher and higher, much to the chagrin of the musicians. Some of the men began to grow unruly in their behaviour and unedifying in their language. Not least among the miscreants was Cúchulainn himself. Awash with wine he repeatedly bellowed for more.

"Is there no drink for a thirsty man who has twice lifted Dún Rodhraighe festival hall from its foundations tonight? Must I do it again to gain your attention, wine stewards?"

Emer, so hopelessly drunk that she was in danger of falling off her seat, stood up and shouted belligerently.

"My husband must be thirstier than all the warriors of Ulster combined. Has he not achieved single-handed what they, united, could not, he lifted this building off its foundations?"

The jibe brought Lendabar unsteadily to her feet, her hair falling in disarray about her face.

"Oh, so that makes you the mightiest lady in Ireland?"

"Would the greatest man in Ireland choose a lesser woman than me?" Emer sneered.

Fidelma, entering into the verbal fray banged her goblet on the table and in a slurred voice added scornfully.

"From what I hear he has chosen many others, here and there, from time to time, to two-time, sometimes two at a time."

Lendanbar nodded.

"Oh yes, what was the name of that mighty lady from Scotland who bore him a son? After she had all but vanquished him in combat he ran her through in bed."

"Not with a sword or a javelin!"

"Oh, no! He impaled her on his secret, telescopic weapon."

As this tirade progressed the three women were gaining a growing audience. Eventually they had the full attention of the guests. The musicians, realising their redundance, sat mutely indulging their curiosity, exulting in the scandal mongering.

"Now I remember," said Fidelma, green eyes glinting. "Aoife was it not? Is Emer mightier than a woman warrior like Aoife?"

"You speak of the past," roared Emer, "when he was a youth and liberally sowed his wild oats, just as your husbands did. Or would you protest their snowy purity? Does either of you really believe she married a virgin? Come to that, did they?"

"Did Cúchulainn?"

Emer smoothed her hair and regained her composure.

"Yes he did. What's more why can't you judge him by what he is now? He is a true knight, whereas your two devious paramours have not changed."

The other two wives rose shrieking incoherently. Lendabar's voice won out:
"Tell this company how many heads did your true knight bring back from his mission today? Then tell us how many Laoghaire and Conal brought? Answer me!"

"Ha! You equate a man's worth with his girth. Is he valued in severed heads, or by his brawn, his capacity to kill and destroy?"

Fidelma interrupted.

"Laoghaire kills the killers of our people and destroys the destroyers of our homes our herds and our crops, your Cúchulainn helps old ladies to cross streams, rescues orphaned bunny rabbits and stares into copses whistling with the birds."

Cúchulainn rose and pounded the table with a huge fist. Goblets jumped in unison. Wine sloshed onto the table.

"I will take no more of this slander, will you goad me into fighting your husbands? Then afterwards, as you discuss and compare their prowess with mine, I will permit you to express your rage and your grief any way you please. That will be your prerogative, as grieving widows!"

Conal stood up, mouthing angrily, soundlessly, swayed for a moment and fell back into his chair. Grasping the edge of the table he laboriously hauled himself up again and, maintaining his grip on the table, called to his charioteer for his sword.

"And bring mine too," added a drunken Laoghaire, without bothering to rise.

"I will not sit here and take insults from a man who bickers with women, or even crosses swords with one, as he did with Aoife of Alba, and then lie with her in their mingled blood and sweat to beget a bastard."

Cúchulainn pointed threateningly at each of the angry champions in turn.

"I swear that if either or both of you points a sword in my direction this night I will put an end to him. Better you wait until morning when you are sober and will realise that I could take you both together with ease."

Laoghaire rose to his feet and laughed loudly.

"Both of us together! Do you know that there is an ambitious young Fomorian by the name of Camsrone, Crooked Nose, who could take the three of us together and perhaps a couple extra? Perhaps you would rather have him all to yourself when he finds you?"

"Camsrone!" Sneered Cúchulainn, "and what does this crooked-nosed upstart look like?"

"He's a giant of a man. Yes, he has a broken nose, hence his name. He is bald as a baby's bum, has one eye and a scar from scalp to chin that passes through the empty eye socket."

Laeg darted through the main door while the three men were arguing. He returned within minutes carrying a small coarse sack and, tossed it into Laoghaire's lap.

"I believe Cúchulainn has already had the pleasure of meeting your fearsome Camsrone, he brought back a little memento of that encounter, take a look."

Laoghaire caught the sack, almost dropping it. He fumbled with the neck and peered inside. His eyes bulged and his mouth opened in a grimace of horror. He dropped the sack on the table stood up suddenly and reeled backwards, knocking over his chair. Out of the sack rolled a severed head grinning sightlessly up into the roof trusses. It was totally hairless, had a large, mangled nose and a long scar from scalp to chin that passed through an empty eye socket.

