The Ulster Cycle continues with The Sorrows, three stories that dramatically portray Ireland's cultural heritage. The first, "The Fate of the Children of Tuirenn," is a tragic tale in which three brothers must pay a blood fine for murdering an enemy of their clan-a reflection of the great sorrow, which is Ireland's Civil War.
"The Fate of the Children of Ir" tells of an evil stepmother who transforms her four stepchildren into swans. After nine hundred years they are released from their fate, symbolizing the triumph of Christianity over paganism.
"The Fate of the Children of Uisliu" introduces us to Conchobor, the Red Branch King, as he forces the young yet strong-willed Deidre to be his wife-just as England sought to force the Irish into servitude.
Filled with adventure and tragedy, The Sorrows provides another insightful look into Ireland's past through three of her most enduring tales.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
The Ulster Cycle continues with The Sorrows, three stories that dramatically portray Ireland's cultural heritage. The first, "The Fate of the Children of Tuirenn," is a tragic tale in which three brothers must pay a blood fine for murdering an enemy of their clan-a reflection of the great sorrow, which is Ireland's Civil War.
"The Fate of the Children of Ir" tells of an evil stepmother who transforms her four stepchildren into swans. After nine hundred years they are released from their fate, symbolizing the triumph of Christianity over paganism.
"The Fate of the Children of Uisliu" introduces us to Conchobor, the Red Branch King, as he forces the young yet strong-willed Deidre to be his wife-just as England sought to force the Irish into servitude.
Filled with adventure and tragedy, The Sorrows provides another insightful look into Ireland's past through three of her most enduring tales.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
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Overview
The Ulster Cycle continues with The Sorrows, three stories that dramatically portray Ireland's cultural heritage. The first, "The Fate of the Children of Tuirenn," is a tragic tale in which three brothers must pay a blood fine for murdering an enemy of their clan-a reflection of the great sorrow, which is Ireland's Civil War.
"The Fate of the Children of Ir" tells of an evil stepmother who transforms her four stepchildren into swans. After nine hundred years they are released from their fate, symbolizing the triumph of Christianity over paganism.
"The Fate of the Children of Uisliu" introduces us to Conchobor, the Red Branch King, as he forces the young yet strong-willed Deidre to be his wife-just as England sought to force the Irish into servitude.
Filled with adventure and tragedy, The Sorrows provides another insightful look into Ireland's past through three of her most enduring tales.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429973472 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tor Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2011 |
| Series: | Ulster Cycle , #3 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 288 |
| File size: | 989 KB |
About the Author
Randy Lee Eickhoff holds several graduate degrees, including a Ph.D. in Classics. He lives in El Paso, Texas where he works on translations in several languages, poetry, plays, and novels of which two have been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. His translation of Ireland's national epic is now a text in not only schools in the United States, but countries overseas as well. His nonfiction work on the Tigua Indians, Exiled, won the Southwest History Award. He has been inducted into the Paso Del Norte Writers Hall of Fame, the local chapter of the Texas Institute of Arts and Letters. He spends his time in El Paso, Ireland, and Italy, lecturing on Dante and The Ulster Cycle.
Randy Lee Eickhoff holds several graduate degrees, including a Ph.D. in Classics. He lives in El Paso, Texas where he works on novels, plays, poetry and translations in several languages. His translation of Ireland's national epic, the Ulster Cycle, is now a text used in schools in the United States and overseas. His novel And Not to Yield, based on the life of Wild Bill Hickok, was selected as the Best Novel of 2004 by the National Cowboy Hall of Fame and Western Heritage. His nonfiction work on the Tigua Indians, Exiled, won the Southwest Book Award. He is also the author of Return to Ithaca, Then Came Christmas and The Quick and the Dead. He has been inducted into the Paso Del Norte Writers Hall of Fame, the local chapter of the Texas Institute of Arts and Letters. Eickhoff served with distinction in the early phases of the Vietnam War, and was awarded the Purple Heart, Silver Star and Bronze Star. He spends his time in El Paso, Ireland, and Italy, lecturing on Dante and The Ulster Cycle.
