CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Cú Meets the Dubs

Mickser looked around approvingly.

"Yes Copplestown, God's own country and poppillated by de flower of his childher, de salt o' de earth, a good place de search for Grey Macha. An' who knows, we might even get a lead on de chariot as well."

A large, rugged, balding, middle-aged man, clad in baggy trousers and soiled vest, emerged from one of the houses and hurried across the grass towards them smiling broadly. In a deep, coarse voice he greeted Mickser from afar..

"Ah, Mickser me oul segotia! I heard ye were out in de Hospice dryin' out this last few months."

"Ah, how'ya Nedzer," cried Mickser brightly. "Here y'are lads. This is an oul' mate o' mine, Nedzer Buckley, de biggest spoofer between here an' de Great Smoky Mountains."

After the introductions Laeg, Farbeg and Homofeeb slipped away to join the little children at their play. They flocked around the three men, fascinated at their colourful dress. All over the green the little ones were abandoning their games and rushing to the three Ulstermen.

Homofeeb, with an apologetic smile, gently took a red tin whistle from one of the small boys and essayed a few scales and arpeggios on the unfamiliar instrument. He licked his fingers, placed the feadóg (tin whistle) in his mouth and launched into a skirling reel.

Mickser turning to Nedzer, fixed him with a frown.

"Will y' be serious for a minute, me friend here is lookin' for a valuable horse and a chariot that was rawbed offa him," said Mickser in the parlance of Dublin's petty criminal fraternity, who don't know, and care even less, about the difference between robbing and stealing.

Nedzer, put his arm around Mickser's shoulders.

"Ah, sure ye know yerself, how right y' are t'start lookin' here."

Turning to Cúchulainn, Nedzer explained.

"De lads an' lassies here, as horse owners, would have der ears t'de ground about annyting t'do wit de nags. Dey do have a great interest in de gee-gees."

"Where do they get the horses? Rustle them?" Quipped Mickser.

"Ah, norratall," said Nedzer, addressing Cúchulainn again. "Dey do buy dem cheap down in de market from de travellin' community. Long ago dem travellers would've butchered the oul nags for der skins, hooves an' bones. Dats when some o' dem was bona fide knackers an' tinkers. Nowadays dey would butcher and skin annyone who called dem by dem professional names."

Farbeg, bored with the conversation, broke into a wild dance that included somersaults, hand springs and cartwheels. The children, still gathered around, clapped and shrieked with delight.

Mickser gave Nedzer a playful punch on the shoulder.

"Leave the kids to play with the jester, now will y'kindly explain how they can afford t'feed and stable de horses? Sure they're not belongin' t'wealt'y families. A horse'd ate a workin' man's family ou'a house an' home, f'jay's sake."

"Dey started off just grazin' dem on de greens in de various housin' estates, and they'd spend some o' der dole money on feed like oats an' bran. In fact, they're after givin' a new lease o' life t'de horse-feed thrade; and of course de grain merchants and de blacksmits and even de vets give them all de help dey can in de way of advice and skills; and they in turn get support from guv'mint agencies because its helpin' t'keep de yoot ou'a mischief."

Mickser dropped the repartee.

"Sure dat's powerful news altogether Nedzer, has it all done you yerself anny good?"

"I meself, person'ly, like, is in charge of the harness-makin'. The guv'mint yoot trainin' crowd has opened a leather workshop t'teach them how t'make their own gear."

"Well, bedad, tings is lookin' up all right."

"Ah, but dat's not de half of it. De best news of all is dis:

An American fillum company is after settlin' permanently in Ireland and dey are goin' t' build stables an' corrals, an' even pay de kids a sorta retainer an' expenses, wit de added chance of bein' employed as extras in de fillums."

"Well, that's great news for de young people," said Mickser enthusiastically as he looked over to the crowd gathered around his friends, "but meanwhile, me friend here has a horse an' chariot t'find."

Suddenly a posse of teenagers on ponies, riding bareback, came galloping round a corner into the estate and reined in at the centre of the green. A slim young lad of twenty or so broke away from the group and wheeled his bay pony over towards Nedzer and Mickser.

