CHAPTER Twelve
Airlift to the West

Cúchulainn had been in foul mood before dozing off into a fitful sleep on the red cushions of the golden chariot as it bumped and rumbled over the rough trail, the clopping of Grey Macha's hooves punctuated by slithers and stumbles. The blanket of drizzle moving in from the west did nothing to cheer the suffering Ulsterman. As Laeg urged a dispirited Grey Macha onwards the drizzle grew to a steady downpour that thoroughly soaked the two men and the animal.

The sky was darkening unnaturally and a chilling breeze had risen to half a gale, but in spite of the rain, the wind and the rough trail, Cúchulainn finally drifted off into a fevered sleep filled with foreboding dreams which with that disconcerting incoherence of the subconscious, lurched wildly, hurling him into a hellish exterior darkness. A numbing wind roared in his ears, chilling him to the bone. The earth jolted beneath him causing his heart to stall for a moment and, losing his balance, he fell and rolled, cracking his head against something hard. It was then that he awoke.

He was lying on the floor of the chariot which had come to a stop leaning at a steep angle with one wheel broken, he was being drenched by a blinding downpour and there was no sign of Laeg. Struggling to his feet and peering through the dense curtain of rain, he saw the charioteer wrestling with the straps of the harness, trying to release the fallen horse. Grey Macha was thrashing around, throwing up gouts of mud and water.

Instantly Cúchulainn sprang from the vehicle and rushed to Laeg's assistance. Anticipating his question, the charioteer roared above the sough of the wind and rain:

"Axle is broken and a wheel damaged."

"Is the Grey Macha hurt?"

As if in answer to Cúchulainn's anxious enquiry, Grey Macha, now free of the harness, struggled to his feet with a whinny and trotted to his master. He stroked the animal's neck and whispered reassuringly in his ear.

"He seems to be all right," said Laeg with little enthusiasm, "but the axle is a job for a blacksmith."

Cúchulainn gritted his teeth trying to fight off the great wave of despair that was threatening to engulf him. Think, he must think, fall back on his training as never before, he needed desperately to motivate himself but how?

The Champion's Portion was to him the most important goal of his career so far. While his own status and honour were certainly at stake there were other pressing considerations. King Conor, his foster father would be bitterly disappointed if Conal or Laoghaire were to snatch such a conspicuous honour from the son in whom his most fervent hopes resided.

Cúchulainn tried to persuade himself that he could without vanity, claim that he was indeed the rightful recipient of the honour. Now he had to muster all the resourcefulness of a warrior knight to prove it by extricating himself from his present, seemingly overwhelming plight.

Scratching his head vigorously he summoned all his cunning and turned, slowly surveying and analysing his surroundings as the rain began to lighten revealing a small grove of pine trees nearby. The darkness in his spirit began to give way to a glimmer of hope and as he sprinted off in the direction of the trees he called out to Laeg:

"Come Laeg follow me and bring Grey Macha."

The charioteer obeyed without question but although he had witnessed his master getting out of impossibly tight spots before, he wondered if this one would mark the outer limit of his ingenuity.

Reaching inside his cloak, Cúchulainn produced his foster father's great sword, Nimhneach with its blade flashing dully in the gloom.

He swung the sword at the base of a young straight pine of about two hands in diameter but great though his natural strength could be, Cúchulainn was weakened by fatigue, the effects of the drinking bout, and his foolish excursion to Alba with the Lough Neagh monster. Natural fatigue could vitiate his recourse to magical, physical powers, now he was relying on the strength of an ordinary, tired man to swing the sword but with Laeg's help within five minutes they had the tree chopped half way through.

"Now, Laeg, if you will hitch Grey Macha's traces to the tree and lend him a hand we can snap it."

Between them and the animal they brought the tree down with a resounding crack.

"Good!" Cried Cúchulainn, "we now have to chop off a length of this trunk to make a splint for the axle.

After an hour of chopping, hacking, paring and shaping, the two men finished splinting the broken axle and wheel with their belts, strips of their undershirts, oddments of harness, rope and even the laces of their boots.

They were under way again and the horse lumbered forward into the murk, but the tired animal could manage no more than a lumbering walk, stumbling occasionally and slithering in the mud. The men passed the next hour in silence and what might have begun as a silence of energy conservation was deteriorating into the silence of despair.

