CHAPTER TWO - Professor Traver's amazing story

The tape hissed momentarily and the well-modulated Irish voice of Professor Travers issued from the machine:

In this twentieth century I am an Otherself.

My primary, or Ownself is of the ancient race of Tuatha de Danaan, early pre-Gaelic inhabitants of Ireland. My official title is Teachtaire Daghda. It means loosely speaking, one who does the bidding of the god Daghda and acts as his representative. Daghda was ( is ) the father of all the gods in the Celtic Pantheon. He is believed by some to be one and the same as Zeus of the Greeks.

I had, from boyhood been tutored in the deepest mysteries of existence and after much diligent study and arduous esoteric exercises, inaugurated as a high druid. To the people of the time we were regarded as magicians or wizards, that is to say we had knowledge and abilities to which the generality of humans were once, but no longer are heir. You see, ordinary humans, being of a lower order in the spirit/matter hierarchy were disinherited as a result of the Great Primeval Catastrophe.

I go by the name of Tashtalee which means traveller.

The residents of Ossageel Asylum here in Ireland have in a jocose way, come to call me by the more specific name of Amtashtalee, meaning Time Traveller. Modern Christians, Jews and Muslims might, if they believed in me as a genuine servant messenger and traveller between the unknown and known realms, regard me as an angel! Hindus might classify me as an Avatar.

The Great Primeval Catastrophe of which I spoke, the one that alienated humankind, is by the nature of things beyond the range of ordinary human reason and understanding. The Great Primeval Catastrophe or Big Bang, can however be described briefly, in simplistic terms, as follows:

In the beginning there was no such thing as matter, no material existence. All that existed was one infinite, unified tranquil ocean of consciousness totally at peace with itself. Then a powerful Antithetical Principle arose, an evil personage, the Bearer of Light, who perverted the Light with which he had been entrusted and turned it to darkness.

Now instead of a benign uniformity of spiritual consciousness we have the fragments of the original, tranquil ocean of Mind, re-energising and re-organising matter in a frighteningly perverse way. It explains the ruinous conflicts that characterise our earthly existence even to this day.

As I said, this is a simplistic explanation. Modern people call the lore of the ancients concerning these things 'myths'. So be it, the mythology of today was the science, they called it magic.

So much for the sketchy background. Now I come to what is of immediate interest to you Morgan, and to your friend Schumacher, the subject of your Frozen Man. I know all about him. I know who he is and I know how he came to be in your Central Park. I know how and why.

Pretend for a moment that I am a traditional Celtic story-teller, relax and enjoy the rest of my story as though it were fiction.

Once upon a time Daghda, the Zeus of the Celtic pantheon, had a tryst arranged with the mysterious Boand, a demi-goddess who lived at Brú na Bóinne, abode of the Sídhe, and entrance to the Otherworld, on the banks of the River Boyne in Ireland, or An Bhóinn in the Gaelic, the river named after the goddess.

Their sole objective was to produce a son, Aedh, a personage whose carefully timed, propitious entrance into the world could only be through a very tiny window, a mere peep-hole, of opportunity. Aedh was pre-ordained out of eternity to be born at that specific instant in time and space, calculated with minute precision by the druids. His birth would release humankind at last and return us to blissful, harmonious unity.

Daghda, in human form, came as arranged to the trysting place the evening before Boand. In accordance with the ordained ritual, he ordered his servants to prepare a meal of porridge made from oats grown by an elect body of druids on the island of Reachrainn (Lambay).

So the servants of Daghda built an immense fire in a hollow among the great mounds, sutteraines and standing stones of the Sídhe. Upon the blaze they set a gigantic iron cauldron filled with Boyne water. They used a thousand measures of the sacred long-grain oats, the equivalent of about half a ton. Then, as the porridge cooked Daghda and his entire entourage went down to the river to perform their ritual ablutions.

