The Sorrows - Softcover

Eickhoff, Randy Lee

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0312870272 ISBN 13: 9780312870270

Verlag: Forge, 2001

Inhaltsangabe

Three compelling heroic sagas evoke the Ireland's cultural heritage, covering the spread of Christianity on the island, as well as English domination and the bloody civil war. 12,500 first printing.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

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.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

The Sorrows

The Fate of the Children of Tuirenn

Rachad a haithle searc no laoch don chill.1

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 Danann2 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 Nuada3 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 uponthem, 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.4

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,5 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 Oghma6 driven Sreng away from the fallen Nuada.

Then did Diancécht7 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.8 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 Fomorians9 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 Elotha10 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,11 which would soon be called The Hill of Usneach,1213 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...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Forge
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2001
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0312870272
• ISBN 13: 9780312870270
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar