CHAPTER TWENTY
Chariot Joyriders Strike

Cúchulainn's brain stalled in its attempt to make sense of where he was and how he had got there. He turned his head painfully and started.

There was Dechtire his mother, dressed in the most bizarre garments. She wore a dark, wide-brimmed hat that shaded her eyes. A string of pearls gleamed about her neck. Most startling of all, she had a dead, black fox draped about her shoulders. The unfortunate creature's eyes were wide open in the unfocused stare of death.

Cúchulainn looked to Dechtire questioningly.

"Mother," he croaked with an effort that sent waves of agony through his head. "Who is...."

The woman leaned forward, eyes coming out of the shadow of her hat, with a look of maternal solicitude.

As his eyes adjusted to the light he saw, standing at the foot of the strange bed, a smirking Bricriú.

Said Bricriú, "He's been like this all day, drifting in and out of consciousness. I assure you, however, that the prognosis is promising."

Cúchulainn struggled to demand an explanation but his mouth would not open. He drifted off into darkness again.

In his timeless state, he drifted back up out of the darkness into semi-consciousness. Someone was gently stroking his forehead, his cheeks, his hair.

Opening his eyes briefly he saw the beautiful face with its sad smile, Emer. He had a sudden urge to clasp her in his arms and smother her with kisses; but his limbs would not respond to the urge. He wanted to say:

"Emer, dear Emer, I love you ...."

But he only gave a short, dry croak. She placed a beaker of cool water to his lips and he drank long and gratefully, but he was sinking back into the darkness. Emer knew that, she kept hold of his hand continued to whisper reassuringly until she could see that he was now far removed from her. She released his hand and brushed back his hair.

When he awoke once more his body was in contact with a delicately scented sheepskin. He tried to arrest the fleeting remnants of his strange dream, to make sense of it, but there were too many distractions, the scent of the sheepskin for one. That scent was not one he associated with any living sheep, it was distinctly the preferred perfume of his new friend, Homofeeb. He ventured to open his eyes.

Raising himself into a sitting posture he dared to surveye his surroundings. He smelled the unforgettable eggs and bacon of Homofeeb's iron pan, and sure enough, there he was seated by the fire in Queen Maeve's guest chamber, cooking. He shot Cúchulainn a reproachful grin.

"Naughty hound of Culann!" He teased, fluttering his eyelashes coquettishly.

"Good morning, great quaffer of wine and devourer of oxen. How is breakfast to be? Fowl's eggs, sunny side up, or easy over?

The stricken warrior groaned, fell back on the bed and rolled over facing the wall. Homofeeb laughed:

"I thought so, easy over, and stone cold."

Cúchulainn raised himself up on one elbow.

"Has my horse been fed and watered?"

"Ah!" Whined Homofeeb, pouting reproachfully, "your greatest need is a not a man, nor a woman, nor a chicken, nor even an egg, your primary concern is for a horse!"

"It is important that Grey Macha be fed every day on barley and honey and watered with rain water. If not he will lose his magical powers of strength and speed plus his ability to gallop on water and even, on occasion fly high in the air. Without proper care he is no better than a coarse draft-horse, a lowly beast of burden."

There was a long silence as Homofeeb busied himself preparing breakfast.

"Well?" Cúchulainn asked impatiently.

Homofeeb stood stock still and stared sadly at the pan for a moment.

"I have bad news and good news. Which first?"

"On this dark and painful morning you had better gladden my heart before depressing my head!"

Homofeeb shifted nervously from foot to foot, staring at the floor.

"The good news is that Grey Macha has not been fed and watered in the prescribed manner."

Cúchulainn turned from the wall, a bewildered expression on his face. He tried to stand but fell back on the bed, propped up by his arms.

"Good news!" he roared. "How can that .... ?"

Homofeeb held up his hand.

"Patience, the bad news is that a quartet of vulgar youths made off with Grey Macha, and your chariot last night.

Cúchulainn leaped to his feet in rage but immediately, clutching his head in his hands, fell back onto the bed, moaning.

"What! Grey Macha stolen! Please try to explain how I may rejoice at the news that my wonderful horse has been left unfed, unattended, and finally stolen? And my priceless golden chariot! What news could be good enough to lift my spirits from the darkness of the underworld now?"

Homofeeb, a pleading look on his face, approached Cúchulainn, proffering a platter of eggs and bacon along with a large wheaten loaf.

"Well, it is in the circumstances perhaps only relatively good news. Grey Macha has not been fed on barley and honey nor has he been slaked with the water of the soft Irish rain, it is not so much good news for you as it is bad news for the young villains who made off with your horse and chariot. Bad news for those thugs must surely be good news for you."

