CHAPTER FOUR
The Wormhole of Mullachlár

Cúchulainn could make no sense of the old man's birdlike shriek as he tottered down the slope waving the silver flask, his long, threadbare, brown coat flapping in the wind. Where had he seen him before? In a dream perhaps? It would have to have been a dream, this strange apparition was hardly of the waking world.

The old man's coat, he noted more closely, was secured around the waist by a plaited red rope with a black tassel. Under the coat he wore a shirt and matching trews, white, with bold, vertical, blue stripes. His footwear, flimsy red shoes in a soft fabric, were pitiably incompatible with the rough terrain over which he gingerly picked his steps, arms outspread like a rope-walker he had once seen crossing a vertiginous gorge in Alba. Whether the old man had uttered a coherent sentence or simply a wordless hailing cry he could not tell. A large gull wheeling above the cliff's edge uttered a similar cry as though in response, or perhaps in mockery of a futile human attempt at gull language.

As the old man drew nearer Cúchulainn saw more clearly his look, not of fright, but of a mature urgency, his cool, ice blue eyes, regarding him intently from under shaggy white brows. His cracked voice called out:

"Come quickly, rouse your companion and get that horse and chariot up here. The Fomorians are about to sweep over the western ridge any second. They have completely surrounded you."

Cúchulainn caught the old man's skinny arms to steady him.

"Here, steady, old man. If what you say is true shouldn't we be running in the opposite direction?"

The old man shook his head so vigorously that his long whiskers curtained and uncurtained his wizened face.

"There's no time for argument, my son. You'll just have to trust me. Get up here quickly and into the cave!"

"Cave? There's no cave on Mullachlár, apart from the Tigrua at the foot of the cliff!"

"We better do as he says," panted Laeg as he dragged the horse up level with Cúchulainn and the strange, old man. "Better to die with a glimmer of hope than in despair."

"What cave are you talking about old man?" Cúchulainn persisted.

"Poulafaisht."

"Poulafaisht?" Echoed Cúchulainn, one eyebrow arched interrogatively, his mouth pulled into a wry grimace as an image of the old man's meaning came to his mind.

"You were wondering about the cave, weren't you?"

"Poll a' Phéiste." whispered Laeg. "His Gaelic is not of this region. Perhaps he's a Munsterman or a Manxman."

"Ah! Poll a' Phéiste," repeated Cúchulainn with a mixture of comprehension and disbelief. "A worm-hole! A magical route to another place, another time, even to the Other World."

The old man proffered the flask.

"Here, take a draught of this, each of you, and no more questions. We don't have the time."

Cúchulainn and Laeg looked at each other briefly. Cúchulainn snatched the flask and drank.

The liquid ran down his gullet like lava, bringing tears to his eyes. Eyes closed tightly and teeth flashing in a grotesque grimace, Cúchulainn handed the flask to Laeg. He too drank without hesitation. He too closed his eyes tightly and bared his teeth as though in pain.

"Ye gods above! What is this? Bottled Lightning?"

Cúchulainn's voice, had risen by an octave. The old man, eyes twinkling wetly, grinned, revealing large, yellow teeth.

"I've been trying to think of a name for that stuff for centuries. 'Bottled Lightning'. I like that."

Then his mood changed abruptly.

"Come along now young friends," he urged, a hand in each of their backs, shoving them with unexpected strength. The jaded horse followed them, dragging the golden chariot. Cúchulainn dropped back behind his companions, behind the chariot, sword at the ready, walking backward, alert for signs of pursuit. As they rounded the mysterious pink rock Cúchulainn gasped in surprise to see a wide, high opening, its floor sloping steeply downwards.

"I was born and reared in this part of Ulster and I've never seen ...."

Pausing abruptly as he noticed that the Bottled Lightning made him feel strangely light, not light in the head but almost weightless, the way he would feel swimming under water. Along with the lightness there was a feeling of growing elation, an altered state of consciousness. He knew by the quizzical smile on Laeg's flushed face that it must be having the same effect on him.

"Move along now," whispered the old man. "There'll be plenty of time for talk in a little while."