Unspoken thoughts raced through Laeg's mind, and as horsemen often do he addressed the horse:

"I fear we are racing in a lost cause. We have been on the way for four hours and we are but approaching the ford on the River Dee. Laoghaire and Conal will have already reached Maeve's fort at Cruachan and they'll have a day to ingratiate themselves with their majesties. There they will advertise their cause, perhaps even denigrating Cúchulainn as one who is always late, even when visiting royalty."

Grey Macha whinnied piteously, foam flying from his mouth, his breathing loud with fatigue as Laeg continued:

"Frustrated though I am at the futility of this journey and the unstable condition of our hasty repairs to the charriot, it has not escaped me that you have not been fed and watered since late last night. Hurry now old friend, show me once again the magic of your stride until we gain The Dee where you may drink your fill and I will fit this nosebag full of stone-crushed oats to your famished face."

As if understanding and drawing courage from the charioteer's monologue, Grey Macha whinnied more loudly, more excitedly than before and broke into a spirited gallop towards the river. The sudden acceleration jarred a dozing Cúchulainn awake and he shook his head to dispel the rain that ran in streams from his bronze helmet.

"Ha! That's more like the old Grey Macha who once could run, non-stop, the round of Erin's Isle between sunrise and sunset, winter or summer."

The chariot bounced and swayed across the rocky terrain with Cúchulainn and Laeg whooping and shouting to encourage the horse, but just as they reached the ford on The Dee there was a vivid flash of lightening and a deafening clap of thunder. The horse broke his stride and reared up in fright.

There, before them in the murk stood the ugliest hag Cúchulainn had ever seen. As if her face were not repulsive enough, she was covered in warts and her hair blew in the wind like frayed white rope in tangled hanks.

The chariot veered violently as Grey Macha stumbled and fell, catapulting the two men from the chariot into the mud where they lay stunned while the horse struggled frantically to regain his feet.

Coming to his senses Cúchulainn opened one eye and saw to his amazement that the storm had ceased and the sun was shining joyously in a blue ocean of sky. To his further astonishment the ground beneath him was bone dry.

Opening both eyes before raising his head from the ground, he was startled by the sight of a dainty, sandalled foot an inch away from his face. Rolling on his side he saw that the foot was connected to a shapely leg, complete with dimpled knee and milk-white thigh. His gaze travelled up from the gold-trimmed hem of a blue silk side-slit skirt to a beautiful smiling face, framed in shining dark ringlets. Cúchulainn, wondering whether this was yet another dream, raised himself on one elbow, feeling his head and wincing.

"Where is she? He asked.

"Who?" The girl replied with a tinkling laugh.

"That crone, with the leathery skin, all covered in warts?"

"She left while you lay in a daze, as soon as I touched your head."

"But, who was she?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Cúchulainn struggled painfully to his feet.

"Well then, are you going to ask who I am?"

To his amazement there was no trace of mud on his tunic or breeks, and he and Laeg were bone dry. The girl continued to smile while Laeg soothed the startled horse.

"All right who are you?"

Before she could answer, Cúchulainn saw that Laeg had needed to undo the harness to allow Grey Macha to regain his feet, so he stooped to help Laeg re-yoke the animal as she continued to speak.

"My name is Aoife, foster-daughter of Bobh Dearg and wife of Lir."

"Aoife? You cannot be Aoife of the Tuatha de Danaan who turned her stepchildren into swans because she did not care to compete with them for their father's affection?"

Aoife looked at her feet and intertwined her fingers nervously.

"Yes, I'm afraid I am and in turn I was bewitched, deservedly I admit, by my foster-father who loved his grandchildren dearly."

"Yes, I've heard the legend, but did your foster father not turn you into a demon of the storm. You don't look like any demon I've ever seen on my travels, and was not your banishment for all eternity?"

"Not exactly, as you may know the Tuatha de Danaan are able to change their form and to commute at will between the spirit world and the world of human kind. I alas as part of my rehabilitation am restricted, I may only take human form to assist someone in distress. As for the spirit world, I may not yet enter the world of Eternal Light. I have to live in a dark hinterland with the spirits of those who were selfish, unkind or cruel in the material world and there are, as you must guess multitudes of those."

