Andrew Offutt: The Mists of Doom

Hours seemed to pass while he leaned against the pillar-stone, and got loose his breast-belt with a bloody hand, and then his loin-girding belt. Buckled together, he looped them over the standing stone, and set his broad back to it, the while his eyes saw a darkening red fog that was somehow also a sound, a throbbing continuing thunder in his ears. And he made shift to fasten the belt over the hole in him, and secured himself thus to the pillar-stone beside the loch. A terrible grunting groan escaped even his set lips that ground powder from his teeth for he had tugged tight the belt and yet had not the strength to hold tight his jaws the longer. And his mouth came open, and leaked blood upon his chest that was like unto that of a bear.

Yet he knew his ribs would not hold his heart, for his great hero’s heart was turned all to blood within him.

But he stood. He had bound himself upright against the stone, the way he would not meet his death lying down before his enemies, like the normal man he had never been. And though he saw only dimly, he knew then that the host of his enemies came down onto the strand, shields and spears ready, and she knew that he faced them standing erect with heels braced and guts bound up so they could not spill from within him, and even now they in their company were in dread of approaching him closely. Laughter he would have given them then, but he knew he dared not, for the strain of that laughter might sunder the straps of leather holding back the bowels that strained and sought to pour looping from him.

For he was Cuchulain of Muirthemne, and he’d die on his feet and facing his enemies. And a cloud and a weakness rose to come over him, so that his eyes were fixed.

“It is a great shame for us,” said Erc who was the son of Cairbre whom Cuchulain had slain, “not to strike the head off this man, in revenge for his striking the head off my father!”

And Cuchulain saw Lugaid then, Lugaid who had done death on him, and he was reaching for his sword-though Lugaid in truth had gone all reddish and dark and seemed to pulse with the throbbing thunder Cuchulain heard; dusk must be coming on uncommon early this day. And he heard the pounding hooves that told him his beloved horses were coming to seek to save him, and them without Laeg to drive nor Cuchulain their lifelong master to shout them on. For he was beyond shouting.

And they did, the Black Sanglain and even the wounded Grey of Macha or so he thought he saw, both of them that slew many with flashing hooves and terrible warhorse teeth, and they were slain and died, his mighty horses, and Lugaid was coming for him with his sword up and his shieldhand rising the way it would lock in Cuchulain’s hair that Lugaid might strike off his head.

And sadness was on Cuchulain to discover that his body that had served him so well no longer paid heed to his demands of it, for his arms would not rise to grapple with Lugaid, though he had killed ten tens and more of mightier men.

Lugaid’s face came closer, and filled all his vision, and then it seemed to shimmer like the pool into which a stone had been tossed, and it was no longer Lugaid’s face before Cuchulain, but that of the druid of his boyhood, Cathbadh.

“Your name will be greater than any other name in Eirrin,” the druid said, and his face pulsed redly. “But it’s short your span of life will be.”

And this was the death of Cuchulain and this too was the first of the Rememberings to come upon Cormac son of Art.

Then Cathbadh’s face, too, shimmered, even as the bright sunlight of summer off a thousand fine shields or off the broad surface of Loch Cuan.

And it was not Lugaid that he saw. And it was not Cathbadh the Druid he saw, with his face somehow surrounded by flames so that he stared out from within those very flames. Aye, though in truth it was a druid, neither Lugaid nor Cathbadh. Was Sualtim he saw with his agonized eyes.

Sualtim! he thought. This is not possible-that mentor of Cormac mac Art that I will be is not even born yet!

Oh-I am Cormac mac Art! I was Cuchulain. I am Cormac. I am in the woods, not dying though I have died afore in lives other than this one… the woods… campfire… but that is Sualtim Fodla staring at me from the fire!

Aye. Amid the dancing campfire, now opaque so that their white-and-yellow glare was invisible behind him, now opalescent and wavering amid a ruddy glow, now transparent so that he was but a cloud and the flames were completely visible behind him and through him; there stood Sualtim of Wisdom Itself.

Thin he was as ever, gaunt of face so that his skin was as aged white parchment drawn over the bone. A band of soft doeskin two fingers in breadth circled his brow, binding his thin, straight hair the colour of June clouds on a sunny day or the sleek coat of a red-eared white calf. On him not his robe of oak-forest green, but the one of white, the white robe of ceremony that was the colour of the hair of his head and his eyebrows.

The quick, bird-bright eyes stared blue at Cormac mac Art. And the gaunt old face with its lines from nostrils to the corners of his wide mouth was drawn with anguish and… could that be fear? Sualtim?

From the flames in Connacht-Shield Woods, Sualtim spoke.

“Treachery, son of Art! Get ye to the house of your father, you who are boy no longer, for it’s dark treachery stalks the rath this night.”

That was all. The image, flickered with the flicker of the fire, and grew less and less substantial. And then Sualtim was gone.

Cormac would have fallen but for the hands of an anxious Midhir.

“Cormac! What is it on ye, lad? Tell me! Crom protect-it must be that he had injuries within from that great bear!”

“N-no,” Cormac stammered, but still he was weak and disconcerted so that he reeled as he sat, and was held up only by the concerned grip of a weapons-compatriot.

“The boy-” Edar began, and interrupted himself. “Cormac has the look on him of a man who feels his other lives.” Then Edar looked about, frowning, and there was confusion in his voice: “Sualtim?”

“Cormac-”

“I… I am unharmed, Mid-Midhir.”

Cormac forced his brain to work. Cuchulain-never mind that: later!

Sualtim! Well he knew that the druid had been there, had spoken to him-yet he knew that it was not in the flesh Sualtim had come. In a Sending, a samha , he had warned, called…

Shaking off Midhir’s solicitous hands, Cormac thrust himself to his feet like a big cat. He looked about at his companions. They were staring at him.

“I have seen Sualtim. He was speaking to me. Midhir! Ye must be coming with me-now, tonight. Two of the horses we will ride; two we leave to pull the empty carts on the morrow. Edar, Roich, Bran: when day comes, make haste. We leave ye now.”

And none gainsaid the boy-man from Eirrin who turned now to ready a pair of horses; the boy-man of fourteen, who was suddenly a man in other than physical deeds, and to be obeyed.

Chapter Three:

Glondrath

The forest called Sciath Connaict debouched amid a sprinkling of alder and bilberry onto a fine long meadow that flowed out green, and planted in summer to a gentle rise on the leftward flank, as one emerged from the woods. Here Connacht defended herself. Two miles beyond the forest and this meadow lay the coast and the western sea. Just seaward of center on this ancient plain, a mighty mound rose on what was called Magh Glondarth: The Plain of Deeds, for in times gone by many a battle had been fought on these acres. The sprawling mound itself bore the name lios . When it was fortified atop so that there clustered what amounted to a warlike village or manor-estate as here, and ringed about with a strong defensive wall of earth, it became a rath .