He patted the horse's rump and it clopped into the shadow of the cave. As they entered deeper into the passage, Cúchulainn soon perceived that the roof got steadily higher and the echoes gradually louder as they progressed. The footfalls of the men, the sounds, clop of the horse's hooves and the rumble of the chariot wheels, their voices, multiplied and modulated by the echoes, were amplified to an alarming degree by the peculiar exponential geometry of the tunnel. The sounds combined to become an eerie, discordant symphony. Something else suddenly dawned on Cúchulainn:

Although they were now deep underground it was as bright and warm as a summer evening and they were bathed in a soft glow of ever changing pastel coloured light.

"The first of the Fomorians must surely have reached the mouth of the cave by now," muttered Laeg, anxiously.

The old man stopped, turned around and smiled benignly at the two men.

"You need not worry any more about them, they belong in the past. Now we will eat and drink and rest."

Before they could respond he slipped through a narrow cleft in the wall of the tunnel. Cúchulainn and Laeg glanced enquiringly at each other for a moment before stepping after him. It was just wide enough to admit the horse but the chariot had to remain outside. The crevice opened into a smaller cavern, glowing with the same strange luminosity as the passage they had just left. The cavern was about the size of the living space of a rural house with some of the rough furnishings of such a home. In one corner there was a small indentation in the rock floor. It was full of water. In the centre a rough, dry-stone fireplace which, like the houses of the period, had no chimney. Looking up they saw a chink of light in the roof marking the exit hole for the smoke.

The parched horse broke from Laeg's grasp with a jerk of his head and trotted to the water, signalling to the thirsty men that it was at least drinkable.

"Cool spring water," said the old man as he busied himself starting a fire of wood and peat in the fireplace. "Now, gentlemen, on today's menu we have rabbit stew, boiled cod, roast pheasant, smoked herring and shellfish cocktail."

"Whatever suits you, sir, suits us," answered Cúchulainn.

"Or, perhaps you would prefer a simple bowl of wholesome porridge?"

An enigmatic chuckle and a mischievous twinkle in his eye went unnoticed by Cúchulainn as a mysterious shudder passed though his body. He hugged himself suddenly and rubbed his arms.

"No thank you."

"It would warm you. Nothing like porridge to put fire in the blood."

Cúchulainn, hunched his shoulders and rubbed his hands vigorously.

"No, thank you, I don't like porridge. It does not warm me. On the contrary, it ...."

He paused and closed his eyes as though trying to remember something.

"It cools me, more than that, it freezes my blood. The very mention of it chills me."

The old man smiled indulgently and patted Cúchulainn's arm.

"Very well then, young man. I understand. I shall not mention the stuff in your presence ever again."

He turned to the fireplace and magically struck a flame from it.

"Shall we settle for something befitting young men of the open air, rabbit stew?"

Cúchulainn and Laeg nodded their agreement, wondering if the old man had been teasing them with the lavish menu since he seemed to have had the rabbit stew already made.

"Here's one I made earlier," said the ancient with a stifled guffaw that suggested he was keeping a mighty joke all to himself as he handed each of the men a plate of food from a saucepan on the fire.

All it took were a few minutes to reheat the stew. Soon they were eating hungrily, washing down their meal with an excellent elderberry wine.

The famished pony, its nose in its leather feed bag, munched contentedly its meal of stone-crushed oats. Cúchulainn discarded his cloak and his sword, eased off his boots and lay back on his bed of fresh green rushes with a long sigh. He was too tired and too mystified to ask where the green rushes could have come from. Perhaps one of those huge rafts of them that annually float down the Bóinne on the ebb tide had washed ashore on the local beach.

"We are most grateful to you for your kindness, sir," he said instead to the old man, "how can we ever repay you?"

"Your safety and well-being is reward enough for me."

"It is past time for introductions," Laeg added brightly. "This is Cúchulainn."

"And you are his charioteer, Laeg. You are from the court of Conor Mac Nessa at Eamhain Macha. I know. And I'm known as Amtashtalee. I'm a sort of semi-retired teacher/druid. At least I should be permanently retired. My powers are waning somewhat; but I love the work and do what I can to help this sad old world."

"What kind of work exactly would that be, sir?" Asked Laeg conversationally.

"Oh, a little bit of this and a little bit of that, you know, sorcery, alchemy, magic, medicine."

