Chapter 3 Going To See A Dog …

Chapter 3 Going To See A Dog …

In which Cúan commences his hero training.

Once he got home Cúan took the hurley upstairs to his bedroom to examine it more closely. He took out his phone and brought up the video app. He placed the hurley on his bedside locker and flicked on the reading lamp. The hurley lay on the locker doing nothing. He videoed it from handle to base then turned it over and did it again. OK. He measured it against his right hip, it was exactly his size! He flexed it against the floor mat, it had a lovely spring in it, almost as if it were newly made.

“Cúan, come down for some supper” called his mother Gráinne from the bottom of the stairs. “Yeah Cúan, come down from your boy cave and have some lovely supper,” sang Aoibhinn. He looked at the hurl “Yeah that’s what she’s like,” he said, “all ‘tude and no sense!” Then he caught himself. He was talking to a hurley now, what next? He closed the door and ran down the stairs before swinging left around the bannister at the end and hurrying into the kitchen.

Although it was night-time, the patio doors at the back of the kitchen were open and the patio lights were on. There his mother had brought hot steaming mugs of hot chocolate and a newly baked round of brown soda bread out onto the outside deck with the table. His father had lit some sods of turf from the bog in the firepit and Aoibheann was dividing the brown bread into generous slices, before spreading generous yellow butter to melt into their warm centres. A jar of his mother’s homemade blackberry jam was open and already had a spoon sticking out of the top.

“Tomorrow is the first day of May.” said Aoibheann, “Did you know that Bealtaine originally meant bright fire? We learned that last week in Irish.” “So, what has it got to do with May?” asked her mother “Well Gráinne,” said Aoibhinn with a flick of her hair, “I’m glad you asked me that because I asked Mr. Google the same question and he told me…dramatic pause…it was an ancient Celtic festival to mark the beginning of the summer. People would light bonfires and then drive their cattle through the smoke and walk around the fires because the flames, smoke and ash were said to have protective powers.” “Imagine that,” said Gráinne, “And druids would decorate their doors and windows with yellow May flowers because they were the colour of flames to welcome summer into their houses.”


Just then, Dermot came out of the house with a vase of daffodils he had picked growing wild on the bog. He placed it on the low windowsill beside the patio doors. The three of them stared at him then broke out laughing at him. “What… what…?” he spluttered but they just fell into the chairs laughing at the resident family ‘druid’.

Later that night when everyone else had gone to bed, Cúan was reading some old novel about pirates and buried treasure when his eyelids started to droop. As he turned off the lamp, he accidently knocked the hurl off the bedside locker. Instead of falling it just hovered about two feet off the floor. He rubbed his eyes and sat bolt upright. The hurl slipped sideways parallel to the floor over towards the window.

Cúan leapt out of bed and made a grab for the handle. Thinking to himself ‘I’m dreaming, I must be dreaming, how would I know if I’m dreaming?’ The hurl flashed once and cracked him sharply on the shin. ‘Ow- OK I can’t be dreaming.’ “Why did you do that?” he growled. The hurley just rose up level with the window and extended its handle towards him. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as his hand closed around the handle.He felt the hurl’s weight snap into his palm and he looked down below at the glowing embers of the ‘sods of Allen’ in the firepit.

Then a patch of darkness moved, a shape slunk across the patio to sniff the fire, it was a large animal, a beast on four legs, a large grey shadow, a shadow which raised its head so the whites of its eyes glinted up at him fearlessly, the mouth opened, showing white canines and a long red tongue hanging out. It was that wolfhound. He opened his door as quietly as possible, thinking ‘I can’t believe I’m going to see a dog…’

He crept down the stairs in his slippers, clutching the hurl in his left hand like a weapon. Turning at the bottom, he crept across the kitchen floor to the patio doors. They were locked. Outside the hound stared steadily but intently at him. He unlocked the door but kept it closed. The wolfhound just sat and watched him. He slowly and carefully opened the door and stepped out into the night in his light blue cotton pyjamas. He raised the hurl and said, “Who are you?” he asked, “What do you want?”

For a moment the hound just sat, then it stood on its hind legs and shook itself. As it shook it began to change shape, morphing in some shadowy way into a tall grey haired female warrior covered in tattoos of spirals, chevrons and waves.


