Books: AE in the Irish Theosophist
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George William Russell >> AE in the Irish Theosophist
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"Fly! yes, yes, we shall--fly as the birds. But we shall choose
fairer forms than these. I know where the Birds of Angus flock.
Come, Liban, come!"
The crypt beneath the dun was flooded with light, silvery and golden,
a light which came not from the sun nor from the moon; a light not
born from any parent luminary, and which knew nothing opaque. More
free than the birds of the air were the shadowy forms of the two
daughters of Aed Abrait, as they gazed out from that rock-built
dun upon a place their mortal feet had never trod. Yet timidly
Liban looked at her more adventurous sister. Fand floated to the
centre of the cavern, erect and radiant. Her eyes followed the
wavy tremulous motion of the light as it rolled by. They seemed
to pierce through earth and rock, and search out the secret hollows
of the star, to know the vastness, and to dominate and compel the
motion of the light. Her sister watched her half curiously and
half in admiration and wonder. As the floating form grew more
intense the arms swayed about and the lips murmured. A sheen as
of many jewels played beneath the pearly mist which enrobed her;
over her head rose the crest of the Dragon; she seemed to become
one with the shining, to draw it backwards into herself. Then
from far away came a wondrous melody, a sound as of the ancient
chiming of the stars. The sidereal rivers flowed by with more
dazzling light, and the Birds of Angus were about them.
"Look, Liban, look!" cried the Enchantress. "These of old were
the chariots of the children of men. On these the baby offspring
of the Gods raced through the nights of diamond and sapphire. We
are not less than they though a hundred ages set us apart. We
will go forth royally as they did. Let us choose forms from among
these. If the Hound should see us he will know we have power."
With arms around each other they watched the starry flocks hurtling
about them. The birds wheeled around, fled away, and again returned.
There were winged serpents; might which would put to flight the
degenerate eagle; plumage before which the birds of paradise would
show dull as clay. These wings dipt in the dawn flashed ceaselessly.
Ah, what plumage of white fire rayed out with pinions of opalescent
glory! What feathered sprays of burning amethyst! What crests of
scarlet and gold, of citron and wavy green! They floated by in
countless multitudes; they swayed in starry clusters dripping with
light, singing a melody caught from the spheres of the Gods, the
song which of old called forth the earth from its slumber. The
sound was entrancing. Oh, fiery birds who float in the purple
rivers of the Twilight, ye who rest in the great caverns of the world,
whoever listens to your song shall grow faint with longing, for he
shall hear the great, deep call in his heart and his spirit shall
yearn to go afar; whatever eyes see you shall grow suddenly blinded
with tears for a glory that has passed away from the world, for an
empire we no longer range.
"They bring back the air of the ancient days. Ah! now I have the
heart of the child once again. Time has not known me. Let us away
with them. We will sweep over Eri and lead the starry flocks as
the queen birds."
"If we only dared. But think, Fand, we shall have every wizard
eye spying upon us, and every body who can use his freedom will
follow and thwart us. Not these forms, but others let us take.
Ah, look at those who come in grey and white and brown! Send home
the radiant ones. We will adventure with these."
"Be it so. Back to your fountains, O purple rivers! King-Bird,
Queen-Bird, to your home in the hollows lead your flock!" So she
spoke, but her words were shining and her waving arms compelled
the feathered monarchs with radiations of outstretched flame. To
the others: "Rest here awhile, sweet singers. We shall not detain
you captive for long." So she spoke, but her hands that caressed
laid to sleep the restless pulsations of the wings and lulled the
ecstatic song.