Cúchulainn laughed.

"And cooking, I've never tasted rabbit stew as good."

"That's because he always makes it himself," Laeg whispered in a mock aside to Amtashtalee.

"But as I said, my powers are not what they used to be. My short-term memory isn't so good, my concentration gets worse by the day. And, I have to confess, the drop of wine to which I'm somewhat partial, doesn't help my powers; but it gladdens my heart and adds a little glow to an otherwise dull existence."

A loud snore from Cúchulainn signalled the end of the conversation.

Meanwhile .......

A shaft of evening sunlight lit King Conor Mac Nessa's private chamber in his fortress at Eamhain Macha.

Conor, his clothing in disarray, auburn hair and forked beard dishevelled, was seated with bare feet beside an oaken desk amid an untidy scatter of walnuts and official scrolls awaiting his signature.

Evening was Conor's favourite time of day when he could close the door against responsibilities of court. To divert himself he was tossing nuts at one of his boots in the corner, his aim evidently not so good. The badger skin pouch of nuts was almost exhausted and the floor strewn with his misses. In mid throw there was a knock on the door. He frowned with annoyance. His orders were that he should not be disturbed except for business that could not possibly wait until morning. He snatched his crown from the post of his high-backed oak chair, set it carelessly on his head and threw on a robe which he had cast on the floor earlier. Making a pretence of concentrating on a document, he hid his bare feet and untrousered legs under the desk. He cleared his throat.

"Come in!"

The door creaked open and Farbeg the dwarf, Conor's favourite court jester appeared. He was still wearing his multicoloured tunic and trews and his many-pointed cap, its tiny silver bells tinkling. Conor's scowl softened into a faint smile, his eyes twinkling in expectation of some welcome comic relief, he removed his crown and rose as though to greet an emperor.

"Ah, Farbeg my dear friend!"

The King indicated a chair and threw off his crown again.

"Come in. Sit down, or in your case, sit UP."

As he passed close to the king's naked legs the dwarf glanced upwards briefly and, in a gesture of mock horror, lowered his head and covered his eyes with his hands as he hopped up to perch on the desk.

"At this precise moment I would prefer to sit up than to look up."

"Yes, quite, tiny man, for you were in peril of being stepped upon, and you are not my stepson nor yet my stepbrother, although if you were either it would not displease me."

"Listen Conor, avic, I make the jests around here. You stick to kinging, or pretending to be kinging, and I'll stick to jesting. Or to being, secretly of course, your personal adviser. I know it's difficult to fix our minds on who we really are, so let's run through it briefly once more: I am the jester, fit to be king. You are the king unfit to be a jester."

Conor emitted a mock snarl and flung the pouch of hazel nuts at his target boot. The entire contents disgorged neatly into it as he laughed.

"See how my performance improves when you are about! Well then, are you here for jesting or for kinging? Whichever it is I command you to get on with it."

Farbeg jerked his thumb in the direction of the door:

"That young swashbuckler Conal is outside insisting on seeing you. Knowing I am the only one from whom an interruption at this time of day is likely to be tolerated he has been badgering me this last hour to intercede for him."

"What business could that devious horse trader have that can't wait until morning?"

"Indeed. Or wait until he grows up! It seems he wishes to make his report about that mission to pursue and execute the Fomorian raiders that have been plaguing your territories to the north."

"And pray, why can this not wait until the morning?"

"He insists that he must make his report directly to His Majesty before the return of what he calls his 'tardy rivals' with what he describes as their unsupported cock and bull stories about their heroic exploits."

"Then it's the contest for The Champion's Portion, self interest that motivates him to be so impertinent!"

"He claims to have slain the Fomorian chieftain, Murrudock of Tory. He has a bundle under his arm which I suspect is the head of your old enemy!"

The King sat up and smiled with a grunt of pleasure.

"Murrudock, no less! I'm impressed. Send my bold Conal in at once. And, er, tell him, as politely as you can, I do not wish to meet my old, disembodied foe, Murrudock, er, face to face, at this hour. Ask him to leave him with the head cook and I'll have him for lunch tomorrow."

Farbeg, turned and glared as he made his way to the door.

"Demarcation! Remember? I make the jokes."

