CúChulainn of Eirú Book III: Gods' End

By Richard Roche and Derek Fennell

It all comes down to this.

 The Hound of Uladh, CúChulainn, faces his most hopeless hour as all the dark forces of the land close in on Eamhain Mhacha. He must pit himself against a multitude of foes - demonic fighters under the thrall of the ruthless Queen Medb, the dark spirit known as the Morrigan, even former blood-brothers who now side with the enemy.

It is he alone who must stand against the tide. For his people, for his kingdom, for those he loves and for the SunGod Lugh, CúChulainn of the Red Branch must not break. And so, all of Eirú comes to him now with weapons drawn and violence in their hearts.

Down to the ford, where CúChulainn waits... to deal with death one last time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Longstone
• Release date: Oct 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781399959759

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CúChulainn of Eirú

Book III

Gods’ End

By

Richard Roche, Derek Fennell

CúChulainn of Eirú – Book III: Gods’ End

by Richard Roche and Derek Fennell

Copyright © 2023 Richard Roche and Derek Fennell

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher.

For permissions contact:

https://www.longstonebooksireland.com/

Cover and Maps by Mark Hill.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-3999-5975-9

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-3999-5976-6

First Edition

Dedication

For Mary

and

Fériel.

With love.

Acknowledgements

As with the previous two books in this series, the authors wish to extend our sincere thanks to several people, without whose support this would not have been possible. Profound thanks as always to Mark Hill for his beautiful artwork, and to Donal O’Connor for early visualisations – we look forward to seeing new ones. We also thank Colmán Ó Raghallaigh of Cló Mhaigh Eo, Lissa Oliver of the Irish Writers’ Union and Brian Langan for their insight and sage advice. Thanks also to Manchán Magan for his tremendous support and encouragement to plough ahead with this adventure. Thanks once more to Sophia Hadef for her belief in the power of myth and dark adventure, and for starting us on this road.

And finally, we extend our deepest gratitude to the many, many friends and supporters for their feedback on drafts, for listening to us talk endlessly in the pub about these stories, for their inspiration and encouragement on this twenty-one-year journey to publication of this trilogy; thank you - we did it!

Foreword

And so we come to it, the final chapter. When Del and I originally discussed embarking on this adventure, in a pub whose identity remains disputed between ourselves (I maintain it was the now-demolished Longstone; Del isn’t so sure), we effectively started at the end. It was the iconic image of CúChulainn at the pillar, as depicted in the beautiful sculpture by Oliver Shepard at Dublin’s GPO, which convinced us both of the potential for epic storytelling in these myths. So, in a way, the goal from the outset was to get to this point, the part of the story where it all culminates, the confluence of events that leads to our hero strapping himself to that pillar, fighting on against all odds. To quote a Tom Petty song lyric: it took a long time to get back here.

We have described elsewhere the process we adopted with these books: we made equal contributions to the Isle of Shadows, then worked effectively in parallel, with Del taking the lead on Seeds of Ruin while I ploughed ahead with Gods’ End. This was only possible because we both knew where the overall story arc was going from the outset – Del knew, for example, where (geographically, emotionally and in terms of loyalty) each of the characters needed to be by the end of Seeds/start of Gods’ End, but I left the precise details of how they got there to his imagination. I just needed the various pieces to be in specific positions on the board before the endgame could begin. In many ways his task was the more difficult one – his was the darker second instalment, the difficult second album where much that was resolved at the end of Isle of Shadows was undone again, not to be set right until the end of the third book. His was our Empire Strikes Back chapter, and I think he succeeded marvellously.

