Celtic Stories

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THOMAS

BY

EDWARD THOMAS

The Boyhood of Cohoolin

THE BOYHOOD OF COHOOLIN

King Conachoor of Ulster had a sister named Dectora, and one day she and the fifty maidens, her companions, vanished from the palace. No man saw their going, nor could any trace or news of them be anywhere found. At midday they were seen as they always were; before the end of the afternoon they had gone away as if on wings. Their doors were shut; their embroidery lay about, and the needles were waiting for their return. If they had been birds and the palace a cage they might have flown out of the little windows and left it empty. The black-bearded king went from room to room seeking them in vain.

Three years afterwards another misfortune befell Conachoor. A flock of birds appeared about the palace and settled down to feed on the plain of Emania. They were of a strange kind and of extraordinary beauty, and it was thought they had come from the land of youth or from some island unknown to ships. Men went out to see them and wonder at them, for they were not shy. Rut they ate up everything on the plain: not a grass blade escaped them. This angered Conachoor; and he and many of his chieftains yoked their chariots and went out to hunt the birds. The faster the horses ran the faster flew the birds in low flight; yet they seemed not to be afraid or to be flying from their pursuers. They called to one another in sweet voices, and as birds are happier than men so these seemed to be happier than other birds. They kept just ahead, as if the furious panting of the horses blew them along; if the chariots stopped they stopped also.

At sunset only three birds were visible flying without haste before the tired horses. Soon even these were hid in the snow that began to fall in the darkness. The sound of the snow drowned the voices of the birds, and the men could pursue no longer. They took shelter at a hut standing all alone in the snow.

As they were sitting in the hut one of the chiefs heard a little noise of something that was not snow. So he went out and walked on towards where the sound had seemed to come from. He had not gone far when he saw a great handsome house which he entered. The lord of the house was a young warrior; his wife was a woman like a queen, attended by fifty maidens. They saluted the chief kindly and the man told him that the queenly woman was Dectora.

When the chief returned he told Conachoor about the great house, but not about Dectora and the fifty maidens.

In the morning they found in the hut a newborn boy with a face like Conachoor's. Outside there was nothing but snow upon the ground, snow falling through the air, and snow in the sky: neither the great house and its people, nor the birds, were to be seen. The baby cried and the chief who had gone out in the night spoke and told them that he had seen Dectora and her maidens and that the child was hers. So the king gave the child to another sister to nurse him. They called him Setanta, and the aged Morann prophesied concerning him. He would be a great warrior; men and bards would sing of his deeds and praise him both while he was alive and after he was dead.

The boy grew up strong and without fear. His guardians and tutors were Amargin the warrior poet who obeyed no man but Conachoor; Fergus who made the strong afraid and the suffering cease to fear; Sencha the prudent, Blai the hospitable, and King Conachoor himself. No boy in Conachoor's warrior band of boys could ever equal him when they were playing or quarrelling together. When he was a new-comer they set upon him because he was better than them all and did not know their customs; but he beat them off and became their leader. Men used to stop and look at the boys' games, and at first they looked at one another and said: 'When we were boys we used to do better than that.' But when they had seen Setanta running or striking the ball or wrestling they did not look at one another or speak for a long time. Then one would say: 'That is pretty good'; and another: 'When I was a boy there was one who was the image of that fellow—ah! but he is gone'; and a third would say: 'I too remember one like him, but I do not know what became of him'; and then a fourth would intervene: 'You are getting old and your memory is bad. There was never any one before like that. That is Setanta.'

One day the king went to feast with Culann the smith. Culann had no lands but possessed only what he earned with his own anvil, hammer and tongs, and therefore, though his banquets were fit for two or three kings, his table was small, and very few were with Conachoor that day. He passed by the green in order to say farewell to the band of boys. There he saw Setanta at one end of the green and all the rest at the other, and he was playing against them all. 'Boy,' said the king, 'come with us to Culann's feast!'

'At this moment I cannot, O king,' said Setanta.

'Why?' asked Conachoor.

'We have not yet finished this game,' said the boy.

'But I cannot wait,' said Conachoor.

'Do not think of waiting,' replied the boy, 'I will follow.'

When they reached the smithy Setanta had not caught them up and Conachoor forgot him. They had begun to feast when the smith said:

'Before I forget, O King… is all your company here, or are you expecting some one else?'

'No!' said the king, 'we are all here. Why do you ask?'

'Only because my watch-dog is fierce and unaccustomed to men except the taste of the flesh of night prowlers. I will now take his chain off and let him range for the night.'