As Cúchulainn came over to see what was going on the lad regarded him with open curiosity, and an amused smile spread across his freckled face as Laeg joined them.

"How'ya Nedzer," he chortled brazenly, conducting a head-to-toe appraisal of Cúchulainn. "Is yer men there witcha from Buckin'am Palace? Or are yiz off to de fancy dress dance in Carousers' Night Club?"

Cúchulainn, catching the drift of the Dublin dialect and the innocuous intent of the verbal horseplay, smiled indulgently, and Seán turned his attention to Nedzer again.

"De American fillum crowd is shootin' an ancient Irish battle scene up in Thrawfadda in County Louth. Dey were here t'day lookin' over de horses wit a view t'usin' them. But no piebalds, they said. Dem'll be fine for Indian horses in de westerns, is what they said."

Nedzer grinned from ear to ear.

"Gor dat's great news! How did y' get on wit' oul' Trigger der? Sure he's norra piebald?"

"Dey told me dey'll give Trigger a try and see how he takes to a chariot."

Cúchulainn and Laeg suddenly took a fresh interest. The charioteer's face lit up.

"A chariot did you say?"

"Y'were sayin', about Trigger and de chariot ...." urged Nedzer.

"I was sayin' dat if Trigger takes to the chariot, dey'll hire 'im, and me as an extra. Dey said they'd give me trainin' in drivin' a chariot, an' if dey tink I'm up to it, I'm in business. Looks like me an' oul' Trigger is goin' t' be in de movies!"

Mickser addressed Cúchulainn in a confidential whisper.

"I get de feelin' we should take a trip up t'dis Thrawfadda place and look over de gee-gees an' de chariots. Meanwhile I'll get one o' de kids t'keep an eye out for oul' Grey Macha in de market."

Cúchulainn nodded.

"Good thinking Mickser, get your young friend to keep a handful of barley soaked in honey and rainwater about him. If Grey Macha is within a hundred yards he'll smell it and come at a canter. Let them feed him the mixture and then leap on his back. He'll come straight to me no matter where I am. And no human power will stop him."

The following day, the search continued for Grey Macha and the Chariot. The time travellers sat on a bus heading north from Hurdleford towards Bridgeford, both of which were once shallow river crossings, now known to the people of the twentieth century as Dublin and Drogheda.

This was the first stage of their journey to the film location on Thraw Fada (Long Beach). The bus was full of mainly elderly men and women. However, four noisy, rough-looking young men in the rearmost seat were swigging from cider bottles, singing bawdy songs and shouting obscenities.

As the city gradually thinned into open countryside the bus got stuck behind a herd of cows. The quartet in the back got drunker and louder but when passengers complained to the driver he shrugged telling them quietly:

"I've seen their kind before, it won't be long 'til they get as sick as parrots or doze off. Then they won't be so chirpy when they wake up."

After a brief, false promise of motorway, they were travelling north along a winding country road. Occasionally, vulgarly designed bungalows and big, ostentatious ranch-type houses drifted by the windows, evidence of a growing population of nouveau riche.

As these visual discords flashed past the windows of the bus, the bus driver gripped the wheel more tightly. The four yobs, whose interest extended little further than their bottles, had removed their jumpers and tied them around their waists by the sleeves in what they intended, as Cúchulainn judged, to be a threatening display of their musculature.

The noticeably largest of the four could, with an intensive regimen of diet, exercise and regular sleep, Cúchulainn thought, become a prime physical specimen. As it was, he showed all the signs of a degenerate, overindulgent, slothful lifestyle. Blotchy complexion, puffy eyes, bad teeth and a prodigious overhang of belly.

The bus gained speed and Cúchulainn twitched his own enormous biceps and pectoral in a rhythmic pattern, the Ulster warrior smiled at the pathetic posturing of these pale, nocturnal city creatures but Mickser whispered nervously.

"These gougers seem to be on the lookout for aggro."

Oh no! If these cider swilling yobs think they can 'mess' with Cúchulainn can you imagine what could happen?!! Log on Sunday 12th September for further chapters.