She was about seven feet tall and wore a brown bearskin cloak of thick fur around her shoulders. Crisscrossing her breasts were two brown leather belts with dull black metal buckles . Beneath the leather straps which supported an oaken shield on her back, was a grey metal mesh with a dull sheen stretching down to below her waist,.Her legs were covered in black breeches and cinched at the waist was a light grey rope of fine, closely entwined fibre. On her feet were black silent cloth boots with a notch where the big toe was separated from the other toes, such as ninjas used for climbing ropes. Around her head was a grey hood which overshadowed her face. Her arms were bare to the shoulder except for leather braces and wrist bands on both arms. On her left hip hung a black scabbard and in her right hand was an enormous black spear with a black silken finger loop and a vicious looking barbed spearhead shining as black as coal.


She reached up and threw back her cowl to show a pair of ashy grey eyes. “I am Scátha, the Shadow Warrior, Woman of Skye, I am a warrior sent from Skye also called Emain Ablach by Mannanán Mac Lir. I am here to decide your fate, to train you and equip you with the hero feats to face the Witch Queen and her three champions.”

Cúan gulped “What do you mean to decide my fate?” Scátha stared down at him and began to walk around him appraisingly. She prodded his shoulder, she stared at his muscular thighs, she felt his pectoral muscles and poked his solar plexus. You’re but a boy… Aach a bairn… I cannae ken what the Auld One saw in you nor why the Gaebolg would be yours? To do in a few days what took seven years to do, I dinnae see how ‘tis to be accomplished. It’d be more merciful to slit your throat now than risk a world on these thin shoulders and the terror weapon in those hands.”

With that Scátha began to growl a curious chant.

“Béal an tine, oscail romhainn, droichead deataigh, clúd an Boínn. Tríd na tirtha, thar an mhuir, siar na céadta, don oilean anoir.”

(Door of flame, open before us, bridge of smoke, concealment of the Boyne. Through the countries, over the sea, back through the centuries to my island in the east.)

As Cúan watched the flames and smoke hung still in the air, a doorway of smoke opened before him and through it he smelled the salt air of the sea, heard the cries of gulls and waders, saw the bright sunshine of daylight and watched as Scátha strode through the smoke summoning him to follow. As she moved a shadow of the wolfhound separated from her and remained by the firepit. When he went to follow her he felt a chill as his insubstantial naked form stepped out of his body bringing in his hand a pure white hurley with many runes moving over its white body while behind him like a hologram was his old body clad in pyjamas still holding the old yellowed hurley.

Passing through the smoke, he stepped onto the ancient wooden jetty of a bright green island. “Hi there,” said a blonde girl of about his own age, “welcome to Skye.” Cúan blushed and immediately brought the hurl down in front of him. “I see you brought a fearsome weapon.” She giggled and threw a woollen tunic for him to catch one handed. “There’s a crios in it and sandals under the currach. I’m Aoife,” she said, “I’ll be your designated opponent for the trials.” “What trials?” asked Cúan. Before Aoife could answer Scátha turned and threw a silver dagger straight at Aoife, without breaking eye-contact Aoife’s left hand darted up and plucked the dagger from the air a foot from her head. “You’ll soon see.” She said and tucked the dagger in her own crios.

“What is happening to me?” demanded Cúan. Scátha turned, stood and looked at him. “You have been chosen as the warrior of light,” she said, “Three things must you have, a pure heart, strength of limb and to keep your word. If you wish to see your loved ones safe you must take the Oath of the Warrior of Light. This oath binds you body, soul and spirit to the world of magic and to the spirit of your warrior ancestor, Cúchulainn. Will you set yer foot upon the warrior’s path, will ye train to face down the evil that is coming into the world?


Cúan was divided. While on the one hand he dearly desired adventure and excitement with a hint of magic to spice up his life, on the other hand it sounded dangerous and he had a fear of injury or worse. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. If he let this chance slip he might regret it for the rest of his life...and anyway training sounded as if it might help him in his hurling career. Right, decision made so. “What do I have to do?” he whispered clenching the hurl as hard as he could for courage. Scátha looked a little surprised “Repeat after me these words...and mean them in your heart.

Trí tréithe a dhaingnímse,...”

“Trí tréithe a dhaingnímse..” He intoned.

“Glaine im chroí, neart im géag agus beart de réir mo bhríathar!”

(Three qualities secure me, purity of my heart, strength of my limbs and keeping my word.)

“Glaine im chroí, neart im géag agus beart de réir mo bhríathar!” he repeated.

