Early Irish Myths and Sagas - Jeffrey Gantz [36]
‘Not difficult that,’ said Fer Rogain. ‘Mace Cécht son of Snade Teched that one, the champion of Conare son of Eterscélae. A good warrior Mace Cécht. Asleep he was, prostrate in his apartment, when you saw him. The two cropped heads next to the one with hair that you saw, those were his two knees drawn up next to his head. The two lakes next to the mountain that you saw, those were his two eyes next to his nose. The two hides about the oak that you saw, those were his two ears about his head. The two small boats upon the wheel cover that you saw, those were his shoes upon his shield. The slender stream of water upon which the sun shone, and the trickle down from it, that was the flickering of his sword. The hide that you saw rolled up behind it, that was the scabbard for his sword. The pillar of the royal house that you saw, that was his lance; when he brandishes it, the two ends meet, and he casts it whenever he pleases. The two surfaces of blue sea that you saw, those were his eyebrows, matched exactly on his handsome, ruddy countenance. A good warrior Mace Céchtl Six hundred will fall by him at the first onslaught, and a man for each weapon, and a man for himself, and he will match the performance of any man in the hostel; he will boast of victories over kings and royal heirs and plundering chieftains, and, though wounded, he will escape afterwards. When he encounters you in the hostel, as numerous as hailstones or blades of grass or stars in the sky will be your cloven heads and cloven skulls and heaps of entrails that he crushes after he has scattered you about the ridges.’
The raiders retreated over three ridges, then, trembling and in fear of Mace Cécht; and Gér, Gabur and Fer Rogain reaffirmed their pledges. ‘Woe to him who carries out this destruction, if only because of this one man,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘Your heads will leave your bodies.’ ‘You do not rule me,’ said Ingcél. ‘Clouds of blood will come to you.’ ‘Indeed, Ingcél, the destruction is yours by right,’ said Lomnae Drúth. ‘You will suffer no loss. It will be more difficult for me, however.’ ‘No lie that,’ said Ingcél. ‘After that, what did you see?’ asked Lomnae Drúth.
‘I saw an apartment with three callow youths in it,’ said Ingcél. ‘They wore silken mantles with gilded brooches; they had manes of yellow gold hair, and when they engage in combat, their manes extend to the front of the apartment. Moreover, when they raise their eyes, their hair rises until no part of it is below the lobes of their ears. As fleecy as a ram their cloaks. Five concentric circles of gold and the candle of a royal house above each youth, and there is not a man in the house who can match them for voice and words and deeds. Explain that, Fer Rogain.’
Fer Rogain wept, so that his cloak was wet about his face, and for a third of the night not a word was to be had from him. ‘Little people,’ he said, ‘what I do is proper. Oball and Obléne and Coirpre Músc those three youths, the three sons of the king of Ériu.’ ‘Woe to us if that is the case,’ said the sons