That left me with our Return of the Jedi equivalent (or Return of the King, to invoke JRR Tolkien once again), though that makes it sound like this part of the story fell to me by process of elimination. In truth, this was the part of our epic that I had always envisaged writing, from our earliest discussions of the project. From the first conversations I had a clear image of how the story should end, and had to wait patiently for my opportunity to do write it. I can understand why many others have, in adapting these legends, opted to do so in one volume (we encountered many such books in our research for this project); the pull of the final climax to the story is very strong. But that was also why we opted to tell the tale in three volumes – we believed, and still do, that this mythology warrants a truly epic retelling, that the events of Isle of Shadows and Seeds of Ruin deserve more than to be mere flashbacks in a single-volume narrative.

Adapting the famous Táin Bó Cuailgne, the Cattle Raid of Cooley, presented its own set of challenges. As the most famous story of Irish mythology, many elements of the tale are known to people in some form, while others may be unfamiliar with any of it. As with the previous two instalments, certain liberties had to be taken to create a consistent, compelling and logical narrative; this included beefing up (pun intended) elements of the cattle raid itself – cattle theft as an impetus for an epic conflict has its limits. So, as before, there will be elements in this version that will be familiar, and some that are novel – hopefully that will ensure some shocks and surprises for readers both knowledgeable of these myths and those who are new to them.

We have stated elsewhere that our intention with this trilogy was to do something akin to what Tolkien intended with his Lord of the Rings – to create a mythology for England to replace the stories that had been lost in the Middle Ages. But that may not be the best analogy. In fact, what we are doing is closer to the books Tolkien produced that were not set in his Middle Earth. For his other works included translations of, and stories based upon, legends including Beowulf, King Arthur, the Finnish hero Kullervo and others. We set out to write what we intended to be a definitive version of an Sraith Ultach, the Ulster Cycle, and the legend of CúChulainn. We hope that for some of you that will be the case.

So now we invite you to come back with us one final time to Eirú, our own version of ancient Ireland, and follow the fates of CúChulainn and Emer, Ferdia and Medb, Amergin and the Morrigan, and all the other pieces on the board as the final moves of the game play out. You have journeyed far with us, and now the end is in sight. It is soon told…

Richard Roche,

July 2023

About the Authors

Richard Roche is a Professor at the Department of Psychology, Maynooth University, where he lectures in neuroscience and neuropsychology. His areas of research include memory, dementia, synaesthesia and neuroaesthetics. To date he has published three academic books and 38 research papers, as well as several short stories, and this will be his third novel. His other interests include mythology, art and science communication, and has taken part in many outreach and engagement events. He spends his time between Ashtown, Naas and Maynooth.

Derek Fennell once put porridge on his table working as a sportswriter in his native Co. Kildare and later Dublin. Chronically vulnerable to romance, adventure and literature, he threw caution to the wind and moved to Paris in 2006 where he constantly gets up to no good, keeping cheese in his larder as a language trainer, translator and interpreter. A deep fascination for Irish mythology has burned within him all his life, colouring and inspiring the fantastical short stories he amuses himself by writing. He describes working on this book as a labour of shared love - with his co-author - for the unique folklore of his home country and a monument to a friendship. He currently divides his time between Paris and Nice, with occasional trips home to Ireland.

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Prologue

Flames.

Flickering, sparking, crackling, the crude log fire in the centre of the floor threw a circle of light and warmth on the figures gathered around the darkened hut.

My old eyes gazed at each in turn, but they lingered on two in particular: the large, muscular shape of the man seated to my left, and - directly opposite him - hunched over and peering intently into the flames, CúChulainn.

As the firelight cast its unnatural shadows across his features, it suddenly occurred to me, how old he now looked. Or perhaps not old, for that is a definite, quantifiable thing. No, not old… but worn; almost spent.

This realisation struck me to the gut. Mighty CúChulainn, our hope, should not look so bereft. What did he see there in the twisting flames into which he still stared? Did he spy the burning of Eamhain at the hands of Fergus? The Red Branch itself engulfed?

Finally he looked up, directly into my face; a look that carried such darkness that my heart lurched a little. And when he spoke his words were soft, but thick with power. They carried a gravity that held the entire hut in thrall, and though the direction of his gaze implied that he spoke to me, everyone present knew that this pronouncement was for all to hear.

