CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Directions from a Dub

The elfin creature showed no fear. Indeed it, or he whichever, exuded a sublime serenity, albeit with a tincture of impishness. Only the capricious eddies of air from the lake, stirring his ragged locks pronounced him a subject of the world of matter.

Another intimation that he was a mortal man was that he was burdened by a hefty bundle of firewood, the dead, shed boughs of ancient oaks from deep in the wood beyond the fringe of marsh willows.

His stature deficiency and slightness of build would have given an impression of weakness but for the taut, rope-like muscles that rippled under the skin of his scantily fleshed arms, and the startling size of the load in proportion to the man bespoke a wiry strength. His ruddy, open countenance and twinkling blue eyes, mischievous though they were, exuded an artless kindliness. Having plumped for the mortality of the strange figure, Cúchulainn categorised him, as humans are wont to do, as middle-aged, not too intelligent nor aspiring to the abstract grist of intellect's mill, and therefore all the happier with a life of mere subsistence.

He wore tattered wide-legged breeks of a robust blue material with thin white stripes, sadly worn shoes of smooth brown leather, and an old soiled gansey knitted from unbleached wool. Topping off his tattered ensemble was a faded, high crowned hat with only part of a brim, the part above his face.

On the front of the cap a strange inscription read 'Heffo'. ('Heffo' Heffernan, Captain of Dublin's legendary Gaelic football team of the 'eighties'.)

When he smiled, he bared four inwardly inclined yellow teeth, his face erupting in a startling corrugation of wrinkles which momentarily reinforced Cúchulainn's impression of puckishness. The distribution of the wrinkles, however, suggested a man who in his lifetime had smiled oftener than he had frowned, a man who was comfortable in any company. The smile was accompanied by a drooping of one eyelid, a half turn of the head and an inclination that suggested at once a bow of respect and a nod of acceptance. The gesture, part of the ancient code of Irish people, signalled his acknowledgement of, and ease in an encounter with a stranger.

Cúchulainn, not wanting to be impolite responded with the customary statement of the obvious.

"Tis a fine day, sir."

"That it is," agreed the little man, "may there be many more for you, me young warriors. Is it from Tír na nÓg yiz're after comin? Are yiz here for the festivities?"

"Och! Not at all! 'Tis from Ulster we have come," said Laeg, answering one of the questions.

Cúchulainn and Laeg recognised that they had slipped into the Prebabelian mind mode. Prebabelian, according to Cathbhad, was once the common language of the whole human race. It was lost when the human family allowed pride, cruelty and greed to split it into separate groups, doomed to suffer ever-widening gulfs of language, religion, custom and tradition.

By special dispensation from the spirit world granted through the intercession of the druids, the people of Conor's court could converse in any language. While they spoke their own language, they made themselves understood to the speaker of any strange tongue. Conversely, if anyone spoke to them in a strange tongue, the Ulstermen usually heard them speaking in the Gaelic of Ulster.

Puckering up his face, the little man asked:

"Is it any harm to ask? Would them be the Childher o' Lír that's after bringin' yiz here?"

Cúchulainn, through training and long practise, kept the common people at a prudent distance, albeit with an air of formal respect. In return he expected a reciprocal distancing. He was, therefore, taken aback by the little man's forwardness, an impertinence compounded by a bold inquisitiveness and answered him curtly.

"No, they were not. Now, if it pleases you, may I ask you a question or two? Where are YOU from?"

The strange little man, was unruffled by the sharp response.

"Indeed, I'm a long ways from home, young sir. I'm from Hurdleford on the Ownaliffey. D'ye know it at all?"

"Dubhlinn, the Black Pool?" Asked Cúchulainn, disarmed by the mild-mannered answer. "I have often passed by that way on my travels. You look as though you are well-settled here now."

"That's the truth, sir, I didn't get yer name sir."

Cúchulainn was taking a liking to the ragged stranger and, feeling somewhat ashamed of his own haughtiness, softened his attitude.

"Cúchulainn, my name is Cúchulainn. My companion is Laeg."

"Oh, begob, now I heard tell o' youse all right. Oh yes. You were wonderin' what I'm doin' so far from the Ford o' the Hurdles near the Black Pool on the Liffey, Dubh Linn. Well, y'see Cúchulainn, a mhic, I came to a hurlin' match here donkey's years ago.

Me and me mate got drunk out of our skulls on the barley juice and when I came to I was on me own wit' not a red farthin' in pocket or purse. I never seen hide nor hair o' me mate since, nor divil a tiding, tittle or tattle did I hear of him either. And so here I am, all alone, but I learned to be happy and contented in the peace and quiet of the west."

Cúchulainn puzzled, simply nodded in response.

"You mentioned festivities, what would they be about?"

The strange man laughed.

"Arra come on ou'a tha' witcha, are y'jokin' me?"

