CHAPTER ELEVEN
Homofeeb - Gentle Pipe Maker

Moving his head slightly to the left, Cúchulainn found he was lying on a raised bed of bleached and delicately scented sheepskins laid upon fresh straw. Looking upwards once more he noted the obtuse angle of the low roof. It was thatched, not with straw but with bundles of thin river reeds, the interior of this tiny building evidently served as workshop, sleeping and living quarters. He closed his eyes in attempt to focus his mind until he became aware of the whirring of some kind of machine in the room.

At first he thought, from the slender outline of the machine's operator, that it was a young girl working at a spinning wheel; but as his reluctant eyes came into pulsating, multicoloured focus he saw that it was a slightly built young man of scarcely twenty years. Cúchulainn started at the arrival in his mind of an unbidden thought : This young man is more pretty than handsome.

He swallowed hard and tried to eject the vague, ambiguous feelings that accompanied the thought. The lad had a shock of shining blonde curls tumbling with a certain wantonness about his finely sculpted face. His salient feature was a pair of large, startlingly blue eyes.

Turning his head to greet Cúchulainn, he showed a set of small, perfectly proportioned white teeth in a benign, though Cúchulainn suspected, slightly reproachful smile such as the smile with which Emer might lovingly scold him after one of his rare nights of reckless celebration with his macho friends.

Cúchulainn's interest shifted once more from the young man to the rest of his surroundings. Sniffing and grimacing, one eye closed, hands pressed to his thumping temples, he cleared his throat and tried out his morning voice.

"Where in the Otherworld am I? What's that perfume? Who are you, fair man with the features of a maiden?"

He spoke in the formal, poetic language which people of high rank are trained to employ in first encounters.

"How did I get here? And why, I scarcely trust myself to ask, am I in such an exquisitely perfumed bed?"

The whirring of the machine stopped, and taking his foot from the treadle, the young man turned his stool around to face Cuchulainn. Spreading his long, dainty hands, palms downwards in a gesture of reassurance, he began to speak in a silvery, musical voice, the voice of a singer.

"Let's deal with those questions one at a time," he said, "not necessarily in the order you have asked them."

He stood up and began to pace very slowly back and forth, looking at the floor most of the time.

"You have not made any inter-world transition, mighty man. You are in the home and workshop of Homofeeb, maker of pipes and music. How did you get here? I carried you. The perfume? It is a compound. It comprises the smell of a dark hardwood called ebony from a distant land. It is an exquisite timber grown in the hot climes of the far south. It is a joy to work it on my lathe. The other component of the perfume is the scented beeswax with which I give it its deep, dark shine."

Cúchulainn sniffed again, this time more daintily, his dilated nostrils testing the air like a stag.

"Yes, yes, I smell it now. Freshly curled shavings of dark hardwood mingled with the essence of wild flowers and beeswax, no more than an olfactory concomitant of your craft."

Homofeeb, peered wide-eyed from under his dense overhang of curls.

"You seem relieved now that you've cleared that up."

Cúchulainn decided this was more a question than a statement.

"It is clear to me that the smells I've listed are no part of any venal plot. But there is one other scent, more subtle, less pervasive yet more compellingly evocative. It is a fragrance for which I have no match in my recall."

"Deja vu?"

"This is a foreign word?"

"A phrase, from another land, another time. But no matter?"

"What does it mean?"

"You know how smells can stir vivid memories of a distant past, scents that can raise elusive wraiths of recollection as far removed from now even as the sweet and tremulous moment of conception?"

The young man looked directly at Cúchulainn for a moment. Once more he dropped his gaze to the floor and added, with a nervous smile.

"Perhaps the elusive olfactory delicacy your nose has detected is ...."

He broke off and turned his head quickly to one side so that a cluster of curls tumbled forward and hid his face.

"Perhaps it is, after all, my body lotion that you find, as you put it compellingly evocative."

"No, it is not!" snapped Cúchulainn a little crustily.

