CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Across Inver Colpa to Movieland

As they came to a halt at the river mouth, Cúchulainn noted how steeply the water shelved from turquoise shallow down into a dark, purple deep. Raising his eyes he tried to measure the distance to the farther shore. The river now almost at low tide, was no more than three hundred yards across, he reckoned.

Mickser raised his eyebrows and gaped, pointing at a raft of bulrushes sweeping past and heading for the sea.

"Begod, der's a quare oul' current runnin' der."

"If you're thinking of going swimming in that current," joined in Farbeg eyeing the swirling water, "leave me out!"

Cúchulainn laughed softly and placed his hand on the little jester's head.

"Don't worry old friend, you won't have to swim, leave that to me."

Farbeg looked puzzled but Cúchulainn smiled.

"I'll carry you all safely across."

"Without a boat!" exclaimed Homofeeb, "are you serious?"

Homofeeb, unconvinced began to sob.

"Forgive me, Cúchulainn, as well acquainted as I am with your prowess, on or off dry land and even up in the air, I'm terrified of water."

Cúchulainn looked at his friends with a smile.

"Trust me and we will be across the Bóinne in the twinkling of an eye."  

"We trust you Cúchulainn," whispered Homofeeb.

"Amen." Chorused the others.

"Right then, everybody under my cloak!"

Sheepishly and hesitantly they obeyed with Farbeg leading the way. As he disappeared under the cloak he emitted a loud "WOW!"

One by one they obeyed Cúchulainn's seemingly crazy instruction and one by one their reaction on disappearing under the cloak was "WOW", for they found themselves in a luxurious, brightly lit chamber complete with Parker Knoll reclining armchairs. Then they heard Cúchulainn's voice as if over a long distance:

"Fasten your seat belts and don't sit on anything sharp!"

Cúchulainn waded quickly into the cold water and launched himself forward swimming as fast as a tern can fly. And, true to his words, they arrived at the farther bank in the twinkling of an eye.

As Cúchulainn's passengers emerged from under the cloak they gaped in amazement at how quickly they had crossed the river.

Homofeeb gasped with relief.

"You've done it, Cúchulainn, it's a miracle!"

"Come on," Mickser urged, "help me to gather some driftwood and we'll light a fire."

Before Cúchulainn could locate his fire bag in the folds of his cloak, Mickser had a bright blaze of dead reeds going between six large stones and Homofeeb was feeding it with dry driftwood.

"Let me see that," said Cúchulainn, remembering the old priest conjuring a little flame to light his candles. He snatched the box of matches from Mickser and examined its contents.

Mickser grinned, "Dey're matches. I bought dem at the bus station along with dese."

He produced a long packet of biscuits from inside his jacket.

"Yer not de only one wit' a magic cloak."

As they munched the biscuits around the fire, Mickser showed Cúchulainn how to use the matches and explained as best he could how they worked.

Cúchulainn studied the action of the matches with great interest, then rummaged under his cloak.

"Now let me show you one of my tricks."

Producing a rake-like implement, he strode to the water's edge and began to scrape in the sandy gravel.

"Come and pick these up," he invited, indicating white shapes that had come to the surface, gleaming wetly in the gathering dusk.

"Cockles!" chirped Mickser, with delight. "Gor, I love cockles!"

Something caught Laeg's eye in the distance and he strode off to investigate. The others joined Mickser in gathering up the shellfish while Cúchulainn, removing his helmet, scooped up some water from the river.

"Now for a lesson in survival, dump the cockles in my helmet."

They all laughed at the realisation of what he was about to do. He propped the helmet between the stones in the fire and piled more driftwood around it.

"Your helmet will be black with soot," said Homofeeb.

"Afterwards I'll show you how to polish bronze with sand and water to the brightness of the sun."

It was almost dark when Laeg walked into the ring of firelight.

"That smells good," he said sniffing.

"Where did you get to while there was work to be done?" asked Farbeg testily.

Laeg tossed down a large hare. Homofeeb pounced on it with a whoop of joy and Laeg grinning, handed him a large bunch of watercress.

"And here is the garnish."

Homofeeb deftly skinned and dressed the offering. When the cockles were cooked and drained, the men sat around the steaming helmet eating the delicious seafood hors d'ouvre with their fingers while the hare roasted on an improvised spit made from a scrap of rusting fencing wire.

After the meal Mickser introduced them to a dark aromatic drink which he prepared in a large tin can salvaged from the high tide mark. He filled it with slightly brackish water from a small rivulet he found leaping from the rocks and flashing brightly in the moonlight. The brew was made by boiling the water and pouring it over a handful of dark, dried leaves in Cúchulainn's versatile helmet.