"But you will some day enter Tír na nÓg, the Land of Eternal Youth?"

"By amassing acts of kindness we will someday be free spirits again and will be able to commute between Tír na nÓg and this world at will."

Cúchulainn frowned.

"It seems to me that you were expecting us, I mean, the storm, the thunderbolt and ...."

"Yes, I knew of your plight and the unnecessary ordeals through which you are putting yourself on account of that wicked schemer, Bricriú."

"Bricriú's intrigues are beside the point kind Aoife, we are dealing with my honour here! Can you help us to get to Cruachan where Queen Maeve is to adjudicate between Laoghaire, Conal and me?"

"Your honour? What you are NOT dealing with Cúchulainn is your vanity and your pride, the pursuit of ego, your illusory self. I know better than most where such an empty enterprise can lead. Ego is the devil's deputy and is deadlier to your honour than that other insidious instrument of his, Bricriú. There are so many poor spirits living in darkness because of that error."

"But ...."

"We are wasting time arguing because I can, sad to say, only help you to do what you want to do. Now then when do you wish to arrive in Cruachan?"

"You know Cruachan?"

"Of course, I was counting on that bumbling buffoon, Aillil to marry a Queen from Munster. Such a union would have broken the spell on the children of Lir and ended my banishment. But he had to go and marry Maeve. Now when do you want to arrive at Cruachan?"

"Indeed, I would need to arrive there yesterday, before those two schemers, Laoghaire and Conal."

Without replying, Aoife walked to the water's edge and cupping her hands to her mouth made a loud, whirring, musical sound. Immediately a similar sound came from far away.

Repetitions of the cry continued like echoes, except unlike echoes they were growing louder until four gigantic swans loomed over their heads. In a whirling turbulence of air they landed on the water with a great swoosh sending waves high up on the gravel. The two men started with fright at the sight of the towering birds, Grey Macha shied and Laeg struggled to calm him.

"Can it be possible?" Gasped Cúchulainn, staring in disbelief. "The children of Lir?"

"A plausible conclusion, but the wrong one. These are friends of mine, the four sons of Eochaí Mac Erc, King of the Fir Bolgs, killed with their father in the great battle of Moytura Plain when they were defeated by Nuada, King of the Tuatha de Danaan!"

Aoife called to the swans and wading into the water, she plunged her hands under the surface and pulled up four coils of golden rope.

"Here Cúchulainn and Laeg, catch," she cried, throwing them the ends of the ropes.

"Fasten those to your chariot, two to the shafts and two to the wheels."

Mystified, they did as she commanded. Then wading out waist deep in the river Aoife looped the other ends of the four ropes, one each around the breast of each giant swan. She shouted with a merry laugh:

"Now into the chariot and let's go!"

She shoved the gaping Cúchulainn to hurry him along, then boarding the chariot she swept in front of Laeg knocking him off balance so that he sat down heavily on the chariot seat opposite Cúchulainn as she took the reins.

"Go Grey Macha, and you great birds. Hup, hup you lazy, lustful sons of Eochaí Mac Erc! Unworthy ancestors to a powerful Taoiseach of the far, far future, Cathal ó hEochaí."

As the four swans took the strain of the chariot, it and the horse began to move towards the water's edge. Gaining speed as the swans began to flap their great wings with a mighty tumult, the waters of the Dee churned sending a shower of spray over the chariot and its passengers.

Cúchulainn roared in terror.

"Aoife, we'll all be killed!"

"Be brave my baby hero, slayer of dogs, be brave! These ancient warriors will take good care of you, your safety and welfare are a valuable instalment in the price of release from darkness for them."

As the swans gathered yet more speed and began to rise slowly off the surface with a deafening tumult of wings on water, horse and chariot also began to skim the surface and in a few more seconds they rose smoothly into the air. Cúchulainn and Laeg, hair and cloaks flying tautly, eyes wide with wonder, scanned the landscape below as they rose higher and higher. Aoife, bright-eyed and smiling, was evidently enjoying this exciting respite from her imprisonment in Tír na nAosta, taking in the boyish delight of the two men, she laughed aloud, vicariously enjoying their excitement.

Cúchulainn shouted above the noise, pointing excitedly.