"They'll have need of joy when I catch up with them! And catch them I will, knowing that Grey Macha will be unable to travel far at any speed.

Indeed soon he will refuse to move a step. Which direction did they take?"

There was a loud rustle from a pile of straw in the corner of the chamber. To Cúchulainn's surprise, Mickser emerged from it, grimacing and massaging his head.

"Dey went off wit demselves, shoutin' and roarin' ou'a dem. An' I'd reckinize their dialect a mile away. Dey were from Hurdleford, Cushliffe, Dubhlinn, Black Pool, Ballaclee, town of a tousind names and as manny wundhers. Dey could be from nowhere else in de wide world."

"Then if they spoke in your tongue they must also be from your time! Have people knowledge of time travel in your age, Mickser?"

"Der's some dat claim dey have, said Mickser pulling wisps of straw from his hair and his ragged clothes. "But, apart from your man dat left me in de lurch here, I never seen anny proof."

"But what claims have you heard? Some at least of them must be true, on the evidence of last night's events! And if they found their way here, they will find their way back. But how?"

"Well der is some says that der are certain concoctions, recipes, like poppy seeds, chopped musheruins of a special kind and stuff like dat, if ye were t'ate dem, like, ah but sure it's only hullucinaishins. Looka here, I wouldn't worry too much about it. But fair jews t'yer two men from Eamhain Macha! Dey'll soon run dem t'earth. They're de boys dat'll soon ...."

"You mean Laoghaire and Conal?" roared Cúchulainn, this time successfully rising and staying, if swaying, on his feet.

"The very men, an' no udders. Fair play t'dem, drunk an' all as dey were, they harnessed up der chariots an' headed off after de jie-riders."

"Headed after them? Laoghaire and Conal? You sure?"

"Sure as shootin'. Sure, what else would send dem careerin, off into the dark o' night an' der heads longin' for de beds an' de stillness?"

Cúchulainn considered the rhetorical question, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"H'm. What else indeed! What else? Something tells me their self-sacrifice is not for love of me, Mickser. Which way did you say you saw my Ulster brothers go?"

"I didn't say. But, come t'tink iv it, an' now dat y' mention it, dey headed a sort iv norteast be east."

"In the direction of Eamhain Macha! I thought as much. I smell a rat. Those boys are up to no good."

Homofeeb, rubbed his forehead, eyes closed reliving the theft in night.

"Oh dear, I can still see those ruffians now, making off with your horse and chariot. Even if we could get to Hurdleford on the Liffe and recover them ...

"An' if dey haven't burned the chariot out afthur dey're don wit' it .... "

Cúchulainn interrupted.

"But Homofeeb, how on earth could we get to Hurdleford, the other side of the country, and then get to Eamhain Macha before Conal and Laoghaire arrive there, exulting in the fact that I'm late again. They will use anything to besmirch me even though ...."

Cúchulainn checked himself from blurting out the secret of the gold chalice. He hid a furtive smile behind his hand as he realised that he would quickly wipe the self-satisfied grins off their faces when he produced the chalice with a dramatic flourish and claimed the Champion's Portion.

"What about de swans?" Shouted Mickser, rising to his feet, his face aglow with inspiration.

"Aoife and de swans!

"Sorry," said Cúchulainn. No good. Aoife was a once-off chance. And I can't use thought travel till the next new moon. There is one other possibility though ...."

His musings were cut short by a loud moan from another pile of straw by the door. The trio wheeled around, gaping. A dishevelled figure, a wiry, elderly man with long white hair and wispy white whiskers sat up painfully and regarded them through half-closed, bloodshot eyes. In his black tunic and cloak, he clambered laboriously to his feet picking straw from his hair as the three men gasped unison.

"Amtashtalee!"

"Well, well, well," roared Mickser angrily, his eyes alight with a mixture of rage and surprise. "It's not before time you turned up."

Amtashtalee, paying more attention to the eggs and rashers on his platter than to the time-marooned Mickser.

"Who the hell are you?"

"So ye don't remember? Let me refresh yer memory den. I met you in de College Mooney's Bar, it must be nearly two tousind year ago, on de eve of the Connacht hurlin' final. I spent a fortune in drink on ye, seein' as how y'were skint and far from home."

"I have no such recollection," said Amtashtalee, his mouth full of food.

"Well houl' on den and I'll help yer recollection. Give it time an' it'll mature. We were bot' well on in our cups when I arxed you if ye had anny tickets for de Connacht Final, are y'wit me? Right, den .... "

Amtashtalee, taking a huge slice of the wheaten loaf, shook his head unconvincingly, as Mickser continued:

"As it happened, you produced two tickets ou' o' yer pocket for de game, an' a leer o' self satisfaction on yer face. Annyway, the pint is dat I never laid eyes on y' from dat day t'diss. Not only did y' take me to de wrong match, but y'transported me to de wrong bleedin' millennium! An, just t'rub it in, left me here!"