Read an Excerpt
The Sorrows
By Randy Lee Eickhoff
Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2000 Randy Lee EickhoffAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-7347-2
CHAPTER 1
The Fate of the Children of Tuirenn
Rachad a haithle searc no laoch don chill.
The Defense of the Sons of Cuireann
A sin, was it a sin? We are warriors too.
We did what all warriors do.
We met in battle at Brugh na Boinne,
And a warrior we slew.
Now far and wide we have gone for you
To pick foreign apples from where they grew,
To steal the skin of a Grecian pig
To heal your wounds and your strength renew.
We have met a king and the spear he threw,
The chariot of Dubhar and his whole retinue
Fail-miz and eazal and the spit
Of Finchory and its bubbling stew.
We have stood on cnoc na mochaen and shouted our "ballyhoo."
It has taken us years to do what you've asked us to
But sore and broken we have returned
And kneel before you, good Prince Lugh.
We beg mercy for breaking an old taboo.
If God will not forgive us who will? Will you?
Quickly now, lay upon us
The healing skin in the mountain dew.
We are soldiers only, and soldiers true.
We have made every deadly rendezvous.
All we ask is what is our due.
Yet you turn your royal cheek in the morning.
— Micheál O'Ciardha
i.
AH, BUT WHAT A STORY it is to tell, this one of the Tuirenn children! There is much to it, but one cannot simply begin at the beginning of such a tale. No, it is far too complex a thing to do that and cheapen the story by leaping into it like a dancer playing among the dappled shadows of the willows along the Boyne River. No, no. That won't do at all. Instead, we shall have to begin a little before that story and peek into the dregs of another story first in order to see how this one connects with the next and the next with the one after that and —
But one can play word games only too long. Enough. Here, then, is the tale at the proper beginning.
Oh, but the Battle of Mag Tuired — the first one — was magnificient! The Tuatha Dé Danann sent many of the Fir Bolg to their deaths in that one! Blood washed the ground and a great stench rose up from the battlefield for days after. Crows and ravens feasted well, I tell you! For four days, the battle raged back-and-forth over that plain until at last the Tuatha rallied behind the great warrior Nuada and pushed the Fir Bolg back into the rocky recesses of the northwest, where the great king and magician Conn ruled. Perhaps the Tuatha would have ended it for all time then, for the battle-rage was full upon them, but Conn did not want his country wasted by war and performed great magic, laying a thick field of snow over the entire province in one day. Slowed by having to slog through the great drifts, the Tuatha pulled back and away from the battle, leaving the Fir Bolg in that province they called Conn-snechta.
But the Tuatha had grown weary of battle by then and their great king, Nuada, had nearly been killed in a duel with the Fir Bolg champion Sreng, a great hairy monster who wielded a huge, two-handed sword that split Nuada's shield in twain and sliced Nuada's arm from his shoulder. He might have even killed Nuada had not the great Tuatha warrior Oghma driven Sreng away from the fallen Nuada.
Then did Diancécht work his magic by forming for Nuada, a silver hand, and setting it in place against the stump so that from that time on, Nuada was called Nuada Argatlam. But since the king of the Tuathas was to have no blemish, he was forced to step aside for another man to rule.
"Aye," one of them said in council when the question of Nuada's replacement came up. "There are many to chose from, but who among them can do what Nuada can. Perhaps we should —"
"Tch. Tch. Tch," another said, wagging his forefinger in objection. "I know what you are up to, you rascal! You would have us step away from the ancient laws and let Nuada rule despite his blemish. Well, I say no! Step once away from a law, you step away from others later, and then you have anarchy! No, no, no! We shall have a new king!"
"I agree," a third chimed in. "But who? And we had better be quick about it. The Fomorians have been watching to see how the battle went with the Fir Bolg, and I have a hunch they know how weak we have become."
"And your point?" the first asked, snapping his fingers impatiently. "Get to it before an oak grows from an acorn! You could talk the water to dust!"
"Very well," the former said icily. "I suggest we cast our lot in with the Fomorians. Only temporarily," he hastened to add, raising a hand to stave off argument. "I say let's send an ambassador to Elotha and ask to let his son Bres to be our ruler. That would keep the Fomorians from raiding our lands until we can rebuild our strength."
"A Formorian as a king over the Tuatha Dé Danann?" the first said indignantly. "What stuff and nonsense! Better to let Nuada continue, I say, than to bring the wolf into the fold!"
"His mother is Ériu," the former said pointedly. "Who is, I'm certain you recall, a Tuatha Dé Danann. That gives him a foot in both kingdoms, eh?"
"I'm for it," the second speaker said. "Great balls! We'll be at it until the sun turns to cinder if we don't settle this fast. Besides, what harm can be done? If he's no good, we get rid of him" — he snapped his fingers — "like that!"
"A wolf in the fold can kill a lot of sheep before he's driven out," the first said. "But I'm ruled against — I can see that! But don't throw my words to the winds! I still say you're wrong!"
And so ambassadors were sent to Elotha, who listened to the proposal, scarcely able to hide his glee. He willingly gave up his son to be king of the Tuatha Dé Danann, thinking that he had won the battle without dipping a single spearblade in Tuatha blood.
But politics seldom agree with logic. Had Bres been an honorable man, perhaps peace would have existed between the Fomorians and the Tuathas. But Bres had inherited only his mother's beauty, while from his father he inherited the ruthlessness of the Fomorians. He quickly imposed a heavy tax of an ounce of gold upon each man of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, enforcing the tax with soldiers from his father's army. The Tuatha were quickly made slaves, and there was nothing that Nuada could do to help his people.
And then Bres imposed another tax upon kneading bowls, another on querns, and yet another on baking stones. Each year, the Tuatha were to gather on Balor's Hill, which would soon be called The Hill of Usneach, and there pay their taxes. Any who refused to pay the taxes would have his nose cut off. Year after year, the unhappy Tuathas gathered at the hill to await the tax gatherers sent by Elotha.
ii
ONE DAY, THE STEWARD OF Nuada's house, a one-eyed grizzled warrior who had lost an eye the day his master lost his arm, stood on the wall of the Tara house, facing the sun, feeling its warmth soak into his bones. He held a cat in his arms and toyed with its ears, taking comfort in the rumble of its purring against his breast. Idly, he looked across the green plain at the foot of the hill to where a field of grain shone palely gold in the setting light. Two dots appeared in the distance, and he watched as they grew larger into young men, crossing the thick sedge, past clumps of skullcap and monkshood.
"And who might you be?" he called as they paused at the gate. They looked up at him and smiled.
"Well," one said in a musical voice, "I am Miach and this is Omiach. We are the sons of Diancécht."
"The doctor?" the steward asked.
"Yes. As are we. And not bad ones either, if I may say so," Omiach answered.
"We have a few healer's tricks," Miach said cautiously, giving his brother a reproving look.
The steward snorted. "That's as here as now. I can't tell you how many of you young sports come to this here gate bragging on how they have the gift of the hazel wand. But there's the difference between berries and turnips as 'tween them and Diancécht. Sons you may be, but do you have the magic of the old man? There's a difference between taking a splinter out from 'twixt the toes and closing a wound so it don't fester."
"We've been known to heal a bit," Miach said. He elbowed his brother in his ribs as the latter opened his mouth to speak.
"Umph!" Omiach grunted. He rubbed his side. "Now, what would you be doing that for? Eh? And why hide our skills under an whortleberry bush? When you're good, you're good, and there's no two ways about it!"
The steward laughed. "Well, if you're that good, then maybe you could put an eye in this hollow where my own good eye once was? Damn nuisance it is, looking at the world through one window when two were meant to be a man's use."
"Easy," Omiach said, ignoring Miach's vain attempt to hush him. "How about one of that cat's eyes? Would that serve you?"
The steward glared suspiciously at him, but the young man met his stare calmly. "Huh," the steward said. "If you ain't a sassy cockleburr. Very well, let's give you a try."