"Look, to the north-east, Eamhain Macha, and there, to the east, The Plain of Muirthemhne.

Aoife interrupted the commentary with an in-flight announcement.

"Hold tight now. We have a change of course coming up and then we'll be on our way westward."

The two men grabbed the chariot rails as the swans, the horse and the chariot banked steeply and came around onto their new course.

Cúchulainn, charged with excitement, began to shout joyfully.

"This is a wonderful experience! Bricriú and his Champion's Portion seem so petty now, isn't the earth a wonderful place?"

"Yes, it is," agreed Aoife. "It is, when we rise above it; when we stop looking at ourselves and look outwards taking the wider view. When we stop trying to impress people by what we do, rather than presenting ourselves humbly as we really are. If only we could impress ourselves with the wonder of who we really are!"

Cúchulainn gave Aoife a playful slap on her small rump.

"Oh, fiddle-de-dee and riddle-me-ree!"

Aoife, ignoring the impudent gesture, retorted.

"Oh fiddle-de-dee and riddle-me-ree, the nicest one you can possibly be is YOU! Not merely your idea of the nice person you think you ought to be, the one you present to the world as your true self. And YOU try to promote that false image of yourself by what you do rather than by who you are."

"To be, or not to be ...." began Cúchulainn.

"That is the question!" Said Aoife.

"And the answer?" Asked Cúchulainn gravely, his smile gone.

"The answer is: Be! Don't invent and encourage some impostor to take your place."

"And this will make me recognisably the true recipient of The Champion's Portion?"

"Ach, you and your Champion's Portion!"

Cúchulainn rose suddenly, pointing excitedly.

"Look down there, The Shannon, River of the Fox, how majestic it looks from up here.

And away beyond it is the Western Ocean, truly this is the only way to travel. If only we could have a mighty fleet of airborne chariots."

"An aer loingeas?" Chimed Aoife.

"Aye, criss-crossing the skies, following a great network of orderly paths!"

"Yes, aer rianta!"

"Perhaps," mused Cúchulainn, "one day these great air trails will take us across the Western Ocean to the edge of the world without the danger of sailing over the rim into the abyss. And then we'll discover why the great ocean has not drained away in a terrible waterfall that would turn the world into a waterless desert."

He was interrupted by another in-flight announcement from Aoife:

"Please fasten your seat belts. We are on final approach to the stronghold of Aillil and Maeve of Connacht."

Far below they saw a toyland Cruachan fort, its defence walls, ramparts and earthworks, its great castle surrounded by the warriors' quarters, the splendid banqueting hall, the stables and store houses. Men and horses moving about inside the walls and warriors standing guard on the ramparts seemed unaware of the strange sight of a horse and a foursome of gigantic swans drawing a golden chariot, flashing in the sunlight.

Cúchulainn, amazed at how quickly they had flown so far, obeyed their hostess's instruction and hooked one of the chariot's battle chains to his belt, Laeg did likewise and they swept gracefully down, almost touching the treetops of a dense oak wood beyond the fortress. The chariot, on clearing the trees, dropped steeply towards the surface of a wide lake where finally they landed sending wavelets sweeping up the lake shore.

A pair of startled herons rose long-legged into the air, flapped away over the distant reed-beds, rose above the pale willows of the wetland and faded among the shadows of the tall, dark mass of the woods. The swans folded their wings and paddled briskly towards the bank. When it seemed that they were about to run aground they changed course suddenly causing the horse and chariot to make landfall, hooves and wheels clattering and grinding, scattering pebbles and stones.

Cúchulainn stood up, holding out his hand in a farewell gesture for there was no trace of Aoife or the giant swans. The golden ropes, too, were gone leaving only an eerie stillness.

"Laeg, Aoife has gone!"

Cúchulainn cupped his hands around his mouth and mournfully bellowed her name, his voice echoing hollowly, mockingly from the far shore of the lake. Then something caught his eye, at his first sight the warrior thought he was seeing a leprechaun.

One instant the space was empty, a dappled montage of light and foliage fragments, then the elfin-like creature was there ..

So, is this 'leprechaun' a pleasant and helpful little man, or has he got something nasty in store for our heroes? Log on every Sunday for further chapters.