He opened the door a few inches.

"His majesty will see you now, Conal. Please leave your head, I mean, your satchel outside the door."

Conal, handsome as ever in a rough and weathered kind of way, his dark curls dancing about his ears, his spotless purple tunic swinging about his tanned knees, stepped smartly in front of the King's desk. He fixed Conor boldly with his vivid blue eyes and bowed.

"Forgive my intrusion on your private time, Your Majesty, but I bring news that I hope will please you."

Conor searched the rugged face for signs of arrogance or presumption. He detected none. The countenance was disarmingly open. Conor had some misgivings about having nominated him for The Champion's Portion. Conal was brave and strong, a skilled warrior with a keen sense of loyalty to his king. Yet signs of immaturity and a certain hesitancy, however vaguely manifested, were beginning to appear.

King Conor dropped his eyes as he busied himself in cracking open a walnut.
"Conal, my friend, I am always open and receptive to pleasure. So in what way are you about to please me now?"

The warrior drew himself to his full height.

"If indeed it pleases Your Majesty, I have brought you the head of Murrudock, King of the Fomorians, from his base on Tory Island."

Conor picked the nut kernel daintily from the shell fragments on his desk and placed it in his mouth. He made eye contact with Conal once more.

"So you suppose that gives you a head start on your two noble rivals in their strivings for The Champion's Portion?"

Realising that the 'head start' pun might or might not be unconscious, Conal felt trapped. Was this a royal pun or a royal gaff? If the jest was intended as such then politeness would oblige him to laugh. And of course he would not like Conor to think he was a dullard, lacking a sense of humour. If, on the other hand, such a response to an otherwise gravely challenging question would be perilously inappropriate. He realised there was a third possibility: that he had been skilfully wrong-footed by a mischievously ambiguous question.

His bold gaze relented and he stared at the floor as though the answer to the trick question might be there. A flicker of an uncertain smile, followed immediately by an embarrassed frown, betrayed his unease.

Conor, being a kindly man at heart, let Conal off the hook.

"You have done well, Conal. I congratulate you. I will make a note of this fruitful exploit of yours."

Conal breathed a soft sigh of relief and straightened himself up again, meeting the steady gaze of the King's twinkling eyes.

"Have the guards mount your trophy at the river crossing for the edification of any would-be aggressors. At the same time, Murrudock will help fatten the ravens."

Conal smiled weakly and began, with inclined head, to back away from the King towards the door.

"Oh, and, er, before that, have Putchacaira, my alchemist make a brainball of its contents for my sling. I want to keep it by me in case I ever meet up with a certain thieving cattle raiding Connachtman by the name of Cet."

Conal bowed and took a step back, smiling diplomatically at the thought of the cattle raider's sling missile, the petrified brain of Mes Gegra, that was lodged inoperably in King Conor's skull following an encounter many years before.

"Thank you, Your Majesty. It shall be done as you command."

As the door closed behind Conal, Conor smiled and cracked another walnut. As Conal's footsteps died away the door opened and Farbeg entered once more.

"Laoghaire has just arrived in the courtyard," he announced.

"Oh bother! Tell the garrulous ruffian I have retired. Tell him I'm indisposed. I have the plague. Tell him anything, but I don't want to see him tonight."

"I wish I didn't have to adjudicate between these three brave but tiresome warriors."

"Don't worry, Con, Laoghaire won't discommode anyone tonight, least of all his beautiful wife! It is from her he expects his reward for whatever trophies he brings. I hear she drives him relentlessly to win The Champion's Portion."

The King sighed.

"Ah yes, the Champion's Portion. I'm thinking that his good lady is herself the recipient of a knightly Champion's Portion. For her, the term 'Knightly Service' must surely have a special meaning or two."

"Knowing Fidelma," chortled the jester, "he may have to suppress the heightened ardour of his recent absence until tomorrow night."

"How so?"

"The man is noisily drunk, filthy and he stinks. His chariot reeks of decaying Fomorian heads. Fidelma has banished him to the stables until such time as he makes himself presentable. That, between sleeping, shaving, bathing himself and his horses, and scrubbing his chariot, should take the best part of the night and a day."

"Good! Good!" said Conor, brightening. "Then I'll get some sleep tonight after all."