"Would that be your invincible giant?"

Laoghaire nodded dumbly, staring at the ugly face on the table.

"Well, yesterday Cúchulainn single-handedly dispatched him, along with eleven others like him."

Emer stared in horror and disbelief, first at the severed head and then at Cúchulainn, who turned whispering angrily in Laeg's ear:

"I thought I told you to get rid of that, away from Emer's sight .... "

"Yes, I know! I know! But often you need someone to save you from yourself."

"But, how dare you ...."

"Now you won't have to fight and slay two of the King's favourites. Unless of course they are crazy enough to insist on combat. Anyone that stupid deserves to die. The King can well do without idiots among the élite of his knights."

Conal struggled to his feet mumbling incoherently and trying to focus on Cúchulainn, then flopped back into his chair snoring loudly.

Suddenly Farbeg appeared from under the table, hopped nimbly up onto a chair, clambered onto the table and addressed the three champions.

"Let this dispute be settled by me. I will go against the three of you. The last one of you left standing on his own two feet will be deemed worthy of the Champion's Portion."

The whole company erupted into laughter. Farbeg felt he had well and truly damped a potential conflagration of pride, anger, gluttony and some other deadly ingredients, but was aware also that he might be building another pyre to take its place.

"Well you may laugh, everyone laughs at me Farbeg the jester, at whatever he does or whatever he says. Why? Because they expect his wit to be subtle; and when it is too subtle for them they laugh anyway lest anyone think them dull-witted. Now when Farbeg utters a profundity you all assume it is a great witticism devised to test your intelligence. So laugh, go on, laugh. Then explain the joke if you can."

Cúchulainn regarded the jester with a tolerant grin.

"All right, man of great wit, and even greater profundity, if you should be upright on your feet at the end of the contest, would you claim the Champion's Portion?"

Conal opening his eyes and sitting upright suddenly scoffed:

"And where would you stow it little man? You would surely not have the stomach for all of it at one sitting!"

"Indeed," added Laoghaire, "you would have to salt it and stow it in those great caves in the valleys of the Galtee Mountains; and then you would have to pray that you would live for a couple of hundred years until you had consumed it all!"

Farbeg still standing on the table wagged his finger in Laoghaire's face.

"Pray, you say? Just pray your physical prowess is not as feeble as your wit! Now listen carefully to this. I shall assuredly win then I shall decline the Champion's Portion."

Farbeg paused and cocked his head to one side, gauging the response to his declaration. Many of the smiles he saw around him began to wilt. Men began to whisper nervously to one another as the jester continued, gravely shaking an admonishing finger and speaking slowly and emphatically.

"Yes, I will decline The Champion's Portion. And I will reserve it for a man who will one day stand tall and firm in wisdom, honour and integrity. The Champion of Champions will have to be someone who could not be hoodwinked and manipulated by the likes of Bricriú, as you all have allowed yourselves to be tonight."

Farbeg paused again. Then, looking absently at his feet he abstractedly brushed crumbs from his tunic, a smile beginning to grow from flicker to blaze on his impish face.

"Anyway, as for my keeping The Champion's Portion, I have to keep my eye on my size lest I outgrow the stature of my office through overeating, and be faced with a mid-life career crisis, never mind about about a mid-waist crisis!"

For this handling of the dispute, Farbeg received a sustained round of applause. Cúchulainn, his wits not quite totally drowned by wine, regarded the dwarf with a frown.

"Listen closely, little giant killer," he said, "will you make that a clear, official and binding public statement, here and now? You will decline the Champion's Portion, in the unlikely event of your victory in this contest?"

Farbeg removed his jester's hat, placed a hand on his heart and eyes closed.

"I hereby make this solemn commitment in the presence of His Majesty and this company that I will, on emerging victorious from an agreed contest of endurance, decline the Champion's Portion and reserve it, subject to the approval of His Majesty, King Conor of Ulster, for a man whom I may recommend as standing tall and firm in wisdom, honour and integrity. Please, noble Sencha, make a note of that."

"What weapon do you choose with which to slay us?" Asked Conal with a sneer, "a claymore? Or the clamour of your mouth? Will you fight us to death or talk us to death? Are we to die by the sharpness of your tongue or by the edge of your sword?"

Farbeg, undeterred by the laughter earned by this taunt, responded icily.

"You have already been sorely wounded by the poisonous tongue of Bricriú this very night. But what weapon do I choose? The weapon I choose is readily to hand, wine. We will drink to the death!"