Culann, therefore, took off the chain. The hound ran a little way, made a circle round the house and returned and settled down before the entrance, with his head upon his paws and his eyes half asleep and his ears awake. The feasters were safe behind such a hound; they ate and drank as if they were in the palace and not at the crossways where the palace was a traveller's tale.

Setanta was making all speed on the king's track, cheering and hastening his journey by driving a ball before him. At sight of the boy Culann's hound gave a bark and ran towards him, thinking only of the dainty meal and already with his mouth open. But Setanta sent the ball for him to eat first. He drove it into his mouth with such force that it spoiled the hound's appetite and made him wish to get rid of even the little that he had tasted. While he was thus troubled, Setanta seized him by the hind legs and solved his difficulty by swinging him against a rock two or three times as a thrush swings a snail.

The bark of the hound wakened Conachoor's memory in the midst of the feast.

'This is an unlucky day!' he exclaimed.

'Why?' they asked.

'Because Dectora's boy, Setanta, promised to come after me, and there he is—or rather was, for he is no more than a mouthful to Culann's hound.'

The feasters rushed out to see what was happening. Fergus was the first to reach Setanta and raising him upon his shoulder bore him to Conachoor. All were glad save Culann, who followed the others back into the house and said to the king:

'It was an evil day when I asked you to that feast, O Conachoor. My dog is dead and there is none now to protect my house and flocks and herds. I shall get no sleep for thieves and at last I shall starve on this miserable plain.'

'Be not angry or alarmed, O Culann,' said Setanta. 'If any pups of the same breed are left in Ireland I will rear one to be his equal, and until he is trained I will guard your house.'

The smith was calmed.

'Good!' said Conachoor, 'very good'; and Cathbad the Druid said that henceforth Setanta should be called Cu Chulainn, Culann's hound. The name stuck to the boy and from that day he was called Cohoolin.

Some time after this, on a summer morning, Cathbad was teaching magic, and one of the students asked the master what that day was good for, as one day was good for setting out on a journey, another for building a house, another for marrying a wife. Cathbad answered that any lad who should take arms on that day for the first time would make a name above all others in Ireland: only his life would be short. Now Cohoolin was not learning magic and was playing far away, but he heard these words. Throwing aside the club and ball and taking off his game-dress he went at once to the house where Conachoor was still sleeping.

'Hail, King!' said Cohoolin, and the king raised himself upon his elbow.

'What is it, Setanta?'

'This day I wish to take arms as a warrior.'

'Ah Cohoolin, Culann's hound, who put that into thy head?'

'Cathbad the Druid.'

'Then there is no denying the request,' said Conachoor, and he gave Cohoolin a sword, two spears and a shield, such as he kept by him to equip those of his boy band who took arms. Cohoolin received the sword and brandished it and broke it: he tried the spears against the shield and splintered the shield and then snapped the spears. Thus he did one after the other with every set of weapons in the king's store.

'O Conachoor,' he said, 'these weapons must have been meant for others.'

Then Conachoor gave him his own sword and his spears and shield. Cohoolin brandished and bent them and thrust and slashed with them upon the shield, and found them good.

'These now are good, O King,' he cried.

At that moment Cathbad entered and asked in wonder:

'Is little Cohoolin taking arms?'

'Yes...' said the king.

'It is not his mother's son that ought to take arms on such a day as this,' said the Druid.

'But what, did not you yourself put it into the boy's head?' asked the king.

'Certainly not!' said Cathbad.

'Brat!' said Conachoor in anger, 'then thou art a liar!'

'Be not angry, O King,' said Cohoolin, 'it was Cathbad who put this into my head, though he did not mean to do so. I was playing just now when I overheard him teaching magic, and one of his pupils asked what to-day was good for, and Cathbad answered that the lad who took arms this day would make a name above all others in Ireland, but that his life would be short. Then I came to you.'

'Yes, yes!' said Cathbad, 'it is true. Thou hast taken arms, Cohoolin, and thou shalt be famous above all men, and thou shalt run thy course very swiftly.'

'I care little,' said Cohoolin, 'if I run it in one day if the memory of it shall last.'

'Well,' said Cathbad, 'mount thy chariot, Cohoolin, the course begins.'

A chariot was brought for Cohoolin, and he drove it so as to try it. He started furiously, with whip-strokes like flints cracking in a fire. He made the chariot curve like a snake and twist suddenly like a snipe. He stopped dead, and overthrew the chariot in fragments. Many other chariots were brought, and either at the start, or in mid-career, or at the mad stopping, he destroyed them all. Turning to Conachoor he laughed, saying:

'O Conachoor, these chariots were not meant for me.'

'Jubar, son of Riangabar!' cried Conachoor, and his charioteer answered:

'I am here!'