As if in response to the King's relief there was yet another knock on his chamber door. Conor groaned.

Now what? Not Cúchulainn?"

He looked appealingly at Farbeg as though the jester could deliver him from the ordeal of yet another visitor, then shouted angrily:

"Come in!"

The door opened slightly, to reveal the timid face of a small pageboy. He entered proffering a scroll of gold coloured paper bound with a red ribbon.

"Please Your Majesty, a messenger handed me this with an earnest request that your majesty read it immediately."

As King Conor loosed the ribbon he caught a faint whiff of perfume from the unfurling parchment. Could it be from a secret admirer inviting him to a tryst in the gardens of Eamhain Macha he wondered.

No such luck. The contents of the scroll brought a dark scowl to his face. Turning to the boy he snapped:

"You may go Garsún. Thank you."

As the boy closed the door behind him Conor eyed Farbeg.

"Listen to this, An invitation from that ostentatious peacock, Bricriú!"

Farbeg slid down from the chair, eyes wide with agitation.

"Bricriú Nimhtheangach? Bricriú of the Poison Tongue? Bricriú of lank red hair, sharp nose, thin lips and small, grey, glinting eyes, the spiteful divider of decent people, Bricriú the ...."

"Bricriú of the endless litany of infamy, from each invocation we pray: Gods preserve us, can you imagine his face as he wrote this?"

Conor blinked as if to clear the vision from his mind, cleared his throat and began to read aloud:

"Your most Gracious Majesty, Conor, King of Ulster, son of the fair and gentle Nessa, you and your legendary court and company of Red Branch Knights, their ladies and retinues are cordially invited to attend a great feast in my new Hall at Dún Rodhraighe on the first night of the month of Baal Teine in honour of Baal, the great God of Fire. In hope of your Majesty's gracious acceptance, I remain your humble admirer, Bricriú."

Conor curled his lip and threw the vellum on his desk with an angry snort addressing the writer as if he stood before him.

"Curse you Bricriú for your insolence. Well you know how I understand the dark purposes of this invitation. It is an ill-disguised attempt to upstage Eamhain Macha whose lofty inheritance of chivalry and purity of heart sets it on a level with the noblest institutions of the world. May we never stoop to sterile ostentation as you have done, with your gaudy Hall at Dún Rodhraighe, a many-jewelled vulgarity, blighted bauble that makes the very hills weep down to the sea in mountainous mourning!"

The King rose to his feet and began to pad energetically from one end of his chamber to the other, bare feet slapping noisily on the flagstone floor, hands under his tunic clasped tightly behind his bare buttocks, his face lilac pink with rage as he continued to curse Bricriú's message.

"You, Bricriú, mountainous moron, would, I have no doubt, dare to compare even the great Hellenic Halls with your pretentious hut, fit for naught but Mammon's goats? Worse, your invitation's yet another portent of your infernal guile, your deadly skill of sabotaging friendships and shaking old alliances."

"Bravo! Maith thú!" Shouted Farbeg, dancing with delight and clapping his little hands rapidly. "Conor, you understand the intentions behind his flattery all too well."

Conor, fixed the Jester with one bulging eye and with a fearsome scowl, began to shout:

"Away from me, cajoler of kings. What is the real purpose of your flattery, to ingratiate yourself with me?"

Farbeg lowered his head and pouted, clearly offended. Conor's face softened. He returned briskly to his chair and, folding his tunic under his bare bottom, he sat down. After a moment's reflection he began to speak again, this time in a quiet, soothing voice.

"Forgive me Farbeg, we have played this game of two identities so long that sometimes I forget that you're by far the wisest and most learned man in all this blessed land, more judicious, more perceptive than my Chief Breithimh, Sencha. When you and I are here alone I further must remind myself that you are wiser than that fabled king of whom I've often heard my druid, Cathbhad, speak, what was his name? Oh, yes, Solomon."

King Conor raised his arms as if to ward off a swarm of bees.

"Now my wise Farbeg we must make a plan, but where is that hulking oaf, Cúchulainn?"

Good question, just were is our hero? If he is still stuck in a cave sleeping off his rabbit stew he is not going to be much help to the King. Log on each Sunday for further chapters.