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By Root 647 0

But if Temuir Lúachra was uninhabited before or after, it was not uninhabited that night. No surprise this, for a son had been born to Ailill and Medb and given the name Mane Mó Epirt and sent out to be fostered by Cú Ruí son of Dáre; and that night Ailill and Medb and the chieftains of Connachta had come to drink to the end of the boy’s first month. They had all gathered there, and so had Echu son of Luchtae with his province and Cú Ruí son of Dáre with the Cland Dedad. Despite the presence of so many, the woman-warrior Medb, the daughter of Echu Feidlech high king of Ériu, was still cautious, and so there were two watchmen, two druids, guarding her. Their names were Cromm Deróil and Cromm Darail, two foster-sons of the most excellent druid Cathub.

It happened that these two druids were on the wall of Temuir Lúachra that night, looking and watching and waiting and guarding on all sides, when Cromm Deróil said ‘Have you seen what I just saw?’ ‘What is that?’ asked Cromm Darail. ‘I seemed to see a red-armoured company and the thundering of a host on the slopes of Irlúachair from the east,’ said Cromm Deróil. ‘I would not think a mouthful of blood and gore too much for the person who said that,’ said Cromm Darail. ‘No host or multitude that, but the great oaks we passed yesterday.’ ‘If that is so, then why the great royal chariots under them?’ asked Cromm Deróil. ‘Not chariots they, but the royal strongholds we passed,’ answered Cromm Darail. ‘If that is so, then why are there beautiful, pure white shields in them?’ asked Cromm Deróil. ‘Not shields at all those, but the stone columns at the entrances to the royal strongholds,’ answered Cromm Darail. ‘If those are columns, then why all the red-pointed spears over the great dark breasts of the mighty host?’ asked Cromm Deróil. ‘Not spearpoints at all those, but the deer and wild beasts of the land with their horns and antlers overhead,’ answered Cromm Darail. ‘If those are deer and wild beasts, then why do the horses’ hooves blacken the air overhead with the clods they send up?’ asked Cromm Deróil. ‘Not horses they, but the herds and flocks and cattle that have been let out of their stalls and pens – it is in their pastures that birds and other winged creatures alight in the snow,’ answered Cromm Darail.

‘My word, if those are birds and winged creatures, it is not a single flock,’ Cromm Deróil said, and he recited this poem:

If that is a flock, with the colour of a flock,

they are not one kind of bird.

A multicoloured cloak with a golden brooch

seems to hang round the neck of each bird.

If these are flocks from a rugged glen,

their tips are very black:

not scarce their bitter spears

with the warlike points.

They seem to me not flurries of snow

but small men, in truth,

arriving in a multitude

with their straight spears,

a man behind each hard crimson shield.

That is a huge flock.

‘And do not contradict me, either,’ said Cromm Deróil, ‘for it is I who am telling the truth. Why did they bend under the branches of the oaks of Irlúachair on their journey west if they were not men?’ Cromm Deróil reproved Cromm Darail thus, and he recited this poem:

Cromm Darail, what do I see

through the mist?

Whose blood is presaged

after the slaughter?

Not right for you to contend with me

on every point.

You are saying, hunchback, they are

slow bushes.

If they are bushes they will remain

in silence.

They will not rise unless there is need

for them to go.

If they were a grove of alder trees

over the wood of a cairn,

they would not follow a deceptive path,

they being dead.

Since they are not dead, fierce their slaughter,

rough their colour.

They traverse plains and wood hedges

for they are alive.

If they were trees on hilltops,

they would be without deeds of combat;

those mantles would not move

if they were speckled.

Since they are not trees, ugly their clamour,

without any lie;

men of triumphs these men of alder shields,

red their weapons.

Since they ride dark horses,

they form a row of hosts;

if they are rocks,