Cuchulain, the Hound of UlsterCeltic MythologyLegend / Oral TraditionOld and Middle Irish (retold in English)ShareCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XIVHull (1909) - EnglishMoreVersion - 1 availableHull (1909)LanguageEnglishEspañol‹Cuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter ICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter IICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter IIICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter IVCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter VCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter VICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter VIICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter VIIICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter IXCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XIICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XIIICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XIVCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XVCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XVICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XVIICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XVIIICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XIXCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XXCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XXICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XXIICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XXIIICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XXIVCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XXVCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XXVICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XXVIICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XXVIIICuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XXIXCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XXX›The Combat with FerdiaCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XIVListenPlay this chapter in spoken English.Save chapterListen to chapterNow among the hosts of Meave was Ferdia, son of Daman, Cuchulain’s companion and friend when together they learned warlike feats in Shadow-land. All the while that Cuchulain fought with the chiefs of Connaught, Ferdia remained aloof, keeping within his tent, far from the tent of Ailill and of Meave, whose ways and cunning plans he liked not. For though against the men of Ulster in general he would have aided them, he would not take part in single combat against his friend and fellow-pupil. For he thought on his love for his old comrade, and the days of youth that they had spent together, and the conflicts and dangers that side by side they twain had faced; and day by day he sent his messengers to watch the fighting and to bring him word, for he feared lest harm should come to Cuchulain, fighting alone and single-handed against all the mighty men of Meave. Each evening came his watchers back, bringing him tidings, and greatly he rejoiced because he heard of the prowess of Cuchulain and of destruction inflicted on the hosts of Meave. But one day, when the fighting had been going on for weeks, and many of her best men and fighting warriors had been plucked off, Meave thought of Ferdia; and at the council-meeting of that night, when the chief men and counsellors met to settle who should go on the morrow to fight Cuchulain, she said, “Who should go, if not Ferdia, son of Daman, the warrior whose valour and feats are as the valour and feats of Cuchulain himself? For in the one school were they trained, and equal they are in every way, in courage and the knowledge of weapons and in skill in feats of strength. Well matched these two would be, if they were to fight together.” And all the men of war said, “It is a good thought; Ferdia shall go.” So messengers were sent to Ferdia to bring him to Meave, for she said she would see him herself, to persuade him with her own mouth to go against his comrade. But when the heralds came to the tent of Ferdia, he knew well enough for what purpose they had come, and he refused to see them, neither would he go with them to Meave. When Meave heard that, she sent again, but her messengers this time were not men of war and heralds, but satirists, to abuse him and to warn him that he should die a shameful death, and that disgrace should fall upon him before all the host, if he obeyed not the Queen’s commands. And they gave their message to Ferdia, and told him that his warrior fame would pass away from him, and that he would be spoken of by his comrades with ignominy and disgrace if he did not come. When Ferdia heard that they would spread evil tales about him, and disgrace him before the host of his own fellow-warriors, he said, “If I must die, it were better to die in fair and open fight, even with a friend, than to die disgraced, skulking as a coward before my fellow-men and comrades.” So he went with the messengers, and when he came to the Queen’s tent, all who were in the tent, both great lords and nobles, rose up to receive Ferdia, and he was conducted with honour and reverence to the presence of the Queen. Then the Queen greeted him and rose up and placed him at her right hand, and spoke kindly to him. And a great feast was made, and that night Ferdia was entertained with right great dignity, and food and pleasant liquors were served out of the best, so that he became merry and disposed to do all that Meave demanded. Then, when he was forgetful of all but the company in which he was, Meave set before his mind the princely gifts that she would bestow upon him if he would free her from her enemy Cuchulain, the destroyer of her host. These were the great rewards she offered him; a noble chariot with steeds such as befitted a king, and a train of twelve men-at-arms, fully equipped, to accompany him, as princes and great chiefs are accompanied, wherever he moved. Moreover, she