"We, er, have been travelling," said Cúchulainn lamely. "I seem to have lost track of things."

"Will ye give yer head a rest, oul' son .... Isn't it the feast of Baal Teine?"

"But that was ... yester ...." Cúchulainn began, puckering in puzzlement and gazing absently at Grey Macha who regarded the stranger with a twitch of his tail. Then, hunger getting the better of the animal, he delicately cropped a lone green tuffet as his master continued the conversation.

"Why, yes, of course! I did tell Aoife I wanted to arrive yesterday. I was being facetious of course, but how was she to know that?"

The little man, screwed up his nose and closed one eye

"Listen son, if I was you I'd go in ou'a the sun and lie down for a spell."

Cúchulainn side-stepped the cheeky comment.

"Which way is it to the Fort of Cruachan?"

"Are ye sure ye're all right boss? Sure there it is, lookin' atcha."

He raised a gnarled and grubby hand to point with his finger swinging through ninety degrees. In the haze across the lake loomed the ghostlike outline of the fort.

"Just folly the lake shore in that direction yiz'll be enjoyin' the hospitality of their majesties, Maeve and Aillil, in no time at all."

Thanking the man, Cúchulainn and Laeg boarded the chariot and swinging Grey Macha in the direction indicated, they set off. As they rumbled and crunched over the gravel, the little man called after them.

"Hey, Cúchulainn! My name is Mickser O'Kelly. If ye're ever down be the End o'the Ring on the river Liffe, tell them all I was askin' for them, won'tcha?"

Cúchulainn nodded and acknowledged the request with a wave and Mickser O'Kelly turned and strode off in the opposite direction, his skinny legs stepping lively, if crookedly under the massive burden of sticks.

After a mile travelling around the lake shore the travellers found their way barred by a massive jumble of boulders and rocky outcrops. As they drew near the obstruction they saw that to the left of it their track joined a wider, earth road which by-passed the rocks. As they drove out onto this main road they heard a crunching rumble of wheels and a clatter of hooves coming up from the rear. Cúchulainn turned to look. Two chariots, racing neck and neck were approaching at full gallop, cloaks of the charioteers flying. He noted too the glint of a warrior's bronze helmet in each chariot, the tips of their spears catching and flinging sharp darts of light from sun and water. As they drew near, Cúchulainn and Laeg recognised the seated warriors as Laoghaire and Conal.

Their charioteers were furiously whipping the horses and shouting harshly at them to "Tarraing! Tarraing!" (Pull! Pull). Thanks to Aoife and her magical swans Cúchulainn and Laeg had thwarted the pair's attempt to steal a march on them.

"Ah, Cúchulainn, I see you have made good time," cried Laoghaire with a poorly feigned cheerfulness that fell short of concealing his amazement and chagrin.

"You must have spoken to Amtashtalee the time-traveller and shaken some of his secrets loose! Did he give you both an exclusive swig from that flask of thunder juice?" Cúchulainn asked, prodding the discomfiture and bewilderment of the two knights.

Conal smiled a sour smile.

"So! You know the two-timing old rascal too. The old scarecrow swore that what he disclosed to us was an exclusive."

Cúchulainn gave a hollow laugh.

"Come on then! Let's race to Cruachan. Go, Grey Macha, Go!"

The three chariots disappeared in a cloud of dust ...

At the fort, Queen Maeve's daughter, Finnabair, burst into the Queen's chamber breathless and in a state of blushing agitation.

Turning from the window from which she had been admiring the mellow sunset, Maeve raised a questioning eyebrow and she snorted with a contemptuous curl of her lips,

"To what do I owe this unseemly intrusion? Is it to your consuming devotion to your mother, or your fevered desire to favour some adolescent man-at-arms? Perhaps it is too much to hope that for once you have come to elicit my advice before embarking on such an empty dalliance! So what is it then?"

"OH, mother," whined the plump, mousy pubescent, "there is a strange and terrifying trembling of the earth and a great cloud of dust upon the horizon. I fear some fearsome host of giants is about to descend upon us."

Queen Maeve, blonde and fair of face, matronly yet still passably nubile, could understandably have despised such a plain and spotty offspring. Finnabair seemed to be the disappointingly crabbed fruit of her mother's womb, but the Queen could not blame her husband, for the girl's real father could have been anyone from the ranks of her vast army.

"I rejoice that at last the earth, though not having thus far moved beneath you, has conceded at least a tremble, even if it has taken a frenzied host of giants riding in concert to achieve it."

"Mother, it is no time for teasing."

"Of course it is not. Now go and prepare the cooling vats for these hot and rutting travellers, whoever they might be, for fear they turn their unholy ardour upon my household."

Unholy ardour! Cúchulainn, Conor and Laoghaire might have set the Princess Finnabair's heart a flutter with desire for some of that, but what does her mother have in store for them, and which of them can persuade their royal hosts that he should be awarded The Champion's Portion?