And no sooner were the words from his mouth than the cat leaped up in his arms, raking its claws down his arm, squawking, "Rrrrowrrrr!" It leaped upon the wall, looked wildly around for a moment, then streaked down from the wall and ran into the barn and hid under a sheaf of straw.
The steward suddenly looked out at the world from two eyes, blinking wonderingly at what suddenly had depth and a strange mixture of color. He raised his fingers and lightly touched the hollow where the lid had once been stitched down against his cheek. He saw his fingers coming toward the hollow and flinched away.
"Damme, if you don't have the whisper of the gods in your ears!" he exclaimed. He looked around wonderingly, enjoying the sudden beauty and strangeness that he had missed for so many years.
"I'm happy for you," Omiach said. He glanced at Miach, who shrugged.
"It's done, and once the milk's spilt, you can't put it back in the pail," Miach said. He looked up at the steward. "Would you be so kind as to tell your master that we wait outside his gate for his permission to enter?"
"Right back," the steward said. He climbed down from the wall and hurried across the yard. Suddenly he stumbled as a sparrow slipped across the edge of his sight and the new eye leaped in its socket, following the sparrow's flight. "Damme, if this won't take some getting used to," he muttered to himself. "But there's a bit of bad to all gifts, I'm thinking."
As he hurried through the hall, he heard a tiny rustle, and again the eye leaped to focus on a mouse scurrying along the wall to disappear in a crack beside a center beam. He closed the eye and stepped into the warm hall where Nuada lounged on his chair, nursing a cup of honeyed ale.
"What is it?" Nuada asked crossly as the steward came close to him. He had been cross since rising with new pains where his silver arm joined the stump, and now it seemed to have spread across his shoulders, making the other ache as well.
"Beg pardon," the steward said, "but two physicians wait outside your gate for permission to enter."
"I'm not in the mood for company," Nuada said sulkily. He buried his nose in his ale cup, drinking deeply. "But don't let it be said that we don't pay attention to the laws of hospitality." Take them to the guest house and make my apologies. Say I'm ill and crave their pardon for my seeming rudeness. I'll greet them properly in the morning. If," he grunted as a stab of pain washed up from his shoulder, "if this cursed arm stops giving me trouble!"
The steward fidgeted for a moment, then said, "I really think it would be best if you saw them now. They ain't your run-of-the-mill quacksalver. Look!" He opened the new eye and stared at Nuada. "How many you know could put the eye of a cat in place of me old eye that's long been jelly dessert for a battle-crow? Eh?"
Nuada stared with sudden interest at the new eye meeting his. "Hmm," he said. "That's truly a gift that one of them has, I'd say. Well, don't just stand there like a stool, bring them in!"
The steward scurried away, limping as a stab of arthritis hit him in a hip. "Drat and mouse turds!" he grumbled, swinging one leg shorter than the other in a truncated gait. "Must be a storm gathering!" He cast an eye over the sky as he ordered the bar slipped from the gate and the doors swung wide.
"My master bids you welcome and to take you to the Great Hall," he said. Something rustled in the grass beside the gatepost. His new eye jerked down and around, seeking the source of the noise. "Damn," he muttered, holding his hand over it. "Becoming a bit of a nuisance, this is. Just takes some getting used to, I suppose."
"Thank you," Miach said politely as he and his brother entered and followed the steward to the house. As they entered the Great Hall, they heard a deep groan, then a long sigh, as from someone in great pain.
"There's a warrior here who is injured," Miach said. "That sigh seemed to come from deep within him."
"Hmm. Maybe," Omiach said cautiously. The sigh came again. He cocked his head, listening. "Of course, it could be the sigh of a warrior with a darb-dóel working within him."
"You could be right," Miach said seriously. "I believe we have a bit more work to do before we'll be able to rest tonight. Steward!"
The steward turned toward him, staring with one blue eye and one yellow. Miach smiled as the yellow eye turned reflexively toward the wall and a fly buzzing by.
"It takes a little getting used to," he said solicitously. The steward nodded and sighed.
"Making me head swim, it is," he muttered. He pressed the heel of his palm against the yellow eye. "But beggars can't be choosers, and it has its blessings as well. What is it?"
