The King's Threshold; and On Baile's Strand Part 8

_Cuchullain._ I think that a fierce woman's better, a woman That breaks away when you have thought her won, For I'd be fed and hungry at one time.

I think that all deep pa.s.sion is but a kiss In the mid battle, and a difficult peace 'Twixt oil and water, candles and dark night, Hill-side and hollow, the hot-footed sun, And the cold sliding slippery-footed moon, A brief forgiveness between opposites That have been hatreds for three times the age Of this long 'stablished ground. Here's Concobar; So I'll be done, but keep beside me still, For while he talks of hammered bronze and asks What wood is best for building, we can talk Of a fierce woman.

[_CONCOBAR, a man much older than CUCHULLAIN, has come in through the great door at the back. He has many KINGS about him. One of these KINGS, DAIRE, a stout old man, is somewhat drunk._

_Concobar._ [_To one of those about him._] Has the s.h.i.+p gone yet?

We have need of more bronze workers, and that s.h.i.+p I sent to Africa for gold is late.

_Cuchullain._ I knew their talk.

_Concobar._ [_Seeing CUCHULLAIN._] You are before us, King.

_Cuchullain._ So much the better, for I welcome you Into my Muirthemne.

_Concobar._ But who are these?

The odour from their garments when they stir Is like a wind out of an apple garden.

_Cuchullain._ My swordsmen and harp players and fine dancers, My bosom friends.

_Concobar._ I should have thought, Cuchullain, My graver company would better match Your greatness and your years; but I waste breath In harping on that tale.

_Cuchullain._ You do, great King.

Because their youth is the kind wandering wave That carries me about the world; and if it sank, My sword would lose its lightness.

_Concobar._ Yet, Cuchullain, Emain should be the foremost town of the world.

_Cuchullain._ It is the foremost town.

_Concobar._ No, no, it's not.

Nothing but men can make towns great, and he, The one over-topping man that's in the world, Keeps far away.

_Daire._ He will not hear you, King, And we old men had best keep company With one another. I'll fill the horn for you.

_Concobar._ I will not drink, old fool. You have drunk a horn At every door we came to.

_Daire._ You'd better drink, For old men light upon their youth again In the brown ale. When I have drunk enough, I am like Cuchullain as one pea another, And live like a bird's flight from tree to tree.

_Concobar._ We'll to our chairs for we have much to talk of, And we have Ullad and Muirthemne, and here Is Conall Muirthemne in the nick of time.

[_He goes to the back of stage to welcome a company of KINGS who come in through the great door. The other KINGS gradually get into their places. CUCHULLAIN sits in his great chair with certain of the young men standing around him. Others of the young men, however, remain with DAIRE at the ale vat. DAIRE holds out the horn of ale to one or two of the older KINGS as they pa.s.s him going to their places. They pa.s.s him by, most of them silently refusing._

_Daire._ Will you not drink?

_An Old King._ Not till the council's over.

_A Young King._ But I'll drink, Daire.

_Another Young King._ Fill me a horn too, Daire.

_Another Young King._ If I'd drunk half that you have drunk to-day, I'd be upon all fours.

_Daire._ That would be natural When Mother Earth had given you this good milk From her great b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

_Cuchullain._ [_To one of the YOUNG KINGS beside him._]

One is content awhile With a soft warm woman who folds up our lives In silky network. Then, one knows not why, But one's away after a flinty heart.

_The Young King._ How long can the net keep us?

_Cuchullain._ All our lives If there are children, and a dozen moons If there are none, because a growing child Has so much need of watching it can make A pa.s.sion that's as changeable as the sea Change till it holds the wide earth to its heart.

At least I have heard a father say it, but I Being childless do not know it. Come nearer yet; Though he is ringing that old silver rod We'll have our own talk out. They cannot hear us.

[_CONCOBAR who is now seated in his great chair, opposite CUCHULLAIN, beats upon the pillar of the house that is nearest to him with a rod of silver, till the KINGS have become silent.

CUCHULLAIN alone continues to talk in a low voice to those about him, but not so loud as to disturb the silence. CONCOBAR rises and speaks standing._

_Concobar._ I have called you hither, Kings of Ullad, and Kings Of Muirthemne and Connall Muirthemne, And tributary Kings, for now there is peace-- It's time to build up Emain that was burned At the outsetting of these wars; for we, Being the foremost men, should have high chairs And be much stared at and wondered at, and speak Out of more laughing overflowing hearts Than common men. It is the art of kings To make what's n.o.ble n.o.bler in men's eyes By wide uplifted roofs, where beaten gold, That's ruddy with desire, marries pale silver Among the shadowing beams; and many a time I would have called you hither to this work, But always, when I'd all but summoned you, Some war or some rebellion would break out.

_Daire._ Where's Maine Morgor and old Usnach's children, And that high-headed even-walking Queen, And many near as great that got their death Because you hated peace? I can remember The people crying out when Deirdre pa.s.sed And Maine Morgor had a cold gray eye.

Well, well, I'll throw this heel-tap on the ground, For it may be they are thirsty.

_A King._ Be silent, fool.

_Another King._ Be silent, Daire.

_Concobar._ Let him speak his mind.

I have no need to be afraid of ghosts, For I have made but necessary wars.

I warred to strengthen Emain, or because When wars are out they marry and beget And have their generations like mankind And there's no help for it; but I'm well content That they have ended and left the town so great, That its mere name shall be in times to come Like a great ale vat where the men of the world Shall drink no common ale but the hard will, The unquenchable hope, the friendliness of the sword.

[_He takes thin boards on which plans have been carved by those about him._

Give me the building plans, and have you written That we--Cuchullain is looking in his s.h.i.+eld; It may be the pale riders of the wind Throw pictures on it, or that Mananan, His father's friend and sometime fosterer, Foreknower of all things, has cast a vision, Out of the cold dark of the rich sea, Foretelling Emain's greatness.

_Cuchullain._ No, great King, I looked on this out of mere idleness, Imagining a far-off country and one That held it with a sword, although a woman.

_Concobar._ A woman needs but laugh, or a friend sigh, And you're afar off sounding through the world, While I plan Emain's greatness.

[_The sound of a trumpet without._

Open the doors!

I hear a herald's trumpet, and await, It may be, the heavy fleeces of the sea And golden and silver apples or ancient crowns Long hidden in the well at the World's End, Or glittering garments of the salmon, tributes From the Great Plain, or the high people of Sorcha, Or the walled garden in the east of the world.

[_The great door at the back is flung open; a YOUNG MAN, who is fully armed and carries a s.h.i.+eld with a woman's head painted on it, stands upon the threshold. Behind him are trumpeters. He walks into the centre of the hall, the trumpeting ceases._

What is your message?

_Young Man._ I am of Aoife's army.

_First King._ Queen Aoife and her army have fallen upon us.

_Second King._ Out swords! Out swords!