Night, which to the eye of the magian shows more clearly all that
the bright day conceals, overspread with a wizard twilight the vast
hollow of the heavens. Numberless airy rivulets, each with its
own peculiar shining, ran hither and thither like the iridescent
currents streaming over a bubble. Out of still duskier, more
darkly glowing and phantasmal depths stared the great eyes of space,
rimmed about with rainbow-dyes. As night moved on to dawn two
birds shot forth from the dun, linked together by a cord of golden
fire. They fled southwards and eastwards. As they went they sang
a song which tingled the pulses of the air. In the dark fields
the aureoles around the flowers grew momentarily brighter. Over
the mountain homes of the Tuatha de Danaans rose up shadowy forms
who watched, listened, and pondered awhile. The strayed wanderers
amid the woods heard the enraptured notes and forgot their sorrows
and life itself in a hurricane of divine remembrance. Where the
late feast was breaking up the melody suddenly floated in and
enwreathed the pillared halls, and revellers became silent where
they stood, the mighty warriors in their hands bowed low their faces.
Still on and on swept the strange birds flying southwards and eastwards.
Still in many a peasant cot
Lives the story unforgot,
While the faded parchments old
Still their rhyming tale unfold.
There is yet another book
Where thine eager eyes may look.
There within its shining pages
Lives the long romance of ages,
Liban, Fand, their glowing dreams,
Angus's birds, the magic streams
Flooding all the twilight crypt,
Runes and spells in starry script;
Secrets never whispered here
In the light are chanted clear.
Read in the tales of Eri
If the written word be weary.
Never is there day so gleaming
But the dusk o'ertakes it;
Never night so dark and dreaming
But the dawn awakes it:
And the soul has nights and days
In its own eternal ways.
II. Cuchullain's Dream
The air was cool with the coming of winter; but with the outer
cold came the inner warmth of the sun, full of subtile vitality
and strength. And the Ultonians had assembled to light the yearly
fire in honor of the Sun-God, at the seven-days' feast of Samhain.
There the warriors of Ulster rested by the sacred fire, gazing
with closed eyes upon the changing colors of the sun-breath,
catching glimpses of visions, or anon performing feats of magic
when they felt the power stirring within their breasts. They sang
the songs of old times, of the lands of the West, where their
forefathers live ere the earth-fires slew those lands, and the
sea-waves buried them, leaving only the Eri, the isle where dwelt
men so holy that the earth-fires dared not to assail it, and the
ocean stood at bay. Lightly the warriors juggled with their great
weapons of glittering bronze; and each told of his deeds in battle
and in the chase; but woe to him who boasted or spoke falsely,
magnifying his prowess, for then would his sword angrily turn of
itself in its scabbard, convicting him of untruth.
Cuchullain, youngest but mightiest of all the warriors, sat moodily
apart, his beardless chin resting in the palms of his hands, his
eyes staring fixedly at the mirror-like surface of the lake upon
whose sloping bank he rested. Laeg, his charioteer, lying at full
length upon the greensward near by, watched him intently, a gloomy
shadow darkening his unusually cheerful face.
"It's a woman's trick, that," he muttered to himself, "staring into
the water when trying to see the country of the Sidhe, and unworthy
of a warrior. And to think of him doing it, who used to have the
clearest sight, and had more power for wonder-working than anyone
else in the lands of the West! Besides, he isn't seeing anything
now, for all the help of the water. When last I went to the dun
some women of the Sidhe told me they had looked up Cuchullain and
found he was getting too dim-eyed to see anything clearly now, even
in his sleep. Its true enough, but to hear it said even by women!"
And the discontented charioteer glanced back contemptuously at a
group of women a short distance away, who were following with their
eyes a flock of wild birds circling over the plain.
"I suppose they want those birds," he continued, conversing familiarly
with himself. "Its the way of women to want everything they see,
especially if its something hard to catch, like those wild birds."
But Laeg's cynicism was not so deep as to keep his glance from
lingering upon the bevy of graceful maidens and stately matrons.
Their soft laughter reached his ear through the still evening air;
and watching their animated gestures he idly speculated upon the
plane he felt sure they were arranging.
"Yes; they want the birds. They wish to fasten the wings to their
shoulders, to make themselves look like the women of the Sidhe.