While they were thus diverted, a golden chariot drawn by two speckled horses appeared out of the woods. It had two young warriors on board and there were twelve severed human heads swinging on their chariot rails. They reined in under the trees, tethered the horses and approached Daghda's camp. At the sight of the porridge bubbling away the two men began to lick their lips and look furtively around. Seeing no one, they picked up two spoons from the ceremonial table and dipped them into the cauldron.

Suddenly two of Daghda's warriors appeared from among the wagons and attacked the young men. After a brief struggle they humiliated Daghda's warriors by taking away their swords as though they were toys, then the bigger of the two strangers banged their heads together and laid them out cold. Hastily and wordlessly the two strangers quickly devoured all the porridge.

Then to their dismay, when they turned around and took a few steps towards their chariot they found they were walking towards the camp again. No matter how often they turned to run away they found themselves facing Daghda's camp. They even tried to flee in the opposite direction towards the river; but it was futile. Whatever direction they took they ended up facing the camp, trapped by Daghda's powerful magic.

When Daghda returned with his servants and myself his chief druid to find the two thieves, he was furious.

When the insolent interlopers moved to draw their swords their arms became paralysed. By then Daghda's two unconscious warriors had come to their senses and told their master the story. The Daghda was so enraged that he tore his garments to shreds, ripped out handfuls of hair from his head and beard and with his fingernails drew blood from his face and chest. He threw himself on the ground and roared so loudly, it is said, that every bird in Ireland took flight to Britain and did not return for seven years. Other species such as snakes and weasels died of fright and are to this day extinct in Ireland.

Daghda roared:

"If you had asked me to feed you I would have done so gladly. It is crime enough that you should steal another man's food but you are Knights of the Red Branch, sworn to the service of justice and chivalry, while the victim of your crime is the god of all the gods. Infinitely worse than that you have foiled a cosmic event, the conception of Aedh, and the salvation of the world. The whole human race, including yourselves, are your victims."

After pacing, deep in thought for several minutes Daghda faced the two miscreants and pronounced a terrible sentence on them.

"I'm sorry young sirs but I, being an embodiment of eternal justice, am sworn to restoring and maintaining the order that was destroyed in the Great Catastrophe. It would therefore be an offence against justice if I were not to punish you both, not alone for your theft but for your betrayal of your knightly vocations."

Daghda placed a ceremonial crown of gold on his head and raising his hands he pronounced sentence first upon the charioteer.

"You Laeg, charioteer of Cúchulainn, will be replaced by your Otherself, in which form you will continue to serve Great King Conor Mac Nessa, for whose sake I am being merciful. Your Ownself however, must wander the length and breadth of Ireland for two thousand years, earning your bread by transporting strangers and their goods."

Laeg seemed to be having difficulty assimilating the enormity of his punishment because his face had become pale as death and his knees shook visibly.

Turning to Cúchulainn, (for that's who your so-called frozen man is), Daghda said:

"In deference to your high station and your heroic exploits, you will not have any conscious time to serve nor arduous labours to perform. Your Otherself will continue to serve Conor Mac Nessa; but your Ownself, will remain frozen in the ice of the far northern world for .."

He paused. Although he had fixed the young warrior with a stern gaze there were tears welling in his eyes.

"For two thousand years."

A great chorus of gasps arose from the bystanders. Cúchulainn, without flinching, steadily held Daghda's gaze. In an even voice he asked:

"How and where will I be released when I have served my term of punishment?"

"That, is the harshest part of your punishment. You will be abandoned naked on one of a group of dreary mud flats on the farther shore of the great western sea.

It will be this time of the year, the moon before Bealtaine, and it will be uncommonly cold."

At that point I was so overcome with compassion for these two great and good men that I made the mistake of speaking out boldly, pleading on their behalf.

"Great custodian of justice, surely you will not visit such a harsh punishment on great Cúchulainn who has so long been a selfless champion of the poor and oppressed? I mean, two thousand years frozen in ice? For what? Stealing some porridge? Is this not an overly harsh punishment?"

