Early Irish Myths and Sagas - Jeffrey Gantz [30]
The men left him, then. ‘I see that you have not detained them,’ Conare said. ‘Indeed, it is not I who has betrayed you,’ replied Lé Fer Flaith, and he recited the last poem. They were no happier with that answer, and afterwards they felt great forebodings of terror because of it. ‘All my gessa have overtaken me tonight,’ said Conare, ‘and that because of the banishment of my foster-brothers.’ Meanwhile, the three Deirgs preceded him into the house and took their seats there, having tied their horses at the entrance.
Conare was still making for Áth Clíath when there overtook him a man with short, black hair and one eye and one hand and one foot. His hair was rough and bristling – if a sackful of wild apples were emptied over it, each apple would catch on his hair, and none would fall to the ground. If his snout were thrown against a branch, it would stick there. As long and thick as an outer yoke each of his shins; the size of a cheese on a withe each of his buttocks. In his hand a forked iron pole; a singed pig with short, black bristles on his back, and it squealed constantly. Behind him came a huge, black, gloomy, big-mouthed, ill-favoured woman; if her snout were thrown against a branch, the branch would support it, while her lower lip extended to her knee.
This man sprang towards Conare and greeted him, saying ‘Welcome, popa Conare!6 It has long been known that you would come here.’ ‘Who is welcoming me?’ Conare asked. ‘Fer Calliu, and I bring a pig so that you will not have to fast tonight,’ said the man. ‘You are the best king who has ever come into the world.’ ‘What is the woman’s name?’ Conare asked. ‘Cichuil,’ the man replied. ‘I will come any other night you please,’ said Conare, ‘only leave us tonight.’ ‘By no means,’ replied the man, ‘for I will come to you where you are tonight, fair popa Conare.’
He turned towards the house, then, with the singed, black-bristled pig squealing on his back and the huge, big-mouthed woman following. That violated another of Conare’s gessa. There was a geiss, moreover, against plundering in Ériu during his reign; but plunder was being taken by the sons of Dond Désa, and there were five hundred in their band, not counting supernumeraries. One good warrior in the north was named Fén Tar Crínach, for he stepped over opponents the way a wagon passes over withered sticks. Yet there was a fían-band that was haughtier still: the seven sons of Ailill and Medb, each named Mane and each with a nickname – Mane Athramail and Mane Máthramail and Mane Mingor and Mane Márgor and Mane Andoe and Mane Milscothach and Mane Gaib Uile and Mane Mó Epirt. And all were plunderers. Mane Máthramail and Mane Andoe had fourteen score men, Mane Athramail had four hundred and fifty, Mane Milscothach had five hundred, Mane Gaib Uile had six hundred, Mane Mó Epirt had seven hundred and the others had five hundred each. There was also a valorous trio of the Uí Briuin from Cúalu in Lagin, and all three were named Rúadchoin; they were plunderers, and they had twelve score men, and a frenzied troop besides. One third of the men of Ériu were marauders, then, in Conare’s reign; he had sufficient strength and power to drive them out of Ériu and make them plunder elsewhere, but after that, they returned to the country.
When the plunderers of Ériu reached the shoulder of the sea, they met Ingcél Cáech and Éccell, two grandsons of Conmac of Bretain, on the back of the sea. A terrifying, un-gentle man was Ingcél: he had a single eye in his head that was as broad as an oxhide and as black as a beetle, and there were three pupils in it. There were thirteen hundred men in his party, but the plunderers from Ériu were more numerous than that. The two bands were about to engage each other on the sea, but Ingcél said ‘Do not do this – do not blot your honour. You have more men than I.’ ‘You will have equal combat,’ said the plunderers of Ériu. ‘I have a better thought,’ said Ingcél. ‘Let us make peace, for you have been cast out of Ériu, and we have been cast out of Albu