His training in regard to the supremacy of truth in the life of a Red Branch Knight immediately reasserted itself.

"Well that is not, not quite true. If you must know the only feeling your personal perfume provokes in me is a vague trembling as of a butterfly trapped in the fork of my breeks."

Homofeeb permitted himself only a soft, musical chuckle.

Cúchulainn bristled.

"I assure you, that I associate perfume with a woman, a woman, mark you who is augmenting her allure to men. And if you must know, I am easily lured. By a woman, that is."

The young man held Cúchulainn's gaze for what seemed an age. The warrior, faltering in his effort to distinguish the fair face from that of a maiden, looked away, embarrassed by his own feelings.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, the young man spoke.

"Your nose, keen as it is, seems to have missed the most pervasive, least subtle of the air's infusions. It is an aroma that offers fulfilment of the hunger that afflicts you most immediately."

The lad stepped briskly to the farther corner of the room where a small fire burned on a raised fireplace of uncut stones. He turned his attention to an iron griddle on the fire.

"It is fried rashers of a cured piglet and the eggs of an exotic oriental bird called a chicken."

Cúchulainn was still more curious about the youth than the breakfast menu, exotic though it sounded.

"Aside from your name, Homophile ...." began the Ulsterman.

"HomoFEEB," corrected the young man in a hurt tone. "It is derived from two words, one Gaelic and one of the Roman tongue, it means, literally, Pipeman."

"Homofeeb then, who the blazes are you, lisping, mincing creature of ambiguous gender? And how could such a slender youth carry home the dead weight of a comatose giant such as I? And what dark motive would drive you to such effort?"

"So many questions," tutted the young man.

He scooped several rashers and eggs from the griddle onto a silver plate and walked to the table in the centre of the room.

"Who am I? I am, as I already said, a maker of pipes and of music. I'm working on the prototype of a new kind of pipes that sigh sweet harmonies with no distracting strain upon the player's lungs, but rather on his elbow, the one required to pump a bellows, keeping full the bag beneath his other arm, a bag that blows melodic life into a choir of reeds."

Cúchulainn considered this information for a moment; then the ghost of a slow, sly grin appeared at the corners of his mouth and in his eyes.

"You play the war-pipes?"

"I do."

"Then I daresay you could squeeze a melody out of any nation's pipes, they being, broadly speaking, of an all but uniform sameness."

Homofeeb wagged a didactic finger at the warrior.

"Until now they have had a certain uniformity, but my system is unique. It makes me unique also in that I am now master of every kind of pipe that exists."

Picking up a copper slice he deftly scooped the sizzling rasher and egg from the griddle, tiny plumes of blue and yellow flame spitting out of the red charcoal as the food shed a cluster of bacon fat beads in its transit to the platter. Cúchulainn rose and stretched. He took his place at the table.

On its plain, rough top Homofeeb proceeded to cut slices of fresh bread for his guest.

"Your next question, I venture to guess, will be: Why did I bring you here?"
"That is a question that scratches at the door of my brain like a housebound hound. Why, then, did you bring me here?"

"Because you narrowly lost the drinking contest to the dwarf, Farbeg, although he too subsequently surrendered to the embrace of Bacchus. There were no witnesses to Farbeg's victory, except for me, who lingered late in the antechamber of the entertainers long after the rest had packed their pipes and harps and various accoutrements, and choosing their partners both complementary and supplementary, took their leave."

"But what of Farbeg? Did he not proclaim his victory?"

"He did not. And if he had, he had no audience, no referees, no witnesses except for me of course, for all were fast asleep. He gave no shout of triumph, for he himself was soon sleeping soundly with Lady Elderberry. He may well have no recollection of how the contest ended."

Continuing to tuck ravenously into his breakfast, Cúchulainn, through a mouthful of food, asked boldly:

"So why did you carry me here if it was not with some carnal intent?"

Homofeeb returned a look of sadness and reproach.