promised him lands broad and fertile on the plains of Connaught, free of tribute or rent for ever, and that he should be her own son-in-law and next the throne, for she said that she would give him her daughter Finnabar to wife. Now Finnabar sat next to Ferdia at his left hand, and she was fair to look upon, with ruddy cheeks and hair of gold, and the garments of a princess flowing round her; and Ferdia was dazzled with her beauty, and with the lavish offers made by Meave, until he was ready to promise anything in life she wished. And when, the banquet over, young Finnabar arose and filled a cup brim full with mead, and kissed the cup and handed it to him, he knew not what to say. For still the memory of his youth in Shadow-land, Cuchulain’s love to him and his love to Cuchulain came over him again, and more than half he loathed what he had done. So looking now behind and now before, and loitering in his mind, he said aloud, “Rather, O Meave, than do the thing you ask, and ply my warrior-hand upon my friend, I would pick out six champions of your host, the best and bravest among all your men, and fight with them. With each alone or all together willingly would I contend.” Then from her queenly robe Meave plucked her brooch, more precious to her than any gift, for all the kings and queens of Connaught had worn that splendid brooch, the sign and symbol of their sovereignty; she stooped, and with her own royal hands, she placed the glittering jewelled pin in Ferdia’s mantle. “See, warrior,” she said, “I have bestowed on you the princely dignity, so that you now will rank beside the King; and as for those six chosen champions you have named, I give them to you as your sureties that these our promises will be fulfilled; go now and fight Cuchulain.” At that Ferdia looked up, and caught the glance of Finnabar most sweetly smiling down into his face, and close beside her the queen bending over him, and Erin’s chiefs and warriors standing round; and all his mind was lifted up within his breast, and he forgot Cuchulain and their ancient love, and said: “Though in this fight I fall, O Queen, I go to meet the Hound.” Fergus was standing at the king’s right hand, and when he overheard those words that Ferdia spoke, fear for his foster-son rose in his heart. For well he knew the might of Ferdia’s arms, and that he was of all the chiefs of Meave the bravest and the best, and well he knew that all the feats that Scáth had taught to Cuchulain, save only the “Gae Bolga” or Body Spear, she taught to Ferdia likewise. Ferdia besides was older than Cuchulain, and riper in experience of war, well-built and powerful. So when he heard those words, Fergus went out in haste, and though the night was late he sprang into his chariot, and set forth to find Cuchulain. “I am rejoiced at thy coming, my good friend Fergus,” said Cuchulain, as the chariot drew up beside him; “too seldom is it that on this Raid of Cooley we twain meet face to face.” “Gladly I accept thy welcome, O foster-son and pupil,” Fergus said. “I come to tell thee who it is that on the morrow has bound himself to meet thee at the ford, and urge thee to beware of him.” “I am attentive,” Cuchulain answered. “Who is the man who comes?” “’Tis thine own friend, thy comrade and fellow-pupil, the great and valiant champion of the west, Ferdia, son of Daman, called of all men the ‘Horn-Skin,’ so tough and strong for fight is he, so hard to pierce or wound with sword or spear. Beware of him, it may be even the Gae Bolga will not avail to harm the flesh of Ferdia.” “Upon my word and truly,” cried Cuchulain, “this is ill news you bring; never should I have thought my friend would challenge me.” “We thought as much,” Fergus replied; “we all avowed thou wouldst not relish the coming of Ferdia; for of all warriors that have hitherto come to the combat at the ford, he is most formidable and best prepared. Be wary, therefore, rest well this night, and try and prove thine arms; come to the combat fresh and amply armed.” “Utterly dost thou mistake my meaning, Fergus, my friend; not from any fear of him, but from the greatness of my love for him, I hold his challenge strange and unwelcome. For this cause only I regret his coming.” “Yet and in truth,” Fergus replied, “no shame to thee or any man to be afraid of Ferdia, for in his arms is strength as of a hundred men; swords wound him not, spears pierce him not, and tried and mettlesome his heart and arms.” “Now this, O Fergus, deem I strange indeed, that thou of all men shouldst warn me to be careful before any single warrior in Ireland; well it is that it was thee, O Fergus, and not another man, who brought me such a warning. From the beginning of winter till the coming of spring have I stood here alone, fighting each day a hardy warrior, and never have I turned back before the best fighting man whom Meave has sent against me, nor shall I turn back before Ferdia, O Fergus. For as the rush bows down before the torrent in the midst of the stream, so will Ferdia bow down under my sword, if once he shows himself here in combat with the Hound of Ulster.” That night there was no cheerfulness nor gaiety nor quiet pleasure in the tent of Ferdia, as there was wont to be on other nights; for he had made known what Meave had said to him and the command laid upon him to go on the morrow to combat with Cuchulain; and though Ferdia was merry and triumphant on his return, because of the gifts of the queen and the affection of Finnabar, and all the flattery that had been skilfully put upon him, it was not so with the men that were of his own household, for they understood that wherever those two champions of battle, those two slayers of a hundred should meet together, one of the two must fall, or both must fall: and well they knew that if one only should fall there, it would not be Cuchulain who would give way, for it was not easy