The Myth of Cu Chulainn
“Dinnae dismiss what I say outright, Daughter! I have seen it with me own eyes.”
Angus Carmichael was renowned for his stories about brave knights and mythic battles. This morning, around the farmhouse dining table, it was no exception. When prompted by the two youngest members of the family, he had launched into a tale about a conflict between two warring clans that made his eldest child raise her eyebrows.
“I hardly deem it possible, Faither,” she said. “How can a man’s body change shape, just like that?”
“When ye have seen how men prepare their minds for a deadly encounter with an enemy, Blair, then ye’ll better understand,” Angus said in earnest. “Cu Chulainn used the power of Mother Earth to ready himself before a fight. Some bards called it the warrior’s warp and others described it as ‘the torque,’ but this terrifying battle frenzy is called riastrad by our people, and it’s a talent, ye could say, some of us have nae forgotten how to wield.”
The youngest Carmichael child piped up, “D’ye mean to say ye saw men do this...this riastrad thing with yer own eyes, Faither?”
Angus patted his young son’s head. “Aye, wee Adie, I did. ‘Twas truly awe-inspiring. They bit their swords with bare teeth and their muscles grew to the size of a stallion’s hind legs! Why, I even saw black blood burst out of the top of their heads like a hot cauldron!”
“I’ve heard ye tell King Arthur did the same thing at the Battle of Camlann,” Blair Carmichael said. No matter how far-fetched some of her father’s stories sometimes seemed to be, she never grew tired of hearing about them, even at the age of eight and ten. “But King Arthur might be more of a fairy tale than a true person, Faither.”
“These legends get passed down to us for a reason, Blair,” her father said as he ladled another spoon of porridge into his mouth and hastily swallowed before carrying on with their discussion. “And every Highlander kens well, ye dinnae have to be a king or knight to channel the fury of a warrior’s rage into the body. Our fates are set, so we may as well go out in splendor.”
Even though some of her father’s tales were occasionally beyond belief, Blair still loved to hear him tell them. The middle-aged man’s face would light up with a fire whenever he recounted fables about heroes of the past. And if everything he said was not exactly part of the historical record, Blair always found what he had to say thrilling. She could remember through her childhood many a cold winter’s night made special with her father’s voice and imagination spinning the most glorious pictures in her mind. She did not begrudge her little brother and sister their turn to hear about the monsters, villains, and lionhearted warriors that had entertained her so much when she was small.
Angus pushed his empty porridge bowl away and his chair back from the table. “Well, I’m off. Those cattle are nae goin’ to walk themselves to the market in Flichity.”
Blair stood up from the table as well, carrying her father’s bowl to the scullery. Her mother came into the kitchen from the bedchamber upstairs, where she had been prettifying herself in front of the looking glass.
“I need some red ribbons from the drapers while ye’re up in Flichity, Husband,” she said when she saw Angus readying himself to depart. “I want to fashion some rosettes for me new slippers.”
Angus rolled his eyes to the heavens. “Losh, save me, woman! Where are ye going to find the occasion to wear such impractical shoes as those mules? Never mind ones adorned with bleedin’ rosettes!”
Mistress Ainslee Carmichael huffed. “I may be a farmer’s wife, Angus, but I see no reason for me to look scaly when the chaplain or laird visits our house.”
Angus muttered as he went out to the stables, “Och, we wouldnae want that now, would we?” and then in a louder voice, he shouted out to his eldest daughter, “Blair! Come out here an’ close the field gate for me when I’ve chivied out the cattle.”
Blair went out and saw her faither mounting the mare. He began to ride down the rutted lane leading to where the cattle were penned, ready for market.
“Are ye nae takin’ the stallion, Faither? His pace is longer and quicker.”
Angus glanced back over his shoulder at his daughter as she followed him toward the pen. “Nay, Blair, I’ll take the mare. She has a colt to wean and ‘twill make it easier if I separate them by doin’ this.”
Blair trotted on ahead and opened the pen where the fattened bullocks were grazing. Using her staff, she urged the animals out of the enclosure, waited for her father to gather them in front of his pathway. When she saw all the bullocks were ambling along the lane, she closed the gate and stood with her feet on its lowest rung.
“Faither, if the fair is in Flichity, will ye have spare pennies to buy the younger children something? Wee Maggie has been hankerin’ for a poppet and Adie could do with another tin soldier. He lost his last one when he was playing with it ’round the edge of the well.”
Angus had to raise his voice to reply; the horse had already walked many yards down the lane, and the bullocks were bellowing. “I dinnae ken if I’ll have time for fair visiting, Daughter! Look after yer mither and the young ‘uns for me. Farewell!”
“Farewell, Faither!” Blair shouted, and then walked to the henhouse to feed the chickens. She knew the task would fall to her this morning because she had seen her mother was wearing her favorite pair of mules. Blair wore sabots when she was outside in summer and boots in winter. She had a nice pair of lace-up boots with little high heels for riding out to visit neighbors, but she would never sully them with farmyard muck; they were too precious.
With the hens fed and watered and the warm eggs collected from the straw, Blair made her way back to the kitchen, carefully carrying the basket of eggs with her.
“Mither! Adie, Maggie! Would ye care for some fresh eggs for dinner?”
She heard her mother’s voice come out of the parlor, “Blair, dearie, I’m in here with the children. I thought to teach them some lessons before allowing them outside.”
As much as it was sometimes frustrating when Blair’s mother considered herself more of a lady and less of a farmer’s wife, there was one thing for which Blair was grateful: Mistress Carmichael had taken great pains to teach her children how to read and write. She had even taught Blair how to calculate simple sums and a few words of French.
“Because ye never ken, me dearest daughter, there might come a day when ye choose to leave the farm and seek yer own way in the world, and when that time comes, ye’ll be thankful yer mither saw fit to give ye a proper education.”
Blair had sighed and pouted while frowning over a particularly difficult sentence or fraction. “Why would anyone care if I can do these things, Mither? I prefer listenin’ to Faither’s stories. They are better than the ones in books.”
Her mother had smiled. “From where do ye think he gets his stories in the first place?”
