Kelly Cuchulainn and the Crow Queen

Ancient Legends Retold
1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-0-7509-5821-9
Verlag: THP Ireland
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 160 Seiten

These stories have been told for 2,000 years. At their heart stands the great Ulster hero, Cúchulainn and on his shoulder sits a dark goddess in the form of a crow. She is the mistress of chaos, surveying the slaughter as he whirls in fury through an ancient yet still familiar world. Their dynamic force has helped shape the history of Ireland - its tribes, its warrior queens, its dispossessed kings. Harnessing the imagination of a modern storyteller, using often overlooked material, this work is an exhilarating retelling of an epic journey - following our champion from a disputed birth through to the battle of the bulls and beyond.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Kelly, Bernard

Weitere Mitwirkende

Peters, June

Leseproben

1

DISPUTES

Three sisters, three one-eyed midwives, met at the crossroads. Above them there turned the constellations of the sky. At their feet skulked a hungry whelp of a hound.

‘How did it all begin?’ asked the youngest sister.

‘With the battle,’ said the oldest one. ‘When the gods came from the north, they set their ships alight so there could be no turning back. Their dark goddess, the Morrigu, the great Crow Queen, descended and pierced the earth with her sharp claws. She stood astride the river of tomorrow’s battle and what was to come began to bubble up from out of its depths; heads, fingers, eyes and teeth. Picking through the bits and pieces, she began to stitch all together again; limb back to limb, hand back to arm, scalp back to head. With sinew and song, seamlessly she did her work, washing away the blood from the dead-eyed boys not yet born, cleaning their corpses, bathing their bodies, breaking their bones.

‘Then came himself, the Dagda, Old Fat Belly, a god with appetites equal to hers. Dragging that mighty thing that hung between his legs, ploughing it into the earth, he separated the land from the sea and the sea from the sky. With a stomach the circumference of a world, copulation would be tricky, but she, the seasoned war goddess, was used to difficult manoeuvres. He caressed the nine untied tresses of her hair and with each move towards her, the bodies floating on the current between them shuddered and gasped; lungs spluttered out fluid and filled with air.

‘Shaking and shivering, hollow-eyed men emerged out of the dark waters and were dried by the beat of her wings as she took to the air. Their fists grabbed spears as above them she soared. Yelling, they ran towards her other children on the other side. Eye to eye, hand to hand, they hacked at each other, spears humming overhead; the clashing of shields, the clatter of swords, the slicing through flesh, the piercing of points passing through skin, the strokes and the blows of the weapons. Side by side, pride fought with shame that day and both stumbled on ground slippery with blood.

‘Through the killing, the craftsmen made good, sharpening blades blunted by bone; refixing spearheads embedded in flesh. The carpenters stripped the felled trees, worked the wood and turned the forests into smooth shafts of light. The masters of metal mended what was broken, their bellows blowing sparks that flew as stars into the sky. The braziers melded and riveted all together again.

‘Above, the Crow Queen surveyed the slaughter, saw the fires die down and watched as two great beings met on the plain.

‘One had a great eye, a black hole, the eyelid pierced by rings of gold, pulled open by chains of iron. A look and you shrivel and die.

‘The other was a dancing deity, tracing the patterns of the sun across the face of the earth. He held a sharpened ray of light.

‘“Who stands before me now?” asked Balor, the one-eyed god.

‘“The one you tried to keep in the dark,” answered Lugh, the shining lad.

‘“I live in the dark,” said Balor, “Are you kin of mine?”

‘“I am the son of the daughter you kept locked in a tower without windows or words so that I would not be born into this world.”

‘“Yet you stand before me now,” said the unseeing one.

‘“You shut out the light, but the sun kept on rising.”

‘“Then, blood of mine, let me look at you.”

‘His warriors pulled on the chains and the eye began to open. Balor only saw the point of light just before it hit and burned.

‘Lugh stepped forward, turned his spear in the socket and took out the still staring eye. He held it high, a ball of light now ablaze in the sky.

‘Rising out of the guts of the dead, she, the Crow Queen, laughed.

‘“Even a god cannot outwit his own fate.”

‘Ascending into the air, she crowed over the battle won and sang the end of the world.

‘I see a cursed land:

summers without bloom,

orchards without fruit,

cattle without milk,

oceans without life.

‘There will be kings without courage,

old men without wisdom,

judges without justice,

women without sovereignty.

‘Every son will enter his mother’s bed,

every father will enter his daughter’s bed,

each brother will become his own brother’s brother-in-law,

each sister will become her own sister’s mother.