Loud gasps and murmurs filled the hall. A few women tittered. The men seemed dumfounded at the unexpected spin the jester had given to the exchange. Farbeg smiled, spread his hands, hunched his shoulders.

"Surely to outwit and outfight a mere dwarf, a professional fool, would hardly merit a special accolade?"

It was Laoghaire who broke the stunned silence that ensued.

"How are we to drink? Goblet for goblet?"

Conal, standing up unsteadily to hail one of the wine stewards.

"Garsún! Bring flagons for the men and a goblet for the goblin."
The jester ignored the drunken warrior's insensitivity.

"We will drink from skins!" He said evenly.

"Skins it is then!" Agreed Cúchulainn, "rabbit or goat?"

Everyone, of both the men and the women, was laughing heartily now. Even the musicians joined in the chorus. Farbeg, still unruffled, answered Cúchulainn.

"We will drink from the hides of the giant Irish Elk."

A young warrior arose, tankard hoisted aloft.

"I'll drink to that! That's what any self-respecting drinker would call a skinful!"

"That's a great idea," said a mild young trainee, "except for one thing."

"What one thing?" Asked Farbeg with a challenging glint in his eye.

"The giant Irish Elk is extinct."

"Extinct, is it? Your teacher will soon be extinct, unless you have only recently begun your studies."

"The giant elk was extinct before our ancestors got here."

An elderly man raised his hand and coughed nervously.

"I am Moontore, young Cloosaflucka's teacher, we have not yet got to the secrets of the eskers."

Turning to address the young man, he explained:

"The elks sought refuse in the hollow interiors of the eskers during the great age of ice. It is not clear how many nor in what way they survived until the ice was gone. Perhaps they ate fungi. Perhaps they were preserved frozen, but alive. By the time the ice receded they had adapted to the darkness. Indeed they had developed a preference for darkness. So they are still there in force, under the great Esker Riada that stretch from the Muir Meann to the Great Western Ocean. Today a patient man might see the elk herds grazing by moonlight. He might even kill one and feed his family for a year."

"And have we elk hides? Has Bricriú?" The young man wanted to know.

In response one of Bricriú's servants bent and whispered in Moontore's ear. The old man nodded and turned to his pupil.

"As it happens, Bricriú has large quantities of elk hides. His army uses them as tents."

Another young warrior was on his feet, and drunk though he was, proposed a relatively sober toast.

"Let's all drink to the Champion of Champions, whoever he may turn out to be."

Shannarr, an ancient battle-scarred veteran shouted:

"It could well be me! Perhaps I shall be the last one left on his feet."

"Hardly likely, Shannarr," bawled one of his companions, "you can barely stand when you're sober!"

"And why not let every man compete?" Suggested Farbeg.

"Why not?" Echoed Shannarr, "and if I win, may I continue drinking until I'm drunk? Provided of course that the wine holds out and that the demand for wineskins does not make of the giant nocturnal elk an endangered species."

Lendabar, regarded the jester with one bleary eye.

"And what if this new champion should prove to be a woman?"

Emer, raised her head from the table, eyes closed.

"I'll drink to that!"

"And may the best woman win!" Added Fidelma.

Servants, with magical promptness, entered the hall carrying giant elk hides filled with wine and suspended on pine pole tripods. There was a gasp of wonder at the attentiveness and alacrity of Bricriú's household. One hide frame was placed in front of every man and woman. One of the skin outlets was lowered below the level of the table to accommodate Farbeg. The trumpet sounded signalling the beginning of the contest.

Plugs were removed from the skin outlets and the drinking began. Farbeg, with the collusion of the servants, had secreted some huge basins under the table into which he decanted most of the wine while a dozen very large wolfhounds gathered round to help him drink it. The musicians, encouraged by the silence engendered by the serious application of the guests to their drinking, launched into a plaintive song.

Up on the balcony, now cleared of Bricriú and his glass chamber, King Conor Mac Nessa conferred with Sencha, each taking Farbeg's challenge as no more than a display of professional buffoonery.

"Farbeg certainly paid his way tonight," the King said, trying to maintain his poise against encroaching inebriation.

"If truth is for the open spaces and the light," Sencha said, "we have to realise that he has saved Ulster from certain ruin this night."

The King nodded his agreement.

"Indeed, his wit has brought light into a gathering darkness of bloody death and the prospect of generations at war."

"Aye. And the morning will dawn on no greater disaster than a kingdom of throbbing heads and heaving entrails."

Conor leaned back in his seat with a weary sigh.

"And while they are so drained of battle lust we must realise that the business of The Champion's Portion is far from settled.

"To settle the champions' dispute we have somehow to turn to some impartial adjudicator."

The King's face lit up.

"Indeed, we need a consultant."