‘It is coming. The reckoning. It will soon be upon us. I hear its steps draw closer. A battle the like of which this land has never seen nor glimpsed in nightmare. All that went before was mere play...’

As he spoke these last words his voice trailed off a little, as though remembering something from long ago. Presently, he continued sternly once more.

‘Our enemies grow in strength. The Dark One that has ever been our bane, she swells with the force of her malice. Her enthralled armies, will fall upon us soon like a fell rain, a deluge of blood that seeks to wash us away. To extinguish our noble light. We must stand firm in the face of the onslaught.

‘Our resolve is tested as it has never been before. Our champions turn their backs, side with our foes. Our king falls into madness. I see the frontiers of our land driven back, I see our enemies draw closer and closer. And my own faith begins to waver. The things I have done, the tragedies I have witnessed - they begin to weigh heavily on my already pained heart.’

He looked down to the floor, his speech faltering with the weight of emotion. Hunching over again, his hands dropped to the ground where they gently began to knead the dry soil at his feet. He took a handful of earth and brought it close to his face, and his expression brightened minutely. Enough, at any rate, to allow him to continue.

‘But then my thoughts turn to this land, and her fate… and my resolve returns. This is a fair land, Lugh's chosen land, and I will not see her fall to darkness. To evil. As our enemies gather more armies to them with their lies and deceitful strategies, the Red Branch of Uladh is all that stands against them. The Branch has been harmed, but it yet sands. In the battle to come, the Branch must not break.’

His words had grown forceful now, resolute. And as he uttered these last lines, his gaze shifted from me to the great figure to my left. He spoke softly once more:

‘It is coming. The murderous struggle for our land and future. It will soon be upon us. And when it comes, can I count on you, my friend?’

The question was filled with hope, and no small pleading, but also tinged with fear.

His voice trembling with the force of sincerity, he asked again.

‘Can I count on you?’

Part I

Ancient Relics

1.

Pillow Talk

Dusk filled the royal bed chamber of Cruachán Castle, the dying sun casting a vague amber luminance. Awaking from the post-coital half-slumber that served as reward for his recent exertions, Ailill, King of Connacht, rolled onto his side in the resplendent bed piled high with furs and heavy fabrics. Across the expanse of the room, naked - despite the cold - Medb stared out of the window across the forbidding Plain of Ai that stretched out below.

‘What do you see, my queen?’ he called. ‘What stirs across our domain?’

Without turning her head Queen Medb replied, her voice as inscrutable as the strange plain before her and as steady as a veteran’s blade.

‘Nothing stirs, my king. I see night wash across the sky. I see the first stars begin to glimmer. I see the setting sun drape a crimson shawl over these lands of ours. And to the East, I see the horizon. I see Uladh. The lands that are not yet ours.’

She turned back towards Ailill, the ochre light of the fading sun reflecting from what looked like tears welling in her eyes. Yet her voice remained firm.

‘I yearn for the day that I will see a Connacht banner fly above the Craobh Ruadh hall in Eamhain Mhacha.’

She turned back to the window, her hands cupping her pale, angular face and wiping at the teardrops. Ailill was astonished that tears were indeed coursing down the exquisite line of Medb’s Danann features.

Ailill spoke gently to her then, with a voice of certainty and comfort. Such was his way, for he was a reasonable man, and if it could be said that he had a weakness, it was his compassion for others in distress.

‘Such a day will not be long in coming, love. The madness of Conchobar has driven his allies from his side. They fear him now, having seen the poor calibre of his mercy in his dealing with Naoise, last of the Sons of Uisliú. His forces dwindle, while ours grow mightier. Have not the Seven Kings of Mumhain sworn their allegiance to us? And the Lords of Temair? The addition of their warriors to our army has seen us advance on Eamhain's borders as we had never dreamed possible.’