They know Cuchullain is the only man who can get the birds for them,
but even Emer, his wife, is afraid to ask him. Of course they will
coax that patient Ethne to do it. If she succeeds, she'll get no
thanks; and if she fails, she'll have all the blame, and go off
by herself to cry over the harsh words spoken by Cuchullain in his
bad temper. That's the way of Ethne, poor girl."
He was right in his conjecture, for presently Ethne left the group
and hesitatingly approached the giant warrior, who was still gazing
vacantly at the glassy surface of the water. She touched him timidly
on the shoulder. Slowly he raised his head, and still half dazed
by his long staring, listened while she made her request. He rose
to his feet sleepily, throwing out his brawny arms and expanding
his chest as he cast a keen glance at the birds slowly circling
near the ground.
"Those birds are not fit to eat," he said, turning to her with a
good-natured smile.
"But we want the wings to put on our shoulders. It would be so
good of you to get them for us," said Ethne in persuasive tones.
"If it's flying you wish to try," he said, with a laugh, "you'll
need better wings than those. However, you shall have them if I
can get within throwing distance of them."
He glanced around for Laeg. That far-seeing individual was already
yoking the horses to the chariot. A moment later, Cuchullain and
the charioteer were dashing across the plain behind the galloping
steeds. As they neared the birds, Cuchullain sent missiles at
them from his sling with such incredible rapidity and certainty
of aim that not one of the flock escaped. Each of the women was
given two of the birds; but when Ethne, who had modestly held
back when the others hurried forward to meet the returning chariot,
came to receive her share, not one remained.
"As usual," said Laeg stolidly, "if anyone fails to get her portion
of anything, its sure to be Ethne."
"Too sure," said Cuchullain, a look of compassion softening his
stern features. He strode over to Ethne, and placing his hand
gently on her head said: "Don't take your disappointment to heart,
little woman; when any more birds come to the plains of Murthemney,
I promise to get for you the most beautiful of them all."
"There's a fine brace of them now, flying towards us," exclaimed
Laeg, pointing across the lake. "And I think I hear them singing.
Queer birds, those; for I see a cord as of red gold between them."
Nearer and nearer swept the strange beings of the air, and as their
weird melody reached the many Ultonians at the Samhain fire, the
stalwart warriors, slender maidens, the youthful and the time-worn,
all felt the spell and became as statues, silent, motionless,
entranced. Alone the three at the chariot felt not the binding
influences of the spell. Cuchullain quietly fitted a smooth pebble
into his sling. Ethne looked appealingly at Laeg, in whose sagacity
she greatly trusted. A faint twinkle of the eye was the only sign
that betrayed the thought of the charioteer as he tried to return
her glance with a look of quiet unconcern. She hastened after
Cuchullain, who had taken his stand behind a great rock on the
lake shore which concealed him from the approaching birds.
"Do not try to take them," she entreated; "there is some strange
power about them which your eyes do not see; I feel it, and my
heart is filled with dread."
The young warrior made no reply, but whirling his sling above his
head sent the missile with terrific force at the two swan-like
voyagers of the air. It went far astray, and splashed harmlessly
into the lake, throwing up a fountain of spray. Cuchullain's face
grew dark. Never before in war or the chase had he missed so easy
a mark. Angrily he caught a javelin from his belt and hurled it
at the birds, which had swerved from their course and were now
flying swiftly away. It was a mighty cast, even for the strong
arm of the mightiest warrior of Eri; and the javelin, glittering
in the sun, was well on the downward curve of its long flight, its
force spent, when its point touched the wing of the nearest bird.
A sphere of golden flame seemed to glitter about them as they turned
downward and disappeared beneath the deep waters of the lake.
Cuchullain threw himself upon the ground, leaning his broad shoulders
against the rock.