“Now,” she said “you were called and you have answered, you are promised to the light and protected by that promise from the dark. Choose your actions in the light of your promise and all will be well.” In his hand a sharp zap of energy illuminated the hurley and on the handle a single eye opened and winked at him. “Oh that, said Scátha, “meet the GaeBolg, Your ancestor Cúchulainn’s mythical hurley and spear...it’s alive!

Scátha looked very troubled at the news she delivered next. “In the next seven days you must face three champions chosen the Witch Queen Maedhbh who has sworn to destroy you and your family line down through the generations. Only if you defeat her champions will you win the chance to confront Queen Maedhbh herself. You and your family have been under the protection of Mannanán Mac Lir, one of the most powerful of the Dedannan of the Goddess Danú.”

Scátha took out a dirk and began to carve a sharp stake from a piece of timber. Her hands were large and dexterous and a sharp stake was fashioned in no time. Cúan realised she had done this many times before.



“See, Long ago there was a great war fought at Moytura between the De Danú and the Dark Formorians, a hated and cruel oppressive people led by their King, Balor of the Evil Eye. In that battle the De Danú defeated the Formorians in your world. We call your world the Tír Faoin Grían, the world beneath the Sun. The Three Rulers of the Sidhe declined to kill the Fomorians but banished them into some other worlds.” Cúan looked confused “The other worlds? What other worlds- do you mean space?” said Cúan.

Scátha laughed, “No I mean neither space nor time. You are at home out on the deck in pyjamas right now and here in Skye or as we call it, Emain Ablach, the land of promise. At certain feasts like Samhain or Bealtaine, spirits can cross over and appear in your world for a short time by incantation or the use of a magical object such as Cúchulainn’s hurl. ‘Taispáin tú féin Gaebolg’.”

In his hand the hurley went very hot. Its shape changed, lengthening and narrowing until it became a two-metre rounded ash pole with a green silken loop at its centre. At the head of the shaft, knit into the tapered wood in a joint that showed no seam, was a bright silver metal spearhead with sharp, barbed edges glittering evilly on both sides. On the opposite end clad in silver was set an emerald glowing and winking with its own inner light.


“That,” said Scátha, “is the Gaebolg, the terror weapon of the warrior of light of both realms, Cúchulainn the Hound of Ulster, Champion to King Conor MacNessa, sworn enemy to the Witch Queen of Connacht Maedhbh Crom Cruach.” “Tell me Cúan Cullen of Kildare have you seen her in your hero visions?”

Cúan recalled the dream he had when he first grasped Cuchulainn’s hurl. “And what if I have?” he shot back defiantly. “If ye have then yer fate is sealed because it means she has seen you. You as you are now, a mere boy of fifteen. She knows what you look like and now she will come for you. At first, she can send her three champions to do battle with you, after that she must come herself.”

Scátha paused and pulled out another throwing knife. She tested its point on her left palm.

“But Maedhbh is an evil queen so she will try to weaken you with poison, with deceit and with attacks through those you love for these are her arts and she has magic weapons too. Did you see her sword?” demanded Scátha, “A long silver sword bladed on both sides set with jewels red as blood?” asked Cúan, “Yes,” said Scátha, “That is ‘The Morallta’ and none can survive its blow, thou must never allow it to touch your skin.” “How am I to avoid it, just run away?” jeered Cúan. Scátha eyes goggled. Cúan was guessing that ‘Smells like Teen Spirit’ wasn’t on her streaming playlist, not even close. She blurred, disappeared and next thing her left arm clamped his head to the left as her latest silver dagger pressed on his right jugular vein as she whispered from behind him. “Old I may be in your eyes, or as a woman I may seem weak to you but make no mistake, if running is something you think you can do, consider Maedhbh’s champions my equal in speed, deadliness and temper. With one prick of my dagger I will take a drop of your blood, or a sliver of your nails or a hair from this head, so I can possess and control your spirit for all eternity… or perhaps just kill you.”

A high whistle from a blackbird on a branch sounded and Scátha froze. Up the hill a white-haired old man with a hooked nose came out and stood at the mouth of a cave. He was dressed all in robes of bright yellow satin covered in gems and a crown that sparkled with gold and diamonds. He nodded at Scátha who loosed Cúan immediately. “Aoife,” called out Scátha, “take Cúan for a run around the island, his training and trials must begin immediately.”

Aoife came up clad in her green tunic cinched at the waist by an ornate crios. “First we must teach you to run.” “But I already know how to run” answered Cúan. “The speed at which you will run here will be much faster. Remember here we are in the spirit world; our speed will appear magical to

ordinary human eyes. You possess a magical artefact ‘the Gaebolg’, you share in its magic and it draws power from your spirit, As long as it is in your hand, you can run like the wind through a forest without turning a blade of grass or snapping a twig because you will be, what I call, ‘spirit running’.” And with that away she sped away, Cúan chased her and sped across the landscape at an unbelievable speed.

Three times he approached her to clutch her shoulder and three times those hazel eyes smiled over at him as she redoubled her speed and tore away faster. Finally, at a cave on the far end of the island she stopped, facing the sea all out of breath. “Good,” she said as he blurred and stood beside her.


“We cannot run on water as water is magical, it is a sacred substance, a portal to other worlds. We travel over water only when we have to, either on Mannanán’s the Wavesweeper, on Lugh’s Magical Horse Enbarr or transformed by the highest magic into another animal form such as a bird.” “Is that how Scátha could transform into a wolfhound?” asked Cúan, “Yes” said Aoife, “But only the Deities can become a bird.” “Who are the Deities?” asked Cúan, “Well there’s Mannanán, and Lugh of course and the Daghda and Aonghus. Scátha’s just a Shade.” “What is a shade?” asked Cúan, “Are you a Shade?” “A Shade is a body without a soul.” answered Aoife, then she gave him a piercing look. “Do you remember what Scátha said about your blood, or nail or hair?” “Yes, I do.” Said Cúan. “Well, a long time ago, Scátha trained a warrior in all the arts of war and concealment that she knew, but he was afraid of her so he took some of her hair and went to a witch who used it to capture her soul, to enthral and enslave her to do his will. It means that she must do his bidding until he returns what he took and sets her free magically.” “Why didn’t she kill this warrior?” questioned Cúan. “It is because the Warrior was placed under a strong spell of protection of Mannanán, our King, who had chosen him to do battle with the Witch Queen Maedhbh. It was the warrior Cúchulainn himself.” “But didn’t he die ages ago?” puzzled Cúan.

Aoife laughed a bright happy laugh. “Cúan,” she said, “Where do you think we are? And when do you think we are? This is Emain Ablach, Fortress of Mannanán Mac Lir, this is the land of Promise. Do you not see? Scátha is going to train you all over again because although Cúchulainn is dead, his line is not. You are the one Mannanán has chosen and this time, swift as you may run you cannot outrun your destiny. Maedhbh is coming back into your world and her power has grown to break from her imposed exile. All she needs now is one descendants’ blood and she will return. Then by use of magic, by acts of seduction, by her wiles with poison and lies and violence she will destroy you; and consume your country. I am like you, I am a champion from Scotland. I am training to face Maedhbh’s champions too. But it is you, the line of Cúchulainn, that she hates the most because he spurned and rejected her offers of herself to him. Now let’s get back.”

All the way back to the jetty Cúan tried to understand what was happening. There he was with a warrior’s apprentice running at super speeds in some far away time and place. He had just met a beautiful, funny kind of superhero girl and she was treating him like something special. He hoped he wasn’t going to end up making a fool of himself. The Gaebolg swung up in his hand and slapped him hard on the back of the head. Yeah, yeah, he thought you’re very mouthy for a hurley.

Back at the jetty, Scátha was scowling. Cúan paid her no heed but kept a wary eye on her. She threw off her shield, skins and weapons and stood up on a round barrel that was lying on its side. Moving her feet, she steered the barrel faster and faster; first in a line then turning to the left or right in tight circles through agility and balance. “Now. Your turn.” She called Cúan up. Cúan took a running jump to balance on a nearby barrel. Immediately it rolled and he fell off. “Again.” yelled Scátha, “Take your hurl.” whispered Aoife. Taking his hurl in his hand, Cúan leapt a second time, this time his feet held the centre of the barrel with no difficulty. He used the hurl, like a tightrope walker’s pole to balance himself. He was even able to pivot the barrel left and right with a slight lean to whichever side. “Enough.” shouted Scátha who appeared angry by his success. “Return to your home, I will see you tomorrow night.” With that the bridge of smoke appeared at the end of the jetty and Aoife laughed as Cúan began to strip off. “Why are you undressing?” she said. “Don’t I have to go through the smoke naked?” “No.” she said “only once, the first time!” Cúan went beetroot red again...all over.