He called it 'Tay'. The tired men, taking turns to drink it, found it palatable and refreshing.

The weary travellers slept soundly that night around a large fire in a shallow depression among the dunes, and after breakfast they set off northwards along the beach at a brisk pace. Cúchulainn's freshly sand-polished helmet flashed in the morning sunlight as they gained the foot of the towering promontory of Mullachlár.

As they crossed the summit, Cúchulainn noted that the strange, pink outcrop and the time tunnel, the poll a' phéishte, had disappeared.

"This is where we were rescued from the Fomorians by Amtashtalee."

Then he fell silent, thinking about his beloved old friend teetering between life and death in the hospital.

As the morning mist cleared, the dark shape of the Mourne mountains emerged far ahead, and the detail on the mountains manifested themselves with increasing clarity in the sunlight. They spotted swarms of tiny figures, men with horses moving around on the strand and Cúchulainn's heart leaped with excitement as he whispered:

"Horses, perhaps Grey Macha?"

This, he decided was what Mickser kept referring to as the film location. When at last they completed the long descent, they could make out scores of men wearing armour that flashed brightly in the morning sun. Other men were yoking horses to colourfully painted chariots. Others in shirt sleeves and sun-visors strode about shouting through bullhorns, and among the tents was one very large one with a flag flying from its top.

"A marquee," Mickser explained.

A dune buggy raced to meet them driven by a middle aged man with a handlebar moustache, a seaman's cap and a yellow oilskin coat. He addressed them gravely:

"Gentlemen, the Director sends you his compliments, but regrets he is not hiring any extras today. He would appreciate if you would kindly move up to the dunes out of camera shot."

They looked in the direction indicated by his pointing finger.

"Sir," replied Homofeeb indignantly, "would you kindly tell your Director that Cúchulainn of Eamhain Macha and his entourage are here and wish to speak with him in connection with a golden chariot."

The driver grinned impudently, chewing rapidly like a contented goat.

"OK, I'll ask the Director if he needs to weave a bunch of comedians into his historic epic."

As he turned the vehicle to drive away, Cúchulainn grabbed the rear bumper and the engine note rose to a distracted whine. The driver shut off the engine and turned towards the warrior.

"Now what? Just who the hell are you guys anyway?"

Cúchulainn smiled disarmingly.

"I'd prefer to talk to your leader, if you don't mind, young man."

The man gave a long sigh and, waving vaguely at the rear of his buggy, still in Cúchulainn's grip, he said plaintively.

"Look, er, I gotta go. I'll give your message to the director. So will you park yourselves up on the dunes and I'll get back to you."

As he drove away, the time travellers moved up among the growing throng of spectators until the sound of galloping hooves on the road caused them to swirl around.

"God, looka the goin' o' dat horse!" said Mickser.

Cúchulainn gasped and began to run towards the speeding horse and rider.

"It's Grey Macha!" cried Homofeeb.

Cúchulainn's friends cheered Grey Macha as he galloped on towards them at an incredible speed. The crowd turned pointing and ooh-ahh-ing as the horse, with a very bewildered Seán on board, slowed down and cantered straight to Cúchulainn.

The animal, still breathing evenly despite its prodigious exertion, whinnied excitedly and began to nuzzle his master. Seán slid from the animal's back, panting and wide-eyed with excitement.

"Phew! Whar a bleedin' horse! De way he can thravel, an' on on'y a fistful o' barley! Who'd be boddered wirra Ferrarri afthur him?"

Cúchulainn stroked and patted Grey Macha's neck.

"Where did you find him?"

"I seen 'im in de market wit' a crowd o' gougers thryin' t' sell 'im. I jus' walked up to 'im and held out the barley soaked in honey, the Boyne Valley brand, and rainwater, like y' told me. Well he gor all excirah like, an' errit in wan swolly. I lept on 'is back an' he was away like the hammers!"

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the gum-chewing dune buggy driver, he nodded at Homofeeb who responded with a coy smile.

Embarrassed, the driver addressed Cúchulainn.

"Well big man, the boss checked with the local cops. Sergeant McMorrow says he knows you, told us all about how you foiled them bus hijackers an' all. Your friend Amtashtalee is doin' fine in hospital, he says."

The man chattered on as if he was reading from a script.

"We heard you lost a horse and chariot. That right?"

Cúchulainn nodded.

"That's right, as it happens this is my horse. The young man here found him."

The dune buggy man chewed on that for a while with a quizzical frown, then continued, pointing into the distance with a 'none-of-my-business' shrug.