"Leave me," he said in sullen tones to Ethne; "my senses are dull
with sleep from long watching at the Samhain fire. For the first
time since I slew the hound of Culain my right arm has failed me.
My eyes are clouded, and strange music murmurs in my heart."
His eyes closed, his heavy breathing was broken by sighs, and
anguish distorted his features. Ethne watched him awhile, and
then stole quietly back to where the warriors were and said to them:
"Cuchullain lies slumbering by yonder rock, and he moans in his
sleep as if the people of the Sidhe were reproaching his soul for
some misdeed. I fear those birds that had the power behind them.
Should we not waken him?"
But while they held council, and some were about to go and awaken him.
Fergus mac Roy, foster-father of Cuchullain, arose, and all drew back
in awe, for they saw the light of the Sun-God shining from his eyes,
and his voice had the Druid ring as he said in stern tones of command:
"Touch him not, for he sees a vision; the people of the Sidhe are
with him; and from the far distant past, even from the days of the
sunken lands of the West, I see the hand of Fate reach out and
grasp the warrior of Eri, to place him on a throne where he shall
rule the souls of men."
To Cuchullain it did not seem that he slept; for though his eyelids
fell, his sight still rested on the calm surface of the lake, the
shining sand on the shore, and the great brown rock against which
he reclined. But whence came the two maidens who were walking
toward him along the glistening sand? He gazed at them in speechless
wonder; surely only in dreamland could so fair a vision be seen.
In dreamland, yes; for a dim memory awoke in his breast that he
had seen them before in the world of slumber. One wore a mantle
of soft green, and her flaxen hair, strangely white but with a
glint of gold, fell about her shoulders so thickly it seemed like
a silken hood out of which looked a white face with gleaming violet
eyes. The other maiden had dark brown eyes, very large, very luminous;
her cheeks were rosy, with just a hint of bronzing by the sunshine,
a dimple in her chin added to the effect of her pouting red lips;
her dark brown hair was unbound and falling loosely over her deep
crimson mantle, which reached from her waist in five heavy folds.
The recumbent warrior felt a weird spell upon him. Powerless to
move or speak, he saw the two maidens advance and stand beside him,
the sunlight gleaming upon their bare arms and bosoms. They smiled
upon him and uplifted their arms, and then from their fingers there
rained down upon him blinding lightnings, filaments of flame that
stung like whipcords, a hail of rainbow sparks that benumbed him,
darting flames that pierced him like javelins; and as he gazed
upward through that storm of fire, writhing in his agony, he saw
still their white arms waving to and from, weaving a network of
lightnings about him, their faces smiling upon him, serene and kindly;
and in the eyes of her with the crimson mantle he read a tenderness
all too human. Eyes that shone with tenderness; white arms that
wove a rainbow-mesh of torturing fires about him; his anguish
ever increasing, until he saw the arms stop waving, held for an
instant aloft, and then swept downward with a torrent of flame
and a mighty crash of sound like the spears of ten thousand warriors
meeting in battle, and then--he was alone, staring with wide-open
eyes at the blue, cloud-mirroring surface of the lakes and the
white sand gleaming on the shore.
"Trouble me not with questions," said Cuchullain to the warriors
gathered about him. "My limbs are benumbed and refuse to obey me.
Bear me to my sick-bed at Tete Brece."
"Shall we not take you to Dun Imrish, or to Dun Delca, where you
may be with Emer?" said they.
"No," he replied, a shudder convulsing his strong frame; "bear me
to Tete Brece.
And when they had done so, he dwelt there for a year, and on his
face was always the look of a slumberer who is dreaming; not once
did he smile, nor did he speak one word during that year.
When the soul has many lives
Fettered by Forgetfulness,
Hands that burst its long-worn gyves
Cruel seem and pitiless.
Yet they come all tenderly,
Loved companions of the past;
And the sword that sets us free
Turns our pain to peace at last.
III.