‘The whole earth

consumed by fire,

as my shadow

devours the sun.’

‘Sister, you end everything too soon,’ said the youngest one-eyed one.

Snow began to fall and the three midwives built a fire. The hound rested his head on each lap in turn, as three eyes stared into the flames.

‘How did it all begin?’ asked the middle sister.

‘With the bulls,’ said the youngest one. ‘Of all the gifts the new gods brought; the shining spear of the sun; the everlasting cauldron of plenty; the screaming stone of destiny; surely the greatest one was the pig.

‘The gods had two pig keepers called Bristle and Grunt and although their masters, the god of the North and the god of the South, were fierce rivals, their swineherds were firm friends. “You know where you are with a pig,” said Bristle.

‘“Yes,” said Grunt, gazing into the eyes of his favourite sow. “They are the most faithful of creatures.”

‘“Not like a sheep,” said Bristle.

‘“Certainly not like a sheep,” said Grunt. “You would not confide in a sheep.”

‘“You would not,” said Bristle. “Foolish animals, sheep.”

‘“Thick as pig shit,” said Grunt.

‘“And what is this obsession with bulls?” asked Bristle. “Sure they have the balls, but do they have the brains of a pig?”

‘“No they do not”, said Grunt. “They are too belligerent.”

‘“Yes. Pigs,” sighed Bristle. “You could tell anything to a pig and know that the confidence would be kept.”

‘“Indeed it would,” said Grunt, “for a pig shapes a man into being a better human being.”

‘“Aye,” said Bristle. “A pig is a friend you can eat.”

‘“And there’s no finer thing in the world than that,” said Grunt.

‘The two pig keepers were well matched. If acorns rained down in the south, Grunt would invite Bristle and his pigs to the feast. If they rained down in Bristle’s territory then Grunt and his pigs would head north. So it was year after year, the pigs getting fatter and fatter and then fed to the gods to give them that everlasting life they so enjoyed.

‘But the gods have a habit of intruding even into the peaceful world of pigs. The gods of the North and South each wanted their herd to be the biggest and the best. They put pressure on their pig keepers to outdo each other or else they might find themselves out of a job. At first, nothing changed, but soon they began to talk and meet a bit less. Then one day when the acorns rained down in the south, Bristle was not invited to come. Grunt was never asked to come north again after that. And he cast a spell over Bristle’s pigs so no matter how much they ate they would not grow fat. Then Bristle cast the same spell over Grunt’s pigs and both were sacked for having skinny swine.

‘Deprived of their beloved companions, the ex-pig keepers became bitter and started to bicker and quarrel.

‘“I always had the biggest pigs,” said Bristle.

‘“Mine always had the tastiest flesh,” said Grunt.

‘And so it went on until, one day, their own bile became so unbearable that they turned into two birds of prey. Taking to the air as Talon and Claw, they cried of the beauty of pigs and the foolishness of kings.

‘Then diving down into the waters, they turned into two fishes – Ebb and Flow, spending days devouring each other in the depths.

‘Out onto the land they became two stags – Push and Shove, rutting in the spring.

‘Then two warriors – Point and Edge, endlessly slaying each other across the plain.

‘Then two banshees – Boundary and Space, wailing at the windows of the dying.

‘Then they fell to earth as two maggots, wriggling on the ground where they were eaten up by two cows, out of which they burst as two young bulls who within one day grew into the most magnificent creatures the land had ever seen: the great brown bull of Ulster, the Donn Cuailage, and the mighty white bull of Connacht, the Finnbennach. A hundred warriors could stand in their shadows; fifty youths could play games across their backs. Each bulled fifty heifers every day, the calves born out of their mothers the next.’

The three sisters sharpened three stakes of rowan, pressed point against skin and three drops of blood fell on the frozen ground. The hungry hound lapped it all up.

‘How did it all begin?’ asked the oldest midwife.

‘With the birth pangs,’ said the youngest one. ‘When men lost their sense of wonder and stopped evoking the old gods, those who had once been worshipped retreated into the hills and the hedgerows.

‘There was a farmer whose wife had died. He knew about crops and cattle, but to care for the four boys she had left behind, now, that was a different kind of task. The farmer was handsome and women liked him well enough, but none were eager to enter a dead woman’s bed so soon.

‘Then, one day, a quiet woman slipped into the house. He could not remember her knocking or saying good day. Just one day there she was, sitting by the hearth staring into the fire. Nothing was said. He nodded. She nodded back as if this had always been their custom. She put the bread on the table and no questions were...