Cuchulain, the Hound of Ulster

by Eleanor Hull

“That suits me well,” said Foll, and he rushed headlong for his arms. “It will suit you even better when we come to the ford,” said Cuchulain. Then Ivar warned Cuchulain that this Foll was no ordinary foe; “he bears a charmed life,” said he, “and only he who slays him with one stroke has any chance of killing him at all. No sword-edge can bite or wound him, he can only be slain by the first thrust of a spear, or blow of a weapon from a distance.” “Then I will play a special feat on him,” returned the boy; “surely it is to humble me you warn me thus.” With that he took in his hand his hard-tempered iron ball, and with a strong and exact throw just as Foll was coming forth, full-armoured from the fort, he launched the ball, which pierced the warrior’s forehead, so that he fell headlong on the ground, uttering his last cry of pain, and with that he died.

Within the fort his brothers heard that cry, and the second brother rushes out. “No doubt you think this is a great feat you have done, and one to boast of,” he cried. “I think not the slaying of any single man a cause to boast at all,” replied the boy; “but hasten now and fetch your weapons, for in the guise of an unweaponed messenger or chariot-boy come you hither.” “Beware of this man,” said Ivar; “Tuacall, or ‘Cunning’ is his name, for so swift and dexterous is he, that no man has ever been able to pierce him with any weapon at all.”

“It is not fitting that you speak like this to me,” said Cuchulain. “I will take the great spear of Conor, and with it I will pierce his shield and heart, before ever he comes near me.”

And so he did, for hardly was the Cunning One come forth out of the fort, than Cuchulain threw the heavy spear; it entered his heart and went out behind him. As he fell dead, Cuchulain leaped on him, and cut off his head.

Then the third son of Nechtan came out, and scoffed at the lad. “Those were but simpletons and fools with whom thou hast fought hitherto,” he said; “I challenge thee to come down to the ford, and out upon the middle of the stream, and we will see thy bravery there.” Cuchulain asks him what he means by this, and Ivar breaks in: “Do you not know that this is Fandall, son of Nechtan, and Fainle or Fandall, a ‘Swallow,’ is his name, because he travels over the water with the swiftness of a swallow, nor can the swimmers of the whole world attempt to cope with him. Beware of him and go not to the ford.”

“Not fitting are such words to be spoken to me,” replied the lad, “for do you not remember the river we have in Emain, called the Callan? When the boy-corps break off their sports and plunge into the stream to swim, do you not know that I can take one of them on either shoulder or even on my palms, and carry them across the water without wetting so much as their ankles? For another man, your words are good; they are not good for me.”

Then came Fainle forth, and he and the lad entered the stream together, and swam out and wrestled in deep water. But suddenly, by a swift turn, the youngster clasped his arms about him, laid him even with the top of the water, and with one stroke of Conor’s sword cut off his head, carrying it shoreward in his hand, while the body floated down the current. Behind him he heard the cry of their mother, the wife of Nechtan, when she saw her three sons slain. Then Cuchulain sent her out of the fort, and he and his charioteer went up and harried it, and set it all in flames; for an evil and a pirate fort had that fort been to Ulster, bringing many of their warriors to death, and spoiling all their lands. Then Cuchulain and Ivar turned to retrace their steps, carrying in their hands the heads of Nechtan’s sons. They put their spoils and the three heads into the chariot, sticking the dripping heads upon the chariot-pole that passed out behind, and set out in triumph towards Emain and the palace of the King.

“You promised us a good run to-day,” said Cuchulain to the charioteer, “and we need it now after the contest we have made; away with us across Moy Bray, and round the mountain of Slieve Fuad.” Then Ivar spurred the horses forward with his goad, and so fast did they race onward that they outstripped the wind in speed, and left the flying birds behind them. To while away the time, Cuchulain sent stones speeding before him from his sling; before the stone could reach the ground, the chariot had caught it up and it fell again into the chariot floor.

At the foot of Slieve Fuad a herd of antlered deer were feeding beside a wood. Never before had Cuchulain seen a herd of deer; he marvelled at their branching antlers, and at the speed and lightness with which they moved from place to place. “What is that great flock of active cattle yonder?” enquired the boy. “Those are not cattle, but a herd of wild deer that wander in the dark recesses of the hills,” replied the charioteer. “Which would the men of Ulster think the greatest feat, to capture one dead or to bring one home alive?” “Assuredly to capture one alive,” said Ivar. “Dead everyone could bring one down, but seldom indeed can one be captured alive.” “Goad on the horses,” said the lad; and this the driver did, but the fat horses of the King, unused to such a drive and rate of motion as they had had that day, turned restive and plunged into the bog, where they stuck fast. Eagerly Cuchulain sprang down, and leaving the charioteer to struggle with the horses, he set off after the flying deer, and by sheer running came up to them, caught two of the largest stags by the horns, and with thongs and ropes bound them behind the chariot between the poles.

Again, on their way to Emain, a flock of swans passed overhead, flying before them. “What birds are those?” enquired the boy. “Are they tame birds or wild?” “Those are wild swans,” said Ivar, “that fly inland from the rocks and islands of the sea to feed.” “Would the Ulstermen think better of me if I brought them in dead or if I captured them alive?” again enquired the boy. “Assuredly to bring them down alive.”