He was standing behind her how, his hand gently stroking her long silver hair, his mouth close to her ear as he whispered his reassurances.

‘And our demonstration of strength on the morrow will bring Laighin into our fold. Be patient, my queen - we will soon have Eamhain.’

Medb turned, caressed his face and led him back to the great bed, gliding fluidly onto the mass of fine sheets and sumptuous pillows. She smiled, but wanly.

‘You speak true, mo chroí. Yet my heart is still heavy. As long as Mac Neasa remains on Eamhain's throne, I fear this land shall never see peace...’

The tears returned, gently trickling like tiny jewels from her eyes. Ailill touched his lover’s face tenderly once more.

‘Ah, a chuisle, I see how these wars pain you. Many speak of Medb the hard, the Battledame, but only I know your inner thoughts, how the needless slaughter hurts you. But it will soon be at an end. We will remove the madman Conchobar and his people will be grateful. Then they will pledge their loyalty to us, as have done all the others. We will bring peace to this fair land, and all will be well.’

‘That will be a happy day,’ she smiled. ‘And we will carry the advantage on the field come the morn. Celtchar Mac Uthidir is still in Dun Lethglaise with a third of Uladh's army, and Fergus son of Roth Mac Echdach and his troop of the hundred so-called Lost Boars have joined our ranks. But a shadow still haunts my thoughts. The Hound of Eamhain remains a threat to our dream. His heroics in the fray could yet weaken Ruadhrai of Laighin's resolve to join with us.’

She stared deep into her king’s eyes, her breath quickening.

‘We must be victorious on Muirtheimne Plain by tomorrow's setting sun, or our advantage may slip.’

This display of passion, of ruthless ambition, directly in the wake of tears of such tender sensitivity reminded Ailill why he always found Medb so enthralling. Yet he was no fool; despite his soothing words, in the depths of his heart he knew that she was a formidable woman, far from weak.

But even so, he could not help falling prey to the idea that she was also a fragile being, a creature of delicate, refined emotions who dearly needed his strength and comfort to flourish. And most of all, his love.

‘This is true,’ he agreed. ‘To attack Muirtheimne is a brazen move. Uladh will not forego its great plain, site of so many of her victories, so easily. But we have made provision for the SlaughterHound.’

Medb turned her face toward the window again, toward the Plain of Ai, and far beyond it, Muirtheimne, where battle would be joined. She spoke in a dreamlike whisper, as if in a trance.

‘SlaughterHound. Setanta. CúChulainn. Many are the names they give him. Many are his great deeds. But his time draws close. His death will bring me no joy outside of the relief it will bring to our land. His death will bring peace.’

She sighed.

‘His death awaits him on Muirtheimne.’

The king, behind her on the bed, wrapped Medb’s flawless form in his long, broad arms and pulled her tight against his chest. Thus, he did not witness the ferocious smile that broke across her ethereal features as she murmured and pushed herself against him like a contented cat.

‘Finnbennach awaits him on Muirtheimne.’

CúChulainn’s Charioteer

Laegire Mac Muiris was a fine man, but a man who knew much sorrow. And yet one who brought much joy as well.

He was not born in Eamhain. He hailed from the coast, from a tiny village near Méthe Tog. There he was raised, and there he learned the craft of his fathers, which was the trade of the sea.

As he grew, he became an accomplished fisherman, highly skilled at the mastery of his little currach, of controlling its direction even in the strongest tides. And so he lived out his life for many years, fishing and sailing.

In time he met a local girl, Una, and they wed. Years passed, and they welcomed a child into their midst, a boy they named Laeg, after his father.

And life was good.

But life rarely remains untainted by woe, and so it ran for Laegire. In his case, everything changed with the Great Storm.

He was caught at sea when the storm hit. So strong were the winds, so violent the waves, that his tiny boat was overturned and buffeted toward the jagged rocks on the coast. The only reason Laegire managed to survive at all was the good sense that urged him to let go of the upturned craft and try to swim for shore; had he clung on to the vessel, he would have shared its fate on the rocks.