"I gave you a chance to regroup your wits, so that you might claim that you were not only last to stay upon your feet but that you swam to far Kintyre and back again to clear your head and cleanse your palate for your morning plate handsome Cúchulainn."

Cúchulainn sat down heavily, nursing his head and grinning as his good humour returned.

"Ah! So that's who I am! You've just answered the most perplexing question of all ...."

He raised his head again and picking up the empty silver platter, walked over to peer into a small box in the corner of the room.

While I go outside to flood the land, perhaps your oriental bird might spare another of her palatable eggs."

Cúchulainn made his exit, ducking to almost half his height under the low lintel. Standing erect he surveyed the outside of the hut. The modest proportions of its exterior, in some mysterious way, did not tally with its spacious interior.

Viewed from the outside it was just another of those rudimentary wood and thatch shelters in which herdsmen pass the summer months on high mountain pastures. Stepping behind the gable of the hut, head and shoulders still in view, he fumbled with his tunic and breeks for a moment. Soon clouds of acrid steam began to rise around him into the crisp, morning air. He closed his eyes and moaned softly with relief. He peered round the edge of the hut's gable as he heard Homofeeb come out. Calling out conversationally the Ulster warrior said:

"Well now, my busy Technophile, how about all those unfortunate people who have paid out their hard-earned cash for the low-tech pipes? Who will want to purchase the old instrument now?

Cúchulainn, grunted as he urged his flagging bladder and Homofeeb thought for a moment.

"Why not present them to the warlike Scot? He is our Celtic cousin, is he not?"

Cúchulainn, recalled the virulent years of his youth in Alba learning the skills of war from Scáthach, the legendary woman warrior of Skye, and her daughter Aoife, with whom, both of them, he had often dallied.

"The Scots are a noble race, they are surely worthy of rascality more ingenious than that."

"Such as?" asked Homofeeb with a slow-motion shrug.

Cúchulainn stared at the ground reflectively.

"Why not capture the monster from Lough Neagh and transport it to their Loch Ness? Now there's a coup that might just raise a snigger from the dourest Scot."

Homofeeb, laughing heartily, then raised his hands in a mock gesture of blessing.

"I hereby elect you to carry out that impossible task."

Cúchulainn, still modestly out of view, struggled to stow his private appendage and to adjust his dress.

"It shall be done as soon as I've subdued the monster here in hand. Keep my second helping of breakfast warm till I return."

He departed, simply disappeared. Homofeeb, reeled with astonishment, scanning the horizon from east through south and west to north and east again, but no sight nor sign of the Ulsterman did he see.

He re-entered his hut, took up a finished set of uileann pipes and began to play a plaintiff air. As he finished the tune with a full-throated chord on pipe and regulators, Cuchulainn reappeared in a flash of light and a thunderclap. He was soaking wet, shaking water from his hair and setting the hearth sizzling.

"Br-r-r-r-r! Lough Ness is chilly at this hour of the morning. Colder even than Lough Neagh and the stormy stream of Moyle.

And that monster is a slippery creature. Nearly got free a couple of times on the sea passage to Alba. Is my breakfast done?"

Homofeeb, nonplussed, hadn't heard a word the Ulster warrior had said. His lips moved soundlessly as if trying to gain a purchase on the air. At last labial traction was restored and he managed a hoarse question:

"How did you DO that?"

"I simply think myself to be where I want to be," explained Cuchulainn, helping himself to bacon and eggs from the griddle, "and, zip! There I am. And of course, HERE I am."

He gulped the food hungrily.

"Can you do it any time? If you can, what need have you of a chariot and horses?"

"There are restrictions. I can only do it once within a cycle of the moon. Just one return journey with a couple of stopovers is possible per month."

"There was a new moon last night. Does that mean you cannot do this thought travel until the next new moon?"

Cúchulainn stopped chewing. From the expression on his face it looked as though he had bitten into something deadly.