'Yoke my chariot for Cohoolin!'

Then Cohoolin mounted the king's chariot and took the reins from the charioteer and drove in all manner of courses. No two were the same, and all were as fantastical as the flying of a pewit in March. At last he made the horses gallop as straight as an arrow up to a stone wall, and then, having stopped them dead, lashed them over the wall itself.

'That will do very well, O Conachoor!' he said, 'this is a chariot in all ways suitable to me.'

The charioteer stepped down and said:

'That may be true, Cohoolin, but I doubt if thou art suitable to the chariot or to the horses. Come, let the horses go now into the meadows.'

'It is early yet, good Jubar. Let us away and drive round the plain of Emania.'

'Another time, perhaps; but the horses ought now to be grazing.'

'It is too early. I must go, and on my way I will see my companions.'

So Cohoolin drove to the green where the boys were playing.

'Do not go away from us, Cohoolin!' said the youngest.

'Give me a ride!' said one.

'Whose chariot is this?' asked another.

'Where are you going?' asked several.

'Thou hast taken arms to-day, Cohoolin,' said the oldest, 'O that it had been any other day!'

'But it is my day,' said Cohoolin, 'I chose it and it was chosen for me. Farewell.'

The boy band wished him triumph and safety, and though Jubar again asked him to let the horses be unharnessed he drove away.

They came at length into a broad track that could be seen running with a bold curve far away, and Cohoolin asked whither it went. 'To the Look-out Ford,' answered Jubar. At that ford every day and night stood one of the chiefs of Ulster, keeping watch and ready to answer the challenge of any foreign champion wishing to cross. Now Conall the Victorious was at the ford and Cohoolin asked him to give up his place for the day, but he would not because Cohoolin was too young. Furthermore, when he said that he would go to Loch Echtra to find an opponent Conall offered to join him as a protector, and persisted in coming, though against Cohoolin's will. Cohoolin started first, but the other's chariot soon drew up with him. Then Cohoolin picked up a stone that was just a fistful, and hurled it with all his might at Conall's chariot yoke. Conall was thrown out, and angrily asked him:

'What is that for?'

'Oh, I was testing my aim.'

'That is it, is it? Well, bad luck to thee and thy aim, and I will not move another step to help thee whatever happens.'

'That is just as I wish.'

When they reached Loch Echtra, Jubar said:

'Turn back now, O Cohoolin, for the carving has begun in Conachoor's hall, and it will soon be too late for me to get a mouthful even by the usual scramble with the jesters and messengers of the king.'

Cohoolin answered:

'Oh, then drive on, Jubar.'

But when they came in sight of a mountain he asked its name, and what was the meaning of the white cairn upon its crest. The mountain was pleasant to his eyes that afternoon, and he bade Jubar drive that way and kept him to it in spite of his sulkiness. When they reached the cairn Cohoolin mounted it, and looking about him pointed to a peak here and a long ridge there, and here a fort and there a plain, and he asked their names and Jubar told him. Cohoolin thanked him, but suddenly stopped him when he mentioned the fort of the sons of Nechtan, asking eagerly:

'Are those Nechtan's sons of whom men say that they have slain more men of Ulster than are now alive?'

'They are.'

'Then drive to the fort.'

On a green in front of the fort was a stone pillar, with an inscription saying that no man entering the green might leave it without challenging one of the men of the fort. After reading this Cohoolin put his arms round the stone and loosened it and heaved it into the water close by. 'It is no better there than where it was,' said Jubar. But Cohoolin bade him spread out the chariot coverings for a bed, and he threw himself down and slept.

As Jubar expected, one of the men of the fort came out—Foill, the son of Nechtan.

'Whose horses are these?' he asked.

'Conachoor's piebalds.'

'So I thought. Who brought them to these borders?'

'A slip of a boy who has taken arms this day and is showing what he can do.'

'Bad luck to him, and if he was fit for battle he should never go back alive.'

'But he is not fit, he is a boy,' said Jubar in kindness.

At this Cohoolin leapt to his feet with a blush and said:

'I am fit for battle.'

'I do not think so,' sneered Foill.

'Then thou shalt learn the truth. Go fetch thy weapons. I do not slay charioteers, messengers, or people of that sort, or those without weapons.' While Foill ran to arm himself Jubar told Cohoolin that this man could not be wounded by point of spear or edge of sword. Cohoolin scoffed at the warning: he knew what to do. He took a ball of iron and threw it at the approaching warrior. It struck him in the middle of the forehead and broke in and out again behind, so that the air went through where the brain had been. Cohoolin cut off his head and kept it.