Amtashtalee grunted absently, mopping his platter with the hunk of bread.

"There's no sauce like hunger, my compliments to the chef. These eggs and rashers are delicious."

"Wouldja listen t'yer man! "

Amtashtalee shot Mickser a good-natured grin but he turned away in disgust, taking a few symbolic steps away from the time traveller and his brimming plate. Taking advantage of the lull in the-one way hostility, Cúchulainn greeted the hungry arrival.

"So once again you pop up like a solicitous genie, Amtashtalee! It seems to me you may well be able to serve all three of us this time"

"All four of us, you mean!" said Farbeg, bouncing lithely through the dog flap. "Or had you forgotten a major benefactor?"

The door opened an instant later and Laeg, muddy and weary, appeared.

"Make that a quintet," he added with a tired, defeated smile and turned to address Cúchulainn.

"I'm glad I was wrong about you. I thought you had fled with Laoghaire and Conal to Eamhain Macha."

"It grieves me that you could have judged me so unjustly," said Cúchulainn, "but what makes you suspect they would be heading for Eamhain Macha? What motivation would they have for such a journey?"

"Now that I know you did not go with them, some intuition tells me that they know something you don't."

Farbeg, wagging a didactic finger, broke in on the exchange.

"Your intuition has not let you down Laeg. Not only do they each know something you, Cúchulainn do not know, but each one of the three of you knows something that each of the other two does not know!"

"I adore riddles!" Cooed Homofeeb, clapping his hands in mock excitement. "Anyone else for breakfast.

Farbeg sat down beside Cúchulainn and began to whisper hurriedly.

"Last night's banquet was too much for me so soon after the others, here and in Eamhain Macha. So I went in search of a quiet haven in which to secrete myself. Well what place was more secure against noisy intrusions than her Majesty's chamber?"

Cúchulainn gaped at the jester.

"You don't mean you ...."

"Yes, I do. I was in the great cavern of her desk. Oh, my poor innocent! She told all three of you, one by one, the same story, with minor variations. She also gave each of you a chalice, gold to you, silver to Laoghaire and bronze to Conal."

Homofeeb, still in exuberant mood interrupted them.

"Come on, you pair of conspirators, before your ravenous friends leave you to starve."

Cúchulainn, still gaping in disbelief at the jester's revelation, joined the others at the table to be waited on and fussed over by Homofeeb.

When they had finished eating, Amtashtalee holding a silver flask, addressed them.

"Gentlemen: I can serve you, not perhaps as well as you need, but as best I can. I fear the quality of that service is not as good as it was, but if you are prepared to allow for slight errors of navigation I will gladly attempt to transport you to the Town of the Hurdle Ford to recover Cúchulainn's horse and chariot."

"Well," said Cúchulainn, "if you'll pardon the wordplay, there's no time like the future."

"No," agreed Homofeeb, hastily clearing the table of crockery and cutlery, "there is not a moment to lose."

"Then," said Amtashtalee, huddle together ...."

"Ooh! I'm all for that!" Chirped Homofeeb.

Amtashtalee produced his flask.

"Now, bow your heads, close your eyes and I shall cover us with my cloak. Ready?"

"Ready," echoed Homofeeb, standing closer to Cúchulainn.

The five men knelt in a tight circle on the bare stone floor under the table, heads pressed together. Amtashtalee, with a vigorous sweep of his arm, sent his black cloak billowing over them.

"Now my friends, pass this flask around and let each of you take a good swig from it."

"Thunder juice!" exclaimed Cúchulainn as they each took a swig from Amtashtalee's flask.

There was a pause before the potion took effect. Cúchulainn felt a rush of blood to the head and a sudden feeling of weightlessness followed by a great sound like rushing air across dark mountains. Millions of flashing, lights exploded around him for a few moments. Then silence.

For several minutes neither Cúchulainn nor his companions were eager to let go of the ecstatic glow of inviolable sanctuary in which they found themselves.

He was certain he was listening to the beating of a loving heart through the sternum of the great Earth Mother; but as his elation waned he realised it was the thump of his own heart and its accompanying rushing whisper inside his head.

When the light hit them it was like being unceremoniously ejected from the warmth of the womb. Amtashtalee's hand shook violently as he raised the cloak, transmitting his anxiety to his companions, his fear that he might have blundered into some demonic realm from which there was no exit.

So where are our heroes now, AND are Amtashtalee's fears unfounded? Log on every Sunday for further chapters.