"You mean someone from a long way off with an exotic accent and clean linen?"

"Well, there is wisdom in employing someone other than a prophet in his own land. Let us call such a one an intermediary, an arbitrator. Not someone who merely looks and smells like an expert but rather one renowned for wisdom and a sense of justice. And, of course, an outsider is more likely to be impartial."

"You are right as usual, Majesty, but I would not relish the task of choosing an impartial judge and jury for champions so renowned as our trio. There is no one in Erin or Alba who is not well acquainted with their reputations as knights of Ulster."

King Conor, tugged at his beard.

"Let us have a decision. If we cannot choose the ideal go-between, let us choose the best we know."

"Have you someone in mind then, Majesty?"

"Yes I have. Aillil, your kinsman, and his royal wife, Maeve, rulers of the west."

Sencha, a smile wrestling with a puzzled frown, searched the King's face. Conor, with a sage wink, read and answered Sencha's thoughts.

"Why not?

"But Aillil? Aillil you say, Majesty? Aillil may well be the king of Connacht but he is surely not the king of the decision makers! In fact I hear my poor kinsman is subject to bouts of feeble-mindedness and bizarre behaviour."

"Yes! Yes! Bouts of idiocy was the term I heard I grant you that, Sencha, but I'm informed that these lapses are mercifully brief."

"But a brief lapse into puerility is all it requires to destroy a kingdom!"

"Yes, and for that reason he has had to retain one of the most expensive royal consultants in the world to advise him which side of his beard to trim first; when and where to urinate and with which hand to raise his kilt and with which to hose which tree or wall. So we will ask Aillil to choose our champion of champions."

Sencha smiled at the subtlety of the King's reasoning.

"Ah, now I see the wisdom of your Majesty's choice of arbiter; though from the start I did not doubt it. My tardy comprehension and Your Majesty's royal acumen are witnesses to the reasons you are King and I a mere Chief Justice. I marvel at the high sources of your intelligence."

Conor, sensing sycophancy, his face suddenly drained of lucidity. Sencha, responded:

"Ah, Majesty, how you put your servants to the test, keeping them on their toes! You have reasoned that by choosing Aillil you will receive, inevitably, not his unaided adjudication, but that of Maeve and his costly consultant, for free."

"Yes indeed," said the King turning his attention to his revelling subjects in the dining hall where Farbeg was signalling from under the table. He snapped his fingers and one of Bricriú's servants bent to hear his command.

"Go at once to Farbeg and carry out any instructions he gives you however ridiculous they may sound.  Now go at once and see to him. Bring him basins and dogs!"

With a furtive shrug the servant departed quickly. Moments later he reappeared down in the hall, followed by other servants carrying large basins and leading a dozen wolfhounds. The King could see that there was a flurry of activity around the spot where he had last seen Farbeg but it was not clear what it was about. Basins were thrust under the overhang of the table cloth and the wolfhounds seemed to take a tail-wagging interest in whatever the jester was up to.

Less explicable was the sight of the servants dragging the inert bodies of other wolfhounds from under the table, hefting them over their shoulders and staggering away towards the kitchens.

The strain of staring and concentrating quickly tired the drunken King. His eyelids drooped once or twice before he slumped back, chin on chest, snoring loudly. Sencha, too, was glad to surrender once more to sleep. He lolled to one side, his head coming to rest on the King's shoulder. The servants attending to Farbeg did their work with cold efficiency. What matter to them the meaning or consequences of the jester's odd behaviour? They were being paid to cater to the needs of their master's guests not to ask questions.
Drunken wolfhounds were replaced by sober ones, freshly roused from their kennels and eventually Farbeg's huge elk skin was completely drained as he called ostentatiously for more wine, and more music ....

Three hours later the hall had almost grown silent, except for the snores of the prostrate guests and a few tittering women. Some were slumped over the tables, others precariously balanced on their chairs, more sprawled, stricken, on the floor. Under his table, Farbeg lay almost buried in sleeping inebriated wolfhounds. Servants were busily stacking and removing empty elk skins and other debris from the hall. Even the honoured guests on the balcony had all gone to sleep from exhaustion and the effects of wine ....

But ... the next contact Cúchulainn made with the world of more or less ordinary consciousness was in surroundings of beatific peace.  The silence bathed his aching head and bones with more efficacy than the most exotic post-battle balm with which he had ever been anointed by Finden, the King's physician. On opening his eyes the first thing he saw was the interior of a thatched roof with its trusses of undressed and smoke blackened tree branches, this was not Bricriú's banqueting hall!

On this occasion Cúchulainn has not travelled in time, but in his drunken state he has travelled somewhere - and someone must have helped him to do so.  Log on every Sunday for further chapters.