Now a second son of Nechtan, named Tuachell, came out.

'Thou needest not boast,' he said.

'I do not boast of killing one man,' retorted Cohoolin

'Then thou wilt never boast, for thou shalt die by this hand,' said Tuachell.

'Get thy weapons,' said Cohoolin.

Tuachell went away rapidly. Jubar was anxious: he told Cohoolin that if Tuachell was not slain by the first blow he would never be slain. The boy took Conachoor's spear called the Venomous, and at the first approach of Tuachell pierced him through with it so that he died.

At this Fainnle, the youngest of Nechtan's sons, came out.

'Thou hast been fighting with simpletons,' he said, and asked Cohoolin to come away from the ford to the deep water.

'Be careful,' said Jubar, 'this is Fainnle the Swallow, called so because of his swiftness in the water.'

'But I also have swum in the water, in the river at Emania,' said Cohoolin.

Fainnle and Cohoolin walked into the ford, and when they could no longer walk they began to wrestle. Cohoolin did not trouble to drown his foe, but cut off his head and let the body drift down stream. After that, Cohoolin and Jubar harried the fort and set fire to it and took away with them the three heads of Nechtan's sons.

On their way towards Emania they saw a herd of what Cohoolin thought were very restless cattle. They were the wild deer of that country. The boy was eager to catch them, but the fat chariot horses could not come up with the wild deer. So he dismounted, and ran down two of the great stags and fastened them unhurt to his chariot. Further on they saw a flock of wild swans. Cohoolin asked if they were tame swans or wild, and, learning that they were wild, wanted to know whether it would be more creditable to bring them back dead or alive. 'Any one may bring them back dead,' said Jubar. So Cohoolin fitted a small stone into his sling and hurled it and entangled eight of the swans together. At another cast he caught twice as many, and he fastened all of them to his chariot.

Under the full moon Cohoolin drove into the palace courts with the heads of the sons of Nechtan bumping on his chariot sides, the deer racing at the back, and the swans flying behind them. The calling of the swans, with their long trumpet necks, awakened the palace, and the king's messenger called out:

'Behold a warrior coming in his chariot, O King. He is alone. He is beautiful and terrible to see, and the bleeding heads of his enemies hang on his chariot. Stags of the mountain follow behind and white birds fly after him, because they must.'

By this Conachoor knew that Cohoolin had returned from his first day's adventure, and had shown himself worthy of the sword, the spear, the shield, and the chariot. 'Old Morann was right,' thought the king, 'when he prophesied at the boy's birth that the praise of him should be on the lips of kings, warriors, and bards. Would that we could keep him for ever to guard our fords and lead our armies. But I should not be surprised if Cathbad was right also when he said that his course would be swift and soon to end; for never before was there a young warrior who did deeds like these on his first day.'

Father and Son

FATHER AND SON

When Cohoolin was a youth he went to Scotland to learn tricks of fighting from Scathach, one of the wild queens of that country. He was with her for a long time, and used to fight in her battles. Her most powerful enemy was another queen, named Eefa, and Cohoolin first slew Eefa's chief warriors, then overcame the Queen herself at single combat. This he did by a trick. Before going into battle he had asked Queen Scathach what it was Eefa most loved, and she told him: 'Her two horses, her chariot and her charioteer.' So when Eefa had broken Cohoolin's sword in the fight he called out suddenly, 'Look, look, Eefa's chariot has fallen over the precipice!' At this Eefa looked round towards where Cohoolin was looking, and instantly he seized her, and had her in his power. Having conquered this queen, he did not return at once to Scathach's country, but stayed with Eefa and made her his bride. When at last he was about to leave her, he said that if the child born to her were a boy, he should bear the name Conla. He left a ring for the expected boy, and as soon as it would fit his finger he was to come to Erin; but he was to tell no one his name and history; and he was never to refuse a challenge to battle.

The child was born and, as Cohoolin had hoped, it was a boy, and he was called Conla. He grew up worthy of such a father and such a mother, tall and beautiful and strong, and he knew not fear.

Cohoolin forgot Eefa, and Conla he never knew. It was part of Cohoolin's reputation that he had no children. Men said that this was why Cohoolin was so little afraid of death, because he had no son to watch growing up. They said that this also was why he thought so much of fame after death, because no son of his would be living after him to carry on his name and some likeness of his beauty and courage. As Cohoolin lived without a child, so Conla lived without a father. His mother taught him the same arts of battle as Cohoolin, and he became a great warrior. He asked his mother about his father, and, under promise of secrecy, she told him that his father was Cohoolin. Sometimes the boy had a great longing to see so glorious a warrior; sometimes he felt that he could hate the man who had left Queen Eefa and himself and never returned. When Conla had learned everything that can be learnt without wrinkles and grey hair and hollow teeth, she gave him Cohoolin's ring, and sent him to Erin. 'Remember,' she said, 'tell no man thy name or history, and whatever man shall challenge thee to combat, fight him. Thy father would do the same.'

In Erin every one loved him at first for his comeliness and his open ways. Many a girl would have been glad to have him for a lover or husband, but to those who spoke of love he answered:

'No. This is not my country, and I shall return alone to whence I came. I will not leave a son behind me as my father did, nor a wife as my mother was left.'

They asked who was his father, and who his mother, and if they were still alive; but he would not tell. He would not even tell his name. Nevertheless he made one exception. One maid who loved him looked at him with eyes which he could not resist, and he said, 'I am bound not to refuse a challenge, and there is one in thine eyes now which I must accept.' Her eyes said that she feared him to be treacherous, unwilling to tell her anything because he could thus easily slip away to his own country and not be followed. Therefore he told her that he was Cohoolin's son, and had come from Scotland where lived his mother, Queen Eefa; and he gave her the ring from off his finger. He begged her to tell nobody, and she promised. Then, angry with her for making him break his promise, he tore himself away and left her.

The men did not take it quite so easily when Conla refused to tell his name. But when they challenged him he did not refuse that, and, each and all, he either slew them or drove them away running at such a pace that they were invited to become messengers for the king. Of every one whom he met upon the roads of Erin he inquired about Cohoolin. They told him grand and fantastic tales of combat against odds, and how the hero's face looked when he was angry and in a difficulty, how his hair stiffened and his eyes bulged, and he seemed many times the size of his opponent, and how a light, which they called 'the hero-light', shone upon him at such times, and upon him alone.

Conla knew from the stories that he would have no difficulty in recognizing Cohoolin. Time after time, when he had listened to some one telling of Cohoolin's courage or generosity, he started forward again on his road to seek his father. But then he remembered that when he found Cohoolin he would not be able to reveal himself. If his father recognized him, and said, 'Art thou Conla, the son of Eefa?' he would not have to deny it, or even be silent. But if his father asked, 'Who art thou?' he must refuse, as he had done to many others. At this thought he became gloomy, and wished to turn back. His mother had, however, laid him under another promise, which was that he was never to turn back. Remembering this, he went on until he came to Dundalk, by the sea.

In Dundalk, Conall the Victorious, riding in a chariot, stopped him upon the road and saluted him, saying:

'Young man, come up with me into the chariot, and tell me where dost thou come from, what is thy name, and what thou seekest.'

'Gladly would I ride,' said Conla, 'but I may not answer thy questions.'

'Why not?'

'I am bound not to tell my history.'

'And who bound thee?'

'I must not tell.'

'Neither shalt thou ride with me.'

'I can run as fast.'

'I warrant thou hast had practice at running.'

'If thy meaning is that I run away from enemies, I can tell thee that I have not yet learnt to do so. Wilt thou teach me?'

'Ay, easily! '

'Master, I thank thee.'

'But wilt thou fight?'

'Certainly!'

So Conla and Conall fought, and Conla was a stronger and cleverer fighter than Conall, and ended by striking his sword out of his hand. Looking into Conall's woebegone face, he said, laughing, 'I cannot run away from a man without a sword, O warrior.'

At this moment came up another chief and, with a smile, picked up Conall's sword from the grass, and gave it to him, asking:

'Why, Conall the Victorious, are you giving away your sword as well as your name to this youth?'

'That may be. Let him be called Victorious. He will give his birth name to no one.'

'How so?'

'He refuses to tell me or any man.'

'I pray thee, tell me the name of the conqueror of Conall the Victorious,' said the new-comer, turning his face still smiling upon Conla.

At first the youth could not speak, but lost his tongue by looking long into the man's face, he knew not why. The smile of the man had annoyed him, yet he was fascinated also. He on his part seemed to be looking at Conla in the same way, and neither spoke for a little time. The elder was the first to speak. He began slowly, as if thinking of something else.

'Tell me thy name, young man, for even our enemies do not conceal their names; and, as for thee, I have a feeling that thou mightest be a dear companion to me, though thou hast begun by damaging my cousin, Conall. If it had been possible I should have said that I had known thee long ago. But long ago thou wast only an infant.'

'Chieftain,' said Conla, 'I cannot tell my name. Yet if I could for any man break my promise not to tell, it would be, I think, for thee. I also think like thee: "If it had been possible, I should have said that I had known thee long ago." Cease then to ask me…'