Free Myths of the Modern Man by Jacqueline T Lynch Page A

into its sheath on his hip, and I stood, slowly, cautiously, as if she were an animal waiting to bite me. I extended my hand to her to help her up. She grasped it, her eyes not leaving mine, and she stood. She released my hand, stepped back lightly over her sword, and sat down again in her place of honor.
    Cailte did not wait for direction, but seemed to know when enough was enough. He shoved me back to my place along the far wall, and pointed at my food sternly, as if I was a naughty kid who had not finished his supper.
    Cailte was called upon now for his own special knowledge, which was much less confrontational or controversial than mine. He was the bard. The Shanachie. He kept the history of his people in his head, he kept the stories to tell. Eventually they mingled, and the stories became history, and history became legend, and so true history became decorated, designed, and utterly lost.
    Cailte stood in the center of the room.
    “ Aoifa, the warrior-princess, came from the Land of Shadows,” Cailte intoned myth as history in words I barely grasped, though following his hands, his expressions was easier. I had already heard the tale from a Dublin professor at the lab anyway. Boudicca settled back in her seat, giving her attention to Cailte.
    “ The great hero Cuchulainn, being mortal, was instructed in the art of war by Scathach, the sister of the warrior princess Aoifa. When he learned all she could teach him, he requested that he might test his skills against Aoifa, the sister of Scathach. Scathach deterred him, fearing Aoifa would kill him, for she was the most skilled warrior of all. Yet, he challenged Aoifa, and before their match, he cunningly asked Scathach what her sister loved best in the world. She answered that above all, her sister loved her chariot.”
    Cailte smiled briefly, charmingly, to the daughters of Boudicca. Boudicca looked at the ground again, at my drawing.
    “ The combat between the warrior princess and the hero of Ulster began, and she overcame him. He was no match for her skill, for she was an even greater in battle than her sister Scathach, who had taught Cuchulainn. When all seemed lost for him, he called out to Aoifa in alarm that her chariot horse was in danger. She loved her animal, and turned to see for herself what was wrong. He caught her off balance, and would have slain her.”
    Boudicca lifted herself from her seat of honor again, and cat-like, lowered herself to the dirt on her hands and knees, and examined the drawing up close again. Cailte spoke faster. Poor guy was losing his audience.
    “ He could not kill so fine a woman, who was so great a warrior. In after days they took each other as lovers….”
    She touched the markings I had made with Cailte’s knife, tracing them with her long, white finger.
    “… .for they were matched not only by their skills in battle, but by their passionate hearts….”
    Taliesin looked from his druid priest Nemain to Boudicca, and seemed to shrug helplessly at Cailte.
    “… to be blessed by a son, Conlai, who was taught by his mother Aoifa to be as great a warrior. The gold ring Cuchulainn gave to Aoifa as a sign of their love, Aoifa placed on her son’s hand. In later years, when Conlai grew to manhood, he joined a challenge of heroes to test themselves against the might of Cuchulainn. Conlai did not announce himself as Cuchulainn’s son. He was a proud warrior. He wanted to announce himself by his actions alone.”
    She sat back on her heels, crossing her arms. I think she still listened to the story, though she seemed preoccupied. You could not help but listen to the grace of Cailte’s musical voice. Her daughters, both of them, were clearly enchanted.
    “ Conlai fought his father well, and Cuchulainn was impressed with the young warrior’s skill. But, in a moment of temper, when the young one ridiculed the elder by slashing off a lock of his long hair, Cuchulainn drove his sword home. He looked upon the limp body of Conlai,