"Stealing porridge or stealing gold is an evil act that adds to the fund of evil in creation," Daghda answered quietly. "By stealing this porridge, moreover, these men have caused us to miss a critical window of opportunity for the salvation of all creation. My son Aedh will be born; but now not as the messiah. He will be a mere mortal. We will, therefore, have to wait for another divine saviour to come. Such a one will have to be powerful indeed. He may well fail, unless he be the Son of some greater God who as yet remains unknown to us."

In the deathly hush that followed, even the grasshoppers ceased their chirping and the tall reeds by the river stopped waving and whispering. From the withering look the Daghda gave me I realised I had, to put it mildly spoken out of turn.

Always prone to absent-mindedness, I had forgotten that the two Ulster warriors had upset the delicate balance of the very Cosmos. I held my breath and my heart began to race. When at last he released me from his gaze he turned his head and stared at Cúchulainn for several seconds. For an instant I dared to think that he might have heeded my plea for clemency, he began once more to pace back and forth, stroking his chin reflectively. Finally he spoke to Cúchulainn:

"Yours is indeed a harsh punishment. However, I will ordain that you shall have a helper at the end of your sentence."

"Will it be Farroch, my Guardian Spirit?" Cúchulainn asked.

"Farroch will always be your Guardian Spirit." Daghda replied, not looking at Cúchulainn, but at me!

"The helper I will provide, will be a man of flesh and blood like yourself; but he will be wise in the ways of the world of two thousand years hence."

Here he paused, turned slowly and fixed me with his terrible gaze once more.

"Your helper will be my chief druid and messenger, Taistealaí."

I believe my heart stopped for ten seconds. My skin crawled and my knees began to shake violently as I realised that sentence had been passed on me for my impertinence. Daghda raised his arms again and shouted some unintelligible words in a terrible voice that echoed and re-echoed across the Boyne valley.

There was first a blinding flash of light and then a brief interval of total darkness. When the light returned I watched the two Ulstermen, or rather their Otherselves, walk as though in a trance, back to their chariot.

Without so much as a glance at us they unhitched the horses, boarded the chariot, and disappeared among the trees. That was the last I saw of them and that is how I know who your frozen man is. I wish I could prove it to you.

"And that," said Morgan, switching off the Walkman, "is the story Travers told me on the phone."

Bracing his arms against the edge of the desk, Schumacher drew in several deep breaths, exhaling noisily. For the first time Morgan saw the hitherto inscrutable Schumacher become excited.

"Morgan, have you read the lab reports on the Ice Man?"

As he spoke he strode briskly to his filing cabinet and produced a manila folder.

"Here," he said coming back behind his desk and flipping through the pages. "Just read this part, it's all we need to know for now."

He put the open folder down in front of Morgan and stabbed it with his finger.
"Here is the report on the contents of the stomach."

Morgan gave a loud gasp.

"Porridge! Then it's, it's really him. Cúchulainn!"

Schumacher slapped Morgan heartily on the back.

"Let's have a drink, then I'll call my contacts in Immigration and at the Irish Embassy. And of course my old friend Bart Johnstable, Irish Airlines' Vice President-North America. We've got to get an illegal Irish immigrant deported."

It was the first time Morgan had heard Schumacher laugh.

Two days later Aer Lingus laid on special VIP handling for Mr Setanta Cooke-Cullen and his travelling companions, two rather inebriated academics singing Bheir mí-ó, and an attractive, sober and fully self-possessed doctor Emer Farrell.

The comatose Cú, slumped in his wheelchair, was mumbling away in Old Irish in a specially curtained-off section of first class. One of the singers was off-key and his Gaelic accent decidedly in the Germanic sector of Indo-Germanic. The other had a strong, true voice, not Gaelic, but rich in the vibrant Brythonic cadences of the Welsh valleys.

So, will the comatose Cú really turn out to be the legendary Cúchulainn when they examine him at the asylum in Ireland, and if so, can he manage to regain his senses? Log on every Sunday for further chapters.