Chapter 5 #2
“The manner of Cúchulainn’s ending came to pass long before the day he died – the day he struck down with his unerring spear the druid Catalan, and left his wife, heavy with the weight of his progeny, grieving the loss of her husband, cursing his name even as she screamed in the agony of her labor.
Catalan’s wife brought forth six children that night – three sons and three daughters – all of whom grew in the arts of their father underneath the careful eye of their mother, and once they had mastered their art, they swore to live for one thing and one thing only: vengeance for their father’s slaying, the éraic owed to them – that’s the blood-price, you see, which is owed to them for the death of their kin. ”
Rory interrupted him, far too softly. “You do not need to condescend to me, Lord Locke,” she said, something shadowy and fraught with wrath deepening her voice. “I know very well what it is.”
“Good,” he said, even as his palms grew slick. “I am glad to hear it. You’ve been gone for so long, you see, from our realm. I thought you might have forgotten.”
“I have forgotten nothing.”
The shadows swelled, and he tensed, bracing himself for whatever horrors she was gathering to herself even now, ready to unleash in all its fury upon him, when suddenly it vanished, the wan sunlight breaking through the gathering fog, and it was only her, a quiet, watchful woman, with bruises on her face and bindings on her hands.
“Go on,” she said, pleasant and low, as though she had not just conjured up the shadow of an unknowable force without speaking a single word.
“By all means, finish your tale. I am so very curious to see how it ends.”
Locke licked his lips, willing his voice to keep steady even though he could not quite convince his hands to cease their sudden trembling.
“At last, the children of Catalan came of age and set out to see their revenge. They gathered the collective strength of their powers, summoning the aid of the dread goddess of war and truth and death, the Phantom Queen herself, she whom the hero had once met in battle, fighting her as an eel, as a bull, as a ravenous wolf. The Mórrígan had bided her time, nursing the hurts which Cúchulainn had inflicted upon her body and her pride, until now, summoned by the druid’s children, she arrived to claim an éraic of her own.
“The Mórrígan transformed the daughter of Catalan, enchanting her to appear as a lover of Cúchulainn.
The daughter approached the hero in secret, under the cover of night, and begged him to come to the aid of the poor souls trapped in a terrible battle that was raging outside the vale.
Cúchulainn, ever the brave, took up his sword and his spear and moved to mount his chariot, pulled by the black stallion Dub Sainglend and the great gray mare Lia Macha.
Yet the mare shied away from him, whimpering and shaking, until Cúchulainn chided her, cursing her as a faithless thing, and Lia Macha bent to his will, as tears of blood ran from her eyes.
“He crossed a bridge, and far beneath him in the river below, he spied an old woman, scrubbing her linens against the rough gray stones amid the rushing water. As his chariot thundered over the bride, she raised her wrinkled face and studied him. Cúchulainn called down to her.
“‘Good mother,’ he said. ‘The current is strong and the waters run deep. Move, lest you be swept away and lost forever to the mouth of the sea.’
“‘Good sir,’ she responded. ‘I cannot, for I am washing the clothes of Cúchulainn, he who will die this very day.’
“Cúchulainn said nothing, merely gripped his spear tight in his gloved hand and spurred his chariot, Lia Macha ever-weeping, across the bridge, towards the doom the goddess of fate had wrought for him, the realm’s greatest and most beloved hero.”
“Lord Locke,” Rory interrupted, head tilted to the side as she studied him.
“I do hate to interrupt, as you are such a talented storyteller, and yet I fear I must point out that is very difficult for me to appreciate your skill whilst in such discomfort,” and she raised her bound hands, an unmistakable challenge in her gray-fog eyes.
Locke hesitated, then pulled the knife at his side free. In one swift motion, he cut through the rope around her wrists, then stepped back. “As an additional show of my affection,” he said. “And my good will.”
“Such chivalry,” she murmured. “I see that you are slow to return your blade to your scabbard.”
“Well, there is always a chance you have a knife of your own tucked away in your bodice.” He let his gaze run, meandering and slow, down her body. “Perhaps I should search you.”
“Perhaps you should,” she said. “You’ve seen that I don’t have fangs, but who knows what horrors I might have hidden underneath my gown?”
“You know of that rumor, do you?”
“Ah,” she said, massaging her wrists with those long, cold fingers of hers. “That is my gift – my curse. I know many things, see many things – whether I will or no.” Her gaze met his, silver and laden with ice-cold rage. “Would you like to know what I see for you?”