to combat with Cuchulain on the Raid of the Kine of Cooley. As for Ferdia, through the first part of the night, he slept heavily, being overcome with the liquor he had taken, and the fatigues of the day; but towards the middle of the night, he awoke from his slumber, and remembered the combat on the morrow, and anxiety and heavy care began to weigh him down; fear of Cuchulain on the one hand, and sorrow that he had promised to do combat with his friend, and fear of losing Finnabar and Meave’s great promises on the other; and he tossed about, and could sleep no longer. So he arose and called his charioteer, and said, “Yoke me my horses, and come with me; I shall sleep better at the ford.” But his charioteer began to dissuade him, “It would be better for you not to go,” said he, “trouble will come of this meeting. It is not a small thing for any warrior in the world to do combat against the Bulwark of Ulster, even against Cuchulain.” “Be silent, my servant,” he said; “though the ravens of carnage croak over the ford, ready to tear my flesh, it is not the part of a valiant man to turn back from his challenge; away with us to the ford before the break of dawn.” So the horses were harnessed and the chariot yoked, and they dashed onwards to the ford. “Take the cushions and skins out of the chariot, good my lad,” said Ferdia, “and spread them under me upon the bank that I may take deep repose and refreshing sleep upon them; little sleep I got this night, on account of the anxiety of the combat that is before me on the morn.” So the servant unharnessed the horses, and spread the skins and chariot-cushions under Ferdia, and yet he could not sleep. “Look out, lad, and see that Cuchulain is not coming,” he said. “He is not, I am sure,” said the lad. “But look again for certain,” said the warrior. “Cuchulain is not such a little speck that we should not see him if he were there,” replied the lad. “You are right, O boy; Cuchulain has heard that a prime warrior is coming to meet him to-day, and he has thought well to keep away on that account.” “I should not say bad things about Cuchulain in his absence,” said the lad. “Do you not remember how, when you were fighting in Eastern lands, your sword was wrenched from you, and you would have perished by the hands of your enemies, but that Cuchulain rushed forward to recover it, and he slew a hundred warriors on his path before he got your sword and brought it back to you? Do you remember where we were that night?” “I have forgotten,” Ferdia said. “We were in the house of Scáth’s steward,” said the boy; “and do you not remember how the ugly churl of a cook hit you in the back with a three-pronged meat-spit, and sent you out over the door like a shot? And do you not recollect, how Cuchulain came into the house and gave the rascal a blow with his sword, and chopped him in two to avenge you? If it were only on that account, you should not say that you are a better warrior than Cuchulain.” “Why did you not remind me of all these things before we came here?” said Ferdia; “I doubt whether I should have come if I had remembered all this at first. Pull up the cushions under my head, or I shall never get to sleep. Will you be sure to keep a sharp look-out?” “I will watch so well, that unless men drop out of the clouds to fight with you, no one shall escape me,” said the boy; “and I will sing you to sleep with a lullaby.” Then as Ferdia sank into repose and refreshing slumber, he began to croon this ancient song which Grainne sang over Dermot, when he was hiding from Finn in the forests of the west. “Sleep a little, a little little, thou need’st feel no fear or dread, Youth to whom my love is given, I am watching near thy head. Sleep a little, with my blessing, Dermot of the lightsome eye, I will guard thee as thou dreamest, none shall harm while I am by. Sleep, O little lamb, whose home-land was the country of the lakes, In whose womb the torrents rumble, from whose sides the river breaks. Sleep as slept the ancient Poet, Dedach, minstrel of the South, When he snatched from Conall Cernach, Eithne of the laughing mouth. Sleep as slept the comely Finncha ‘neath the falls of Assaroe, Who, when stately Slaine sought him, laid the Hard-head Failbe low. Sleep in joy, as slept fair Aine, Gailan’s daughter of the West, Where, amid the flaming torches, she and Duvac found their rest. Sleep as Dega, who in triumph, ‘ere the sun sank o’er the land, Stole the maiden he had craved for, plucked her from fierce Decell’s hand. Fold of Valour, sleep a little, Glory of the Western World, I am wondering at thy beauty, marvelling how thy locks are curled. Like the parting of two children, bred together in one home, Like the breaking of two spirits, if I did not see you come. Swirl the leaves before the tempest, moans the night-wind o’er the lea, Down its stoney bed the streamlet hurries onward to the sea. In the swaying boughs the linnet twitters in the darkling light, On the upland wastes of heather wings the grouse its heavy flight. In the marshland by the river sulks the otter in its den, And the piping of the peeweet sounds across the distant fen. On the stormy mere the wild-duck pushes outward from the brake, With her downy brood around her seeks the centre of the lake. In the east the restless roe-deer bellows to its frightened hind, On thy track the wolf-hounds gather, sniffing up against the wind. Yet, O Dermot, sleep a little, this one night our fear hath fled, Lad to whom my love is given, see, I watch beside thy bed.” ‹Previous chapterCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XIIINext chapterCuchulain, the Hound of Ulster Chapter XV›Similar passagesBy tradition and source labelFind similarCompare selectedCompare with similarAsk Deep ThoughtSelect passages to search for parallels.Tap any verse to select it, then compare selected passages or ask Deep Thought. Public domain