"I hadn't thought of that."

In a daze, still clutching the fork, he walked uncertainly to the tiny window and gazed unseeingly across the landscape as though everyone and everything dear to his heart had forsaken him and fled in that direction.

"Now I'm a mere terrestrial traveller for a full month. It leaves me at a serious disadvantage."

"How so?"

He sat down heavily on the bed and made a helpless gesture with both hands.

"Because my rivals, Laoghaire and Conal also have this power."

"So?"

Cúchulainn sprang to his feet, his old alertness once more in evidence. "I have a premonition that a messenger will arrive ...."

He was interrupted by the thunder of galloping hooves and rumbling wheels approaching at speed and slowing to a halt outside. The door flew open and Laeg stepped in. He was in a state of high excitement.

"Pardon this rude intrusion, but I have an urgent message from King Conor ordering you to go at once to the Fort of Aillil and Queen Maeve in Connacht where they will make a judgement as to whom is to receive the Champion's Portion."

A number of questions jostled each other in Cúchulainn's mind.

"How did you know where to find me?" He decided to ask first.

"Easy," grinned Laeg, "I asked Grey Macha to take me to you."

"Grey Macha, my wonder horse?" Cúchulainn's face was alight with joy.

"Grey Macha has forgiven my infidelity?"

"Yes," said Laeg, "and you were so sure that in his jealousy of the two grey speckled stallions you used on your last mission, that he never would."

Cúchulainn shook his head sadly, remembering that one of those faithful stallions had given his life so that he and Laeg might escape the wrath of the Fomorians.

"Wherever could Grey Macha have got to while we were away?"

Laeg shrugged.

"Probably sulking in the Otherworld or sojourning with the giant Irish elk herds beneath the esker ridges of Muirtheimhne. Come we can't afford time for idle speculation. Conal and Laoghaire made their start long before dawn. Unless we can overtake them they may try to ingratiate themselves with Maeve and Ailill and perhaps, with sweet-smiling subtlety, blemish your character with poetic calumnies. And you know Maeve's addiction to strong men. She would do anything for a quick ...."

"Enough of this scandal!" Cúchulainn grinned, "let me finish my breakfast."

"But there is no time," Laeg protested, gesturing with his fists.

Cúchulainn remained nonchalant.

"There is no hurry, with the aid of Grey Macha we shall arrive at Cruachan in time for lunch."

Laeg shook his head sadly and laid a consoling hand on Cúchulainn's arm.

"No Cú. Remember Grey Macha must be fed honey and barley bran and watered with dew or early morning rain every day of a lunar cycle before he can travel with magical swiftness on land or water. Last night ...."

Cúchulainn sighed resignedly.

"Yes, I know, there was a new moon last night and now my wonderful horse is bound by the tyrannical laws of the jealous earth for a full month."

The two men stepped out into the weak morning sunshine. Peering over their shoulders, Homofeeb gasped in amazement at the blaze of celestial light from the golden chariot.

The beautiful Grey Macha, he fancied, almost smiled flirtatiously at him and quickly looked away with a shake of his long mane. Homofeeb, hovering on the edge of the exchange, unsure of his welcome to be there, stepped forward anxiously, laying a hand on Cúchulainn's arm, his delicately hewn features contorted in a pained frown.

"I feel I have contributed to your dilemma by bringing you here, Cúchulainn."

"Cúchulainn took the consoling hand and squeezed it comfortingly.

"No, Man of Pipes, our encounter has been most refreshing and enlightening. I trust we shall meet again."

"Yes. Soon."

"Good health remain with you, dear Philophobe!"

"Homofeeb!!"

The sun slipped behind approaching clouds, a blanket of rain moved in from the west and time was against them as they began their journey to the Fort of King Aillil and Queen Maeve in Connacht

In their frantic attempt to get to the fort before Conal and Laoghaire, will our heroes be desperate enough to accept a lift from a stranger?Log on every Sunday for further chapters.