He dragged himself up the rain-lashed beach, his boat gone, and with a heavy heart, he slowly made his way back to his home.

It was when he arrived that his heart truly broke, as he discovered what else he had lost. A great wave had hit the coast in the height of the storm, lashing down on the modest hut that housed his beloved family. Una, ever attentive to danger, had recognised the threat, and fled with the infant Laeg in her arms, entrusting him to the care of their neighbours further inland. She had returned then to the hut, to rescue their other belongings.

And was seen no more. Swept away with the flimsy dwelling.

Laegire was broken. His wife, his home, his livelihood lost, and with the child Laeg to raise alone, the future looked bleak. The other villagers offered help, but they all had suffered their own losses in the storm.

And so Laegire decided to leave.

He took the boy and what few possessions he still had, and set out for Eamhain Mhacha, where he sought to start anew. He had no notion as to what the future might hold, but he trusted that Lugh would provide.

And so he did. As it transpired, he provided on the journey to Eamhain.

As they made their way through the countryside toward the fort, a wild horse – beautiful, white and majestic – ran across their path. Concerned for his young son’s safety, Laegire made to drive the horse away, and in doing so he discovered his new calling. He found that, in a strangely intuitive way, he was able to calm the beast, to read its unpredictable reactions, to put it at ease. He found the process similar to that of controlling his boat, reading the whims of the waves, accommodating their sudden changes.

He steadied the colt, gained its trust, and then placed young Laeg on its back, leading it onward to Eamhain.

When they arrived at the gates of the citadel, they were greeted by a great commotion. It emerged that the horse on which the boy now rode belonged to the king; it had been a gift from a neighbouring chieftain, but was considered too wild to be broken. It had lashed out at the stable-master of Eamhain, kicking fiercely at him and caving in his head, before escaping into the wild lands beyond Muirtheimne, to Conchobar’s great dismay.

So the sight of Laegire returning the beast, now as meek as a kitten, with his infant son atop its back, caused a considerable stir. The king was astounded, and quizzed the stranger on how he had managed such a feat. Laegire replied truthfully that he really did not know, that he merely did what came naturally to him and it appeared to work. At this, Conchobar set him a test in the stables, to see if he could repeat this skill with some of the other troublesome mounts.

Each in turn fell to Laegire’s unique gift.

And so, at the king’s command, he was appointed the new stable-master of Eamhain, and the welfare of all the horses entrusted to him. He was given a home, and paid handsomely for his work. Laegire embraced his new life, happy to raise young Laeg within the peace and safety of Eamhain’s walls. And, in time, he turned his hand to driving chariots – he found two horses no harder to manage than one.

And so he became known as the most skilled chariot-handler in Uladh. It was this accolade that drew CúChulainn to him, requesting that Laegire become his personal charioteer and arms-bearer.

The two men became fast friends on their many journeys. After the defections of Fergus and Ferdia, CúChulainn began to rely ever more on Laegire, to consult him on many matters, beyond even those of a military nature.

I think they helped each other in those months after the Burning of Eamhain. Perhaps each sensed how much the other had lost.

Perhaps they sensed how much more they would yet lose…

2.

Muirtheimne Plain

The dawn brought a dull grey to the indigo veil of sky, slowly lending form to the silent trees that skirted the vast plain of Muirtheimne. Tendrils of mist probed and reached, like the fingers of wraiths, wrapping around the coarse bark, the naked branches, and the legs of the fighters that made up the two assembling war-bands.

From the western end, emerging from the damp cover of the forest beyond, chariots trundled and foot-soldiers marched forth under the fluttering of the Connacht banner. Its emblem was that of a crow and a sword – while the former’s significance would be revealed in time, that of the latter was plain for the warlike peoples of Ailill’s kingdom. Score upon score of hardened, sleep-starved