17
THE HOUND OF ULSTER
It was well after dinner by the time Max was able to slip away from his classmates and make his way alone to Rattlerafters Library. His father had expressed his disappointment that Max was unable to avoid fights at yet another school. But for Max, the experience had more disturbing implications. He had not decided to leap after Alex and seize him, it had just happened—as swift and involuntary as a blink or a sneeze.
Passing a trio of older students, Max climbed Old Tom’s stairs two at a time. He had never been up to Rattlerafters before, but he knew the library was shunned by most of Rowan’s students and faculty. Occupying the attic of Old Tom, the Rosetta Library owed its unpopularity and nickname to its location directly beneath Rowan’s chimes. Beams, books, and furniture were shaken up every hour on the hour.
The long, low attic smelled of dust and book leather; to Max it resembled a book graveyard more than a working library. Near the entrance, a slender spiral staircase disappeared up into a dark room housing the building’s clockworks and chimes. Max moved quickly past it; Old Tom had always seemed to him a living thing, and something about the dark space above made him uneasy.
Max settled himself into a rickety wooden chair at a long table. Flicking on a table lamp, he sneezed and brushed a layer of dust off the table. There was little doubt in Max’s mind that Ronin had caused the distraction at the patisserie to slip him the message. Ronin’s note had been brief but was relatively clear; “RCOKE” clearly stood for Max’s Rowan Compendium of Known Enemies. He opened his bag with uneasy anticipation, pulling out the heavy book and spying another folded letter between its pages. Max opened the letter and scanned its jittery script.
Dear Max,
I write in greatest urgency. The Enemy has begun a great work of which the missing Potentials are but a part. The Enemy believes Old Magic exists once again among our Order, and this signals an opportunity to recover Astaroth.
Max, the Demon is not dead, but imprisoned in a painting! Furthermore, the Enemy believes it is already in possession of the accursed thing. Many works now hanging in museums are clever forgeries—the stolen paintings in the newspapers are merely to divert Rowan’s attention from other thefts that have gone undetected….
There are whispers of a matchless child—a child whose arrival they have foreseen and whose help they require to free the Demon. Verifying the existence and identity of this child is of great interest to them.
Max—your name is known and has been mentioned many times in their councils. Be on your guard! There is at least one traitor among you. Rowan is not safe. I am close and watching—look for me at Brigit’s Vigil. Incinerate this!
Ronin
Max scanned the letter several times, committing its details to memory. “Brigit’s Vigil” was a mystery, but much of the letter made grim and disturbing sense. He had to speak to David immediately. David was operating under the assumption that the four paintings he had identified still hung safely in their respective museums, now under careful watch. And David might well be the matchless child the Enemy was seeking.
He crumpled the letter in his fist and reduced it to ashes with a blue flame.
As Max’s eyes followed a drifting flake of ash, the room suddenly shook with the deafening sound of Old Tom’s chimes. Max clamped his hands over his ears and pitched forward in his chair, eyes screwed shut. His eardrums rattled and vibrated for what seemed an eternity until the bells finished striking eight o’clock.
Opening his eyes, Max yelped as he realized he wasn’t alone in the old library. Miss Boon was standing some ten feet away.
“I’m sorry to surprise you,” she said. “I gather this is your first visit to Rattlerafters?” She took a deep breath and looked around. “I used to come here, too, when I wanted to be alone.”
Max nodded as the ringing subsided in his head.
“Some students said they’d seen you come this way,” she explained, gesturing toward the stairwell. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
Flustered, Max zipped his backpack and started to get up from the table.
“No, but I already said I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
The corners of her mouth stiffened a moment before relaxing into an amused smile.
“I’m not here to discuss your behavior this afternoon. Please have a seat—I’d like to talk to you.”
Max casually swept the letter’s ashes off the table while Miss Boon took the chair opposite him. She reached into her bag and produced a thick book bound in worn green leather. Interlacing Celtic designs in faded gold ran along its borders. IRISH HEROES AND FOLKLORE was stamped on the front cover.
“What’s this?” asked Max.
“Interesting question,” mused Miss Boon. “I happen to think it may be you.”
Max looked across the table. Miss Boon leaned forward, her mismatched eyes locking on his as she raised her hands and murmured a word of command. Instantly the book sprang open, its pages flipping past until they stopped at an illustration of a fierce-looking warrior standing in a chariot. His black hair was plaited and he clutched a barbed spear in his hands. Max read the chapter title aloud: “Cúchulain—The Hound of Ulster.” The name sent a tingle up his spine.
“Not ‘koo-choo-lane,’” Miss Boon corrected, “koo-hull-in. Yes, Max, this is the very person I’d been hoping you’d research in an effort to better understand your vision. You have thus far refused to look for him, so he has come looking for you.”
Max balked at her tone and eyed his watch.
“Is everyone else doing research on their visions?” Max asked, trying to stall. “Because I’m having a hard enough time with classes as it is. I don’t think I should be taking on any more work.”
Miss Boon glanced quickly at the stairwell and gave Max a guilty smile.
“Fair enough. You see, Max, I’m really asking you for a favor. I want to understand more about your vision. I know it had something to do with the Cattle Raid of Cooley. But I need to know more—I need to know precisely what you saw.”
Max’s stomach tightened up. There was something in her eagerness that reminded him of Mrs. Millen.
“I’m not sure,” Max lied. “It’s kind of hard to remember. Why’s it so important?”
“Most of the time, a vision is something pretty and without much meaning behind it,” she said. Max fidgeted uncomfortably; Mrs. Millen had wanted to know if his tapestry had been pretty. “But yours is a bit different. Your tapestry was of a very definite person. From what little Nigel told me, your vision illustrated a very particular scene. If it’s true, that’s very rare. Almost unique, in fact. I’ve been doing a lot of independent research on visions, and I don’t know of one like that in over four hundred years. Since before Rowan was founded.”
Max took a quivering breath; he already knew the answer to his next question.
“Who had the last one?”
“Elias Bram,” she said.
Max thought of the last Ascendant’s apple floating in the Course’s trophy room.
“You think he had the same vision I did?” Max asked.
“No. His was very different. But, unlike all the others—and similar to yours—his was tied to history and myth. According to Bram’s letters, it was of the Norse god Tyr placing his hand in the mouth of the Fenris Wolf. Do you know the tale?”
Miss Boon smiled at him; she always seemed pleased when she knew something that someone else did not.
“The Fenris Wolf was a monstrosity,” she explained. “It was capable of wreaking unimaginable havoc unless it could be controlled. No chain could bind it, and so the gods, in secret, procured a cord wound with spells so as to be unbreakable. When they challenged the monster to test his strength against the cord, the wolf laughed but was suspicious of such a feeble-looking fetter. It agreed to be bound only if one of the gods would place a hand in its mouth as a gesture of good faith. Only Tyr stepped forward.”
Max winced. “What happened?” he asked.
“The Fenris Wolf could not break the magic binding,” she continued. “When it realized it had been caught, it bit off Tyr’s hand and swallowed it. Tyr had made a mighty sacrifice, but the monster was rendered harmless until Ragnarok—the End of Days—when it would burst its bonds.”
“Didn’t Elias Bram sacrifice himself at Solas?” Max asked. “So others could flee?”
“He did,” said Miss Boon, looking closely at Max. “I take it you can now imagine why I want to help you understand your vision.”
Max was not so certain.
“It’s like I told you,” he said. “It’s hard for me to remember. Maybe we should talk about it with the Director.”
Her eyes widened momentarily and she shook her head.
“No, no! This is just between us.” For a moment, she looked sheepish. “Ms. Richter doesn’t know I’m doing this research. She might think it’s taking time away from my…teaching duties. You understand, don’t you?”
Max glanced from her face to the book several times before finally nodding.
“Good. I thought you would.” She smiled and pushed up from the table. “I’ll leave this with you in the hope that you’ll read it. Perhaps it will jog something in your memory. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Max hesitated, before blurting out a final question.
“What’s Brigit’s Vigil?”
Miss Boon turned around.
“Where did you hear that term?” she asked, her nose wrinkled up in curiosity.
Max panicked; he had obviously made a terrible mistake.
“I heard Mr. Morrow say it,” he lied. “It just made me curious. I’d never heard it before.”
Miss Boon smiled and walked back over.
“Byron would like that term—he’s a romantic,” she said. “Come here and I’ll show you. This is one of the few spots on campus where you can get a good view of it. I think there’s enough moonlight tonight.”
She guided Max toward several small windows at the far end of the library. It was dark outside, and the sea was a calm sheet of black glass. Miss Boon pointed at a large rock jutting out from the water some fifty yards from shore.
“That is Brigit’s Vigil,” she sighed. “It’s an old legend here at Rowan, but fading fast, I’m afraid. It dates back to the founding of this school. It’s a bit sad or romantic, I suppose, based upon how you look at it. You see, among the survivors that fled here aboard the Kestrel was Elias Bram’s wife. Her name was Brigit. It’s said that before Elias ran to meet Astaroth during the great siege, he begged his wife to flee with the others. She refused to leave his side until he swore an oath to come for her, to follow over the sea and rejoin her in this new land.
“As you know, Bram was never seen again after Solas fell. After the survivors reached these shores and this school was built, Brigit spent her days wading in the surf, looking east in hope of her husband’s return. He never came. The legend says that one day Brigit disappeared and that rock emerged offshore in her stead. Some people—like Mr. Morrow, I’d imagine—insist the rock resembles a woman, dressed in a nightgown and staring out to sea.”
Max pressed his nose against the window and squinted. It was too dark to see the rock in any detail.
“Try as I might, I don’t see it—not even by daylight.” Miss Boon sighed. “Tell me later if you can. I think you’ll get very familiar with Brigit’s Vigil while you and Alex are scrubbing the Kestrel. Good night, Max.”
Max watched her go in a series of brisk, efficient steps across the room and down the stairs. He checked his security watch. He still had forty-five minutes before the chimes would sound again.
As Max smoothed down the book’s pages, his fingers seemed to crackle with electricity. The Hound of Ulster stared back at him from the book, his handsome face brimming with youth and purpose. Max leaned back to read, setting his watch to beep several minutes before the chimes.
Cúchulain’s tale takes place in Ireland at a time when that country was not united but divided into four great kingdoms. Like many heroes, Cúchulain was the son of a god: the sun deity, Lugh, who took the form of a mayfly and flew into the wine cup of a noblewoman on her wedding day. After drinking the wine, she was spirited away with her maidens to the Sidh—the Land of Faerie—as a flock of swans.
This noblewoman was sister to the king of Ulster, northernmost of Ireland’s four kingdoms, and thus many warriors searched for her throughout the land. A year later, the king himself came upon a house where his sister was found with a small child. The baby’s name was Setanta. It was decided that he should come to live with the king when he had reached boyhood.
Some years later, as the noble children of Ulster played on the field, a youth appeared and stole away their hurling ball to score a goal. As the boy was unknown and uninvited, the other children turned on him. Instead of fleeing, the youth ran wild among them, making each give way before his fierceness. The boy announced that he was Setanta, bidden by his mother to seek the king.
At the king’s court, Setanta was prized above all other youth. Thus one day he was invited to join the king’s company for a feast at the home of the blacksmith, Culann. In these days, smiths were vital to a kingdom, and Culann’s stature rivaled even that of the king. The king’s company had departed for the smith’s home before Setanta had left the playing fields, and the boy was left to travel alone across the countryside.
It was dark when Setanta approached the smith’s house, which was filled with light and the sounds of laughter. It was then that Setanta heard the growl of the smith’s hound, which had been loosed to protect his lands at nightfall. As the great wolfhound crouched to spring, Setanta hurled his ball with all his strength down the beast’s gullet, nearly splitting the creature in two. While the animal howled, the boy took hold and dashed its body against a stone until it was torn to pieces.
Max stopped breathing and read the paragraph again. It was horribly familiar. This was the very dream that had haunted him ever since he had seen the tapestry. He thought of the monstrous hound with its shifting face. “What are you about?” it always demanded of him. “Answer quick or I’ll gobble you up!” Max covered his mouth and glanced at his watch. He knew he needed to speak to David and that Nick would be getting hungry, but both would have to wait.
When Setanta looked up from the hound’s body, he saw that the king’s men had assembled around him. Culann the blacksmith was angry.
“I welcome thou, little lad,” said Culann, “because of thy mother and father, but not for thine own sake. I am sorry for this feast.”
“What hast thou against the lad?” asked the king.
The smith replied, “It is my misfortune that you have come to drink my ale and eat my food, for my livelihood is lost now after my dog. That dog tended my herd and flocks. Now all I have is at risk.”
“Be not angered, Culann my master,” said the boy. “I will pass a just judgment upon this matter.”
“What judgment would thou pass, lad?” asked the king.
“If there is a pup of that dog in Ireland, I shall rear him till he is fit to do his sire’s business. Until that day, I will be the hound to protect his flocks, his lands—and even the smith himself!”
The men laughed at the fierce boy’s pledge, but the king weighed the words and marked them a fair offer. On that day, the boy left behind his childhood name and became known as Cúchulain—the Hound of Culann.
Cúchulain was fierce and proud and anxious to become a warrior. So it was that one day he overheard the king’s druid and advisor remark that the child who took up arms that day would have the greatest name in Ireland but his life would be a short one. Upon hearing this, Cúchulain raced to the king, demanding his right to take arms that very hour.
“Who put that idea into your head?” inquired the king.
“The druid,” responded the boy.
Having great respect for the druid’s councils, but ignorant of the latest prophecy, the king relented, and Cúchulain ran off to the smithy. No weapon could be found to match the boy’s strength. Spears and swords were shattered until at last, the king allowed the boy to try his own. Only these proved true. When the druid saw this, he cried out, “Who has told this child to take arms this day?” to which the king replied that it was the druid himself. When the druid denied this and told the king of the prophecy, the king was furious and confronted his nephew.
“You have lied to me!”
“I have not,” replied the boy. “You asked only who put the idea in my head and I answered truthfully. It was the druid!”
Although the king was saddened, he acknowledged the boy spoke the truth. And so it was that Cúchulain took up the king’s arms and became Ulster’s champion.
Cúchulain’s legend spread rapidly. Fighting on foot or from his chariot, he conquered Ulster’s enemies. It was said that in battle he shook like a tree in the flood and his brow shone so bright he was near impossible to look upon. Chief among his weapons was the “gae bolg”—a great spear whose wound was always fatal.
Cúchulain’s greatest feats occurred during the Cattle Raid of Cooley, a war sparked by a squabble between husband and wife. The queen of Connacht, another of Ireland’s four great kingdoms, argued with her husband over whose heritage and possessions were greater. The two matched each other until it was revealed that her husband owned a magical white-horned bull named Finnenbach. The queen could find no equal among her herds and, consumed by jealousy, sent her emissaries to Ulster, where she sought Finnenbach’s rival, the Brown Bull of Cooley. Her offer refused, the queen resolved to take the bull by force.
The queen chose an auspicious time for her raid into Ulster. The men of that kingdom suffered from an ancient curse that weakened them for a time each year. As the queen’s armies raided north, the men of Ulster were bedridden and powerless to stop her. Not being born in Ulster, Cúchulain was spared the curse and stood alone against the queen’s armies. Cúchulain came upon them at night, killing the outriders and leaving only heads behind as a warning to turn back. So devastating was his onslaught that the queen’s soldiers quaked at the mention of his name and the armies were brought to a standstill.
The queen sought desperately to negotiate with him, promising riches and reward if he should give way. Cúchulain refused these temptations until, finally exhausted by his efforts, he agreed to a bargain. In exchange for halting his nightly attacks, he would meet a single champion of the queen’s each day. While the two fought, her armies could continue on their march. If and when the queen’s champion was defeated, her armies were obligated to stop and camp.
Each day, Cúchulain met a different champion at the river and fought while the queen’s armies raced deep into Ulster. So impressive were his feats that Morrigan, the death goddess, watched from above in the form of three ravens. Finally, the queen sent forward a kinsman of Cúchulain’s who now served Connacht. Preying upon Cúchulain’s loyalty, the kinsman pleaded with the youth to give way—as a favor to one who had raised him. Reluctantly, Cúchulain stood aside and relinquished the field. Galloping ahead, the queen’s riders seized the bull and rushed back to Connacht with their prize.
Once reunited, the magic bulls went mad in an attempt to destroy each other. In their rage, the bulls devastated the surrounding countryside and were never seen again.
Max put the book down. He tried to envision the tapestry he had seen at the museum. His mind wandered over its threads of green and gold, the brilliant glow that erupted from the scene within it. He understood that scene now. The sleeping soldiers were the weakened men of Ulster, unable to protect the Brown Bull of Cooley. The approaching warriors were undoubtedly the soldiers of the queen of Connacht. Cúchulain stood tall in the distance.
While the images were clear to Max, the interpretation of the story was not. After all, Cúchulain had failed—the queen was able to get the bull despite his acts of heroism. Was Max somehow destined to fight the good fight but fail? Was his life to be short? Max turned the page and poked gingerly at the bump on his head. His eyes fell upon a discolored illustration of a wounded warrior tied to a stone pillar. The heading read “The Death of Cúchulain.”
Max quietly closed the book.
His head ached and his mind raced with too many questions to count. With a sigh, he slipped the book into his bag and walked once more to the windows. The campus was quiet; just a few lanterns bobbed along the paths. Max turned to go when a small flash of green light danced on the window. It disappeared suddenly. Squinting, Max hooded his eyes against the window’s glare and peered deep into the night. Another pinpoint of green light shot from the black mass of Brigit’s Vigil. It bobbed and hovered in front of Max’s eyes before disappearing a moment later. He stayed at the window another ten minutes, but the light did not return.