CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Music to Scheme By

As the weary Ulster visitors snored on into the morning in the haunted guest chamber, Queen Maeve was wide awake and very angry.

Her husband, shoulders hunched dejectedly as though warding off the volleys of vituperation directed at him by Maeve, stood by the window.

"Here is yet another complicated bind in which your royal ineptitude has placed us! Now we can't pronounce the neutral judgement that by fleeing from our phantom cats, Conor's trio failed our test. Neither can we take these Ulstermen to task for their defilement, through their lewd deportment of our daughter's innocence."

Aillil, stifled a chortle at the idea of Finnabair's innocence as Maeve ranted on:

"Now we must devise a new test for these cunning Northerners. Furthermore I have to lie to explain your sudden absence!"

She suddenly grinned mischievously and turned her back on her husband, muttering sotto vocé.

"Come to think of it, while you are away I shall be free to lie WITH, as well as TO whichever willing warrior wants to show his gratitude."

Aillil, with a brilliant purple eye and purple streaks on his cheek, turned from the window begging.

"Absence, my dear? But I want to stay and help you!"

"You have helped me quite enough, I suggest you go out by the back gate. Your chariot and escort await you there. Wear your hooded cloak, you will need it to conceal the evidence of last night's misadventure. Take Lutheramaun with you, that is, of course, if you can find him."

Aillil, with the sullenness of a scolded child, stood wistfully before Maeve, shifting from foot to foot.

"Dear, sweet Maeve," he lisped, "I found my beloved Lutheramaun this morning, underneath our bed. He produced a ragged teddy bear from under his cloak and held it up triumphantly.

Maeve beamed with feigned delight.

"Oh, darling Aillil, I'm so happy for you both. Now run along, put on your cloak and be good. I shall miss you."

"And we both shall miss you," sighed Aillil sadly as he closed the door.

As soon as Aillil's footsteps died away Maeve tugged energetically on her bell-rope. Immediately a servant appeared. He was a mawkish, slack-limbed youth wearing a fixed, idiotic stare.

"You rang, your Majesty."

"Yes, yes, I know I rang! Go smartly and tell my harpist, Fiona, to come to me."

He bent his head as though ducking the sarcasm rather than as a gesture of obeisance.

"Yes your majesty."

Maeve paced rapidly back and forth past the window, frowning, deep in thought and started in mild surprise at the sound of a timid knock on the door.

"Tar isteach!"

It was Fiona, fearful and pallid, panting loudly and struggling as she hefted her harp into the chamber.

Clearly the servant had warned her of the Queen's petulant mood and the need for haste. Maeve, however, greeted her with an affectionate smile and rushed to the girl's assistance.

"Fiona my dear, forgive me for calling on you at such an early hour. There is hard thinking to be done upon a vexing matter and your music will both calm and fructify my barren mind."

Maeve took up a position at the window, contemplating a great bank of cloud approaching from the distant Atlantic. As Fiona began to sing softly, her harp tinkling like spring rain. Lulled by the music into a state of serene pensiveness Maeve calmly turned her attention anew to the issue of the Ulstermen and the problems which they were creating for her.

She must stay in the good grace of Conor MacNessa and on friendly terms with the fierce men of Eamhain Macha. They made better friends than enemies as she had learned to her cost in the past. Besides, she reflected, if she is ever to seize her chance when the men of Ulster are stricken by the Cess Níonden Uladh, her enmity and her attack totally unexpected.

The time was coming, she believed, when the proud kings and queens of the five provinces of Ireland would have to accept a united Ireland or become the vassals of a new wave of overlords from across the neighbouring seas. Their greedy eyes already on the fair land of Erin, the emerald gem of the western world.

As she watched a dark veil of distant rain descend from the approaching cloud bank, the gods seemed to be whispering an ingenious scheme in her ear. She smiled, looking down into the courtyard where the sturdy young apprentice warriors of Connacht, accoutred in their armour, were harnessing their chariots in preparation for a strenuous day on the playing fields of Cruachan.

"Thank you Fiona, now please ask my man-in-waiting to kindly come to me."

Fiona rose to her feet, curtsied and hurried to the door. As the door closed behind her, Maeve's smile darkened into a cunning smirk. She gave herself a congratulatory hug, rubbed her palms vigorously and laughed with an unwholesome glee as the girl returned with the messenger.

"Go at once, and tell Gowa, my metalsmith I have a need that takes the fullest precedence. He must defer all other undertakings and come here right away. Do you fully understand what I have told you?"

The mawkish youth looked at the floor.

"Yes your majesty, I do."

The youth bowed awkwardly, made a self-conscious sideways lunge for the door and disappeared. Maeve addressed the harpist in a more civil tone.

"Fiona, please sing me a gentle song."

As Fiona was playing the introduction, Maeve turned again towards the window and let her gaze fly away to the far horizon, murmuring to herself.

"Champion's Portion indeed! They each have but one portion that would interest me, but the price is too high.

She gave a short laugh.

Fiona abruptly stopped singing, startled.

"Your Pardon, Majesty, I was playing and singing while you were speaking. I did not hear."