"The Props Manager in the marquee over there bids me ask you what colour your chariot is."

"It is gold."

"Gold in colour, you say?"

"I mean what I say, the chariot is made of gold."

The dune buggy man stopped chewing. Cúchulainn expected him to sneer, but he didn't.

"No kidding? In that case big man, you'd better come with me, and the Director would like to meet your friends too."

He patted the seat and Cúchulainn and friends squeezed into the tiny vehicle. Seán riding Grey Macha, followed as they were taken to the marquee.

The Director, a large, fat, bald man seated behind an enormous desk, was to the Ulsterman's astonishment, holding a long dark object in his mouth and puffing clouds of scented smoke. He greeted them in a gruff, though not altogether unfriendly tone and proffered an elaborately engraved silver cigar case.

"Cigar anyone?"

There were no takers so he snapped the box shut.

"Sit down gentlemen. My name is Ed Woodward of Gaelscan, our Irish-based subsidiary of Screenscan Movies Incorporated, of Hollywood, California."

"I believe I got your chariot. I wanna explain just how I come to have it but first, would any of you like a tea, coffee, or maybe something stronger?"

Without waiting for a reply he turned his head towards the door and yelled to a girl who was hammering at a typewriter:

"Maggie, how about some refreshments for our visitors."

"Chariots," continued Ed Woodward as they re-established eye contact with him, "now there was a problem. This guy called me and invited me to have a look at what he called a genuine, pre-Christian, Irish chariot. To make a long story short it looked the real McCoy and I bought it for a song, five hundred Punts. Back home I'd have insisted on a bill of sale; but I trusted the guys."

Maggie brought a pot of tea.

Woodward fingered two sugar lumps into his cup.

"Like I was saying, I bought this chariot for a song."

Noting that Farbeg had hardly touched his tea and was looking distinctly glum, Woodward leaned over and whispered:

"How about, how d'you say it in Ireland, a wee dhrap o' de craithur?"

When he saw the jester's face light up with interest at the mention of a brew whose name needed to be whispered, he shouted for Maggie. With a knowing wink to the girl, he made some drinking gestures and pointed briefly to Farbeg.
   
"Maggie, get this gentleman a bottle of best Irish. And, er, I guess they'll be having dinner with me tonight. Would you see to it?"

Cúchulainn was eager to hear more about his chariot from Woodward.

"So when did you discover the chariot was made of gold?"

"Well I'm just coming to that, one of the guys from the lab said he believed the chariot was made of gold. I thought it was a bit early in the day for kidding but we had the lab run some more tests and sure enough it was just like he said, gold."

Maggie came in with a bottle, a glass and more tea. Woodward waited until the end of a brief exchange of whispers between Maggie and the jester. She seemed to be explaining something to him. When she left, Woodward continued his story.

"Naturally I became suspicious, I told Sergeant Art McMorrow and he suggested I hold on to the chariot for the time being and he'd keep his ear to the ground."

"He'd hear a gold chariot coming a mile off at that rate," said Farbeg drinking the second glass from the bottle.
   
Woodward raised his voice a few decibels and cut across the tippler.

"Anyway, the sergeant called me to say he had arrested four guys that had hijacked a bus and that you guys had been, as he put it, instrumental in their apprehension. As it turns out they were the same four guys that sold me your chariot."

Cúchulainn leaned forward and slapped the arm of his chair.

Woodward wagged a parental forefinger.

"What I'm about to tell you guys next may or may not surprise you. I believe that you really are Cúchulainn and his friends, and somehow you are stuck in a time warp. I don't mind tellin' you guys the rest of the story about the chariot, but I sure as hell would never try t'sell it to the noospapers as fact. ."

Cúchulainn spread his hands.

"It must be very interesting."

"And totally credible," added Homofeeb.

By now, Farbeg, his bottle half empty was slumped in the chair and addressing nobody in particular.

Farbeg closed one eye and squinted down the neck of the empty bottle.

"My word this modern wine is wonderful stuff. Would bring me another pint of it?"

Woodward heaved a heavy sigh and stood up, a half smile, half grimace distorting his face as he boomed across Farbeg.

"I think I'll save the rest of the chariot story and our amazing discovery 'till dinner. Whaddya say? Meanwhile get Farbeg to have some black coffee Maggie!"

Maggie nodded and made a note of the dinner date in the office diary.

"Maybe she could bring him a dozen wolfhounds and a bath tub!" laughed Homofeeb.

What has Woodward got to tell them about Cúchulainn's chariot, and will Farbeg be sober enough to find out? Log on every Sunday for further chapters.