"We heard a groaning and sighing as if someone was in pain when we entered the hall," Miach said. "Tell me: is there a warrior here with some difficulty?"
"Ah," the steward said, nodding. "That would Nuada. Ever since Diancécht gave him that silver arm, he's been bothered with aches and pains. Getting worse, it is, though he won't admit it." Miach and Omiach exchanged glances.
"Well, bring us to him," Omiach said. "Perhaps we can help."
"I dunno," the steward said, scratching his head with a long nail. He hawked and spat, rubbing the spittle away with the toe of his shoe. "Nuada said to bring you to him, but I reckoned to give him a bit more time to get rid of the bogles if that's what's bothering him."
"Oh, I think he'll want to see us," Omiach said breezily. "Lead us to him, then. There's a good lad."
"Lad? Old enough to have been a grin on your mother's lips," the steward muttered. "And you ladding me about, are you? Well, then, on your head it is, then."
He took the two brothers into the king's room where Nuada lay back against his couch, rubbing his shoulder softly. His face was white with pain, tiny beads of perspiration dotting his upper lip. The brothers' noses wrinkled at the sour smell of the sickroom. They looked at each other and nodded.
"A darb-doél," they said in unison.
Nuada's eyes opened. He stared through pain-dulled eyes at them. "Ah, excuse my bad manners, please," he said softly. He grimaced and grabbed his shoulder. "I seem to be having difficulties here."
"Your shoulder?" Miacht came forward, and touched Nuada's shoulder gently; Nuada flinched away, growing paler. He grabbed his ale-cup, draining it.
"Hurts, doesn't it?" Omiach said. He looked over at the steward. "Call a few servants, will you?"
"What for?" the steward said suspiciously.
"Well, if it is what we think it is, we will want to kill it when we release it," Miacht said. "A darb-dóel is a tricky devil. Very fast and elusive. You stomp on it, and it's not there."
"A darb-dóel?" the steward said, shaking his head. "What's that?"
"You'll see. You'll see. Now, get a few others in here. With shoes on," he called, as the steward turned away. "We don't want to have to go after the creature more than once."
When the others had gathered around Nuada's chair, Miacht gently took the silver arm in his hand.
"Now, this is going to hurt a bit," he said quietly to Nuada. "But there's nothing for it. Ready?"
Nuada gritted his teeth, nodding. Miacht took the silver arm, then suddenly wrenched it up and out away from Nuada's body, ripping it away. "Ye — ow!" yelled Nuada. A great stench of putrefying flesh rose from the wound. Within it, a large black beetle, the size of an adult cockroach appeared. The darb-dóel hesitated, then bounded away from the stump and scurried through the Great Hall.
"There it goes!" yelled the steward. "Filthy beast!"
He stamped at it with his good foot, but the darb-dóel slipped away, heading for the door. The servants leaped after it, their feet slapping like thunder as they tried to kill it. The darbdóel swerved and dashed into the cooking room. The steward leaped over it and raced ahead to the door, grabbing a meat mallet as he raced past the cook's table. He knelt on the floor, and when the darb-dóel came close, smashed it quickly, spattering it over the floor. He rose with satisfaction and handed the meat mallet to one of the servants.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Sorrows by Randy Lee Eickhoff. Copyright © 2000 Randy Lee Eickhoff. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page,Copyright Notice,
Acknowledgments,
INTRODUCTION,
The Fate of the Children of Tuirenn,
The Fate of the Children of Lir,
The Exile of the Sons of Usnech,
Ireland of the Sorrows,
BOOKS BY RANDY LEE EICKHOFF,
Notes,
Notes,
Copyright Page,
What People are Saying About This
Morgan Llywelyn, autor of Lion of Ireland
...rollicking bawdy, sometimes hilarious, ultimately both tragic and glorious, this tale is of epic proportions yet never loses the human dimension. In retelling Ireland's premier myth, Eickhoff has been true to both the land and the people. his translation is excellent, but of equal merit is the clarification which he brings to an intensely layered, often obscure story. This book is a joy and belongs in the library of everyone who loves Ireland.