"You have not offended me, dear child. I was merely musing, thinking aloud. It helps to tease out the problems of state that never leave me in peace. Please, continue with your song."

Nearing noon, the great armada of rain clouds from the Atlantic had sailed past far to the north and the rain stopped with the promise of a clear blue sky. (Now here's a bit of interactive fun dear reader, stop the rain for Maeve with your mouse!)

Fiona resumed singing and playing while Maeve paced impatiently, awaiting her metalsmith.

"Whatever can be keeping this man? Silly old duffer. Oh, Fiona, forgive me. I've interrupted you again. Please, once again from the top."

Maeve sighed as she gazed from her window across the playing field of Cruachan where the three Ulstermen were in a discussion with one of the trainees.

The boy, with a curl of his lip, addressed Cúchulainn:

"I have heard of your strength and skill at hurling, great Cúchulainn. May I demonstrate how I might be even better than you? Look, there."

He pointed to a flight of ten wild geese approaching in formation very high up.
"Watch closely."

Ulric tossed up the leather sliotar, and with a mighty swing struck it with the hurley, creating a deafening crack. The sliotar curved upwards with astonishing speed towards the distant V formation of the birds. Suddenly the leading goose seemed to explode in a cloud of feathers.

It spiralled to earth, leaving a scatter of feathers drifting and dispersing forlornly downwind. Ulric stuck out his chest, strutting, pouting, posturing and simpering triumphantly.

"There, hound of Culann, would you care to take a shot before those geese are out of sight?"

Taking the hurley, Cúchulainn, like a conjurer, produced his legendary silver ball from under his enchanted cloak. He shaded his eyes and looked far to the west.

"How far away, young Ulric, is yonder mountain?"

Ulric, puzzled, squinted at Cúchulainn. Then he looked at the distant mountain.

"It is ten leagues. But look the other way! Hurry, or your targets will have gone far to the east."

Cúchulainn tossed the ball in the air and struck it with such force that the hurley disintegrated in a shower of whining splinters. The silver ball disappeared westward.

"My hurley!" roared the outraged youth. "The finest seasoned ash, it belonged to my grandfather!"

His face was a mask of indignation and tearful rage as he looked at the departing geese, then at Cúchulainn.

"And where is your ball?" he asked at last, helplessly.

The ball is on its way to that mountain."

"But that's ridiculous. That mountain is ten leagues from here. No one could pretend to strike a ball that far!"

Cúchulainn smiled gently.

"Even as you speak it's on its way back."

Ulric stared incredulously in the direction of the distant mountain as Cúchulainn laughed.

"No Ulric, don't look there, look the other way to the east at your flight of geese."

Ulric mystified, turned and stared after the geese, now far to the east. Suddenly, one by one in quick succession, the great white birds disintegrated in a long trail of feathers. After a few seconds there was a loud bang high up in the air.

"What, where, what is that noise?"

The boy's insolence had vanished. Without it he was a bewildered child in the presence of mystery.

"That was a shock wave set up by the ball.

"But the geese, all of them?"

"They felt no pain. They are now safe in Tír na nÓg.

"You mean, the ball went up their .. "

"Precisely, beginning with the last in line!"

"And out their beaks?"

"One by one, beginning with the last and ending with the leader of the flight."

"Ending with the second in command, you mean! Remember, it was I, Ulric, who brought their leader down!"

Cúchulainn, looked up at the sky and held out his hand.

"You did indeed, Ulric. You did, a mhic."

Ulric stared at Cúchulainn's outstretched hand, a quizzical frown on his freckled face.

"Are you expecting it to rain today, Cúchulainn, from such a clear blue sky?"

"No, young Ulric."

The silver ball dropped into Cúchulainn's hand with a gentle plop.

"I'm sure we'll have no rain today," he said.

Laoghaire was about to hurl another jibe at Cúchulainn for making so free with a mere boy, when the ground began to shudder in a series of violent shocks. Some young horses shied and bolted, their empty chariots bumping and juddering after them, charioteers in hot pursuit, shouting vainly at the terrified animals. Many of the boys, and even some of the men fled in disorder in every direction. Young Ulric, given the opportunity of displaying his mettle, faced Cúchulainn, arms akimbo.

"Is this more of those shock waves set up by your silver ball, Cúchulainn?" he demanded.

Cúchulainn, ignored the return of the insolent tone.

"No! It cannot be that, it's rather some devilish coincidence. Like the ricocheting ball, it too is coming at us from the West!

Look, there, above the crest of that ridge. What is it?"

"Perhaps," said the boy, "you have displeased some peevish god with your supersonic ball."

Laoghaire and Conal moved nervously to Cúchulainn's side, anxiously peering at the ridge to the west.

"Look at that!" roared Laoghaire, pointing unnecessarily.

"Whatever can it be?" gasped Conal.

"It looks like a gigantic pillar rearing and weaving in the sky," said Laoghaire.
"Yes," said Cúchulainn, "and it is coming this way!"

Is this another of Maeve's illusions or are our heroes in real danger this time?  Log on every Sunday for further chapters.