He laughed, as carelessly as he could with those wintry eyes fixed onto his.
“Some other time, perhaps.” His brows arched.
“And if you are so all-knowing, then surely you know this to be true – I may have cut your bonds, but I’ll cut your pretty throat just as quickly if you so much as look at me in a way that I don’t like. ”
“You are more than welcome to try – but know that I may not have fangs or claws or a knife in my hand, I am far more dangerous to you than you ever could be to me. You see,” she said, smiling far too gently for his liking, “I myself am the only weapon that I will ever need.”
It was somehow a bit calming, he thought, to hear her drop the pretense.
Locke leaned back, twirling the knife between his relatively steady fingers, and continued his tale.
“After he left the washerwoman at the river, Cúchulainn came upon a cluster of three women, roasting the corpse of a dog on a spit over a fire in the middle of the road. ‘Fair ladies,’ he said. ‘Have you nothing more wholesome to eat than the bones of a cur?’
“‘Lord,’ they said as one. ‘Come, feast with us.’
“‘You honor me,’ said Cúchulainn. “But I must beg you to rescind your offer, lest I perish. I have sworn a geas, an unbreakable vow, never to refuse the food offered to me by a woman, yet also have I sworn never to taste the meat of a hound.’
‘We understand,’ said the women. ‘You are too proud to sit with plain women such as ourselves and enjoy our simple fare. You are not, then, the Cúchulainn of which we have heard, the man of the people, the hero of all éire, if you would so shun our humble invitation, to share with us our meal. You have shamed yourself, in rejecting the kindness which we have offered to you.’
“When Cúchulainn heard their jeers, he sorrowed, for he knew who it truly was who offered him the meat, for there could only be one being so clever to entrap him into the breaking of his vows.
So he bowed his head in acceptance of his doom and sat, and ate the roast which they offered him.
When the meat touched his tongue, he felt the otherworldly strength ebb away out of his arm and his leg on his left side, leaving him as feeble as any other mortal.
“He rose, bowing to the trio of women, who watched him, clear-eyed and unsmiling. ‘Shadow-queen,’ he said. ‘Now you have your vengeance.’
“‘Not yet,’ said the queen of war, the goddess undying. ‘But I grant you this last boon. Know that the three spears you cast in battle today shall slay three kings, and from their blood shall spring a wealth of songs about your deeds, so that your name shall forever be honored in the land of éire.’
“So on Cúchulainn rode, knowing the fate that awaited him at the end of this path, until he came upon four men standing in the road, swords drawn, barring his way.
With the three sons of Catalan stood Lugaid, the son of Cú Roí, whom Cúchulainn had slain years before.
Cúchulainn dismounted from his chariot drawn by Dub Sainglend and Lia Macha, the still-weeping mare, and faced them, shoulders thrown back.
“‘Cúchulainn,’ the firstborn son of Catalan mocked. ‘You come armed with a sword and three spears, and I have only my sword. Lend me your spear, else shall I lift up my voice in song and tell of what a coward you are, a shame to your father’s divine name.’
“‘Never let it be said that I am not a generous man,’ said Cúchulainn, and he let fly one of his spears with all the remaining might in his arm, and watched as it went sailing through the eye of his enemy. And so died the firstborn son of Catalan.
“His brothers gnashed their teeth in rage over the loss of their brother, until the second-born stepped forth. ‘Cúchulainn,’ he said. ‘For your honor’s sake, lend me a spear that we might fight as equal men.’
‘Never let it be said that Ulster lost her grace for my sake,’ said Cúchulainn, and let fly his second spear, passing cleanly through the nose of Catalan’s son.
“The last-born son of Catalan raised his sword and pointed it at the hero. ‘Cúchulainn,’ he said. ‘Grant me your last spear, or I shall lift my voice in song and tell of the ignominy of your mother, a curse upon their grace and wisdom, that you are not your father’s son.’
“Cúchulainn looked down at the spear of Gáe Bulg, seven barbs for each of its seven heads, carved by the gods themselves, and sighed.
‘Never let it be said,’ Cúchulainn murmured, ‘that I brought dishonor upon my kin,’ and with the last bit of strength in his cursed arm, he cast the Gáe Bulg through the eye of the lastborn son of Catalan.
“Weakened beyond belief, Cúchulainn sank to his knees in the road. Enraged, Lugaid yanked free the spear from the bloodied skull of the firstborn son and hurled it at Cúchulainn, sinking its sharp-tipped blade deep in his belly.