What shadows turn his eyes away
Who fain would scale the heavenly heights;
There shines the beauty of a day,
And there the ancient Light of Lights.
And while he broods on visions dim
And grows forgetful of his fate,
The chariot of the Sun for him
And all the tribal stars await.
The Slumber of Cuchullain, and the Message of Angus
Within the door at Tete Brece, under the shadow of the thatch, the
couch of Cuchullain was placed, so that if he willed he could gaze
over the rich green fields to the distant rim of blue hills. Yet
rarely opened he his eyes or gazed with outward understanding during
that weary year. Often the watchers round his bed, looking on the
white rigid face, wondered if he were indeed living. But they
dared not awaken him, for the seers had found that his slumber was
filled with mystic life, and that it was not lawful to call him forth.
Was the gloom of the great warrior because he was but the shadow
of his former self, or was that pale form indeed empty? So pondered
Fergus, Conail, Lugard and Ethne, faithful companions. But he in
himself was wrapped in a mist of visions appearing fast and vanishing
faster. The fiery hands that smote him had done their work well,
and his darkness had become bright with remembrance. The majesty
of elder years swept by him with reproachful glance, and the hero
cowered before the greatness of his own past. Born out of the womb
of the earth long ago in the fulness of power--what shadow had dimmed
his beauty? He tracked and retraced countless steps. Once more he
held sceptred sway over races long since in oblivion. He passed
beyond the common way until the powers of the vast knew and obeyed
him. As he looked back there was one always with him. Lu, the
Sun-God, who in the bright days of childhood had appeared to him
as his little feet ran from home in search for adventures. Remote
and dim, nigh and radiant, he was always there. In solemn initiations
in crypts beneath the giant hills he rose up, gemmed and starred
with living fires, and grew one with the God, and away, away with
him he passed into the lands of the immortals, or waged wars more
than human, when from the buried lands of the past first came the
heroes eastward to Eri and found the terrible Fomorian enchanters
dwelling in the sacred isle. In dream Cuchullain saw the earth-
scorning warriors rise up and wage their battle in the bright aether,
and the great Sun-Chieftain, shining like gold, lead his glittering
hosts. In mountainous multitudes the giantesque phantoms reeled to
and from, their mighty forms wreathed in streams of flame, while
the stars paled and shuddered as they fought.
There was yet another face, another form, often beside him;
whispering, luring, calling him away to he knew not what wild
freedom. It was the phantom form of the child of Aed Abrait, with
dark flowing tresses, mystic eyes, her face breathing the sweetness
of the sun, with all the old nobility of earth, but elate and apart,
as one who had been in the crystal spheres of the unseen and bathed
in its immortalizing rivers and drunk the starry dews.
Come, Cu. Come, O hero," she whispered. "There are fiery fountains
of life which will renew thee. We will go where the Sidhe dwell,
where the golden life-breath flows up from the mountains in a
dazzling radiance to the ever-shining regions of azure and pearl
under the stars. Glad is everything that lives in that place.
Come, Cu, come away." And she passed from beside him with face
half turned, calling, beckoning, till in his madness he forgot the
bright Sun-God and the warriors of Eri awaiting his guidance.
It was again the feast of Samhain. About twilight in the evening
a shadow darkened the door. A man in blue mantle stood outside;
he did not enter but looked around him a little while and then sat
down, laughing softly to himself. Fergus, Conail and Lugard rose
simultaneously, glad of the pretence of warning off the intruder
as a relief from their monotonous watch.
"Do you not know," said Conail sternly, "that one lies ill here
who must not be disturbed?"
The stranger arose.
"I will tell you a tale," he said. "As I was strolling through
the trees I saw a radiance shining around the dun, and I saw one
floating in that light like a mighty pillar of fire, or bronze
ruddy and golden: a child of the Sun he seemed; the living fires
curled about him and rayed from his head. He looked to the north
and to the west, to the south and to the east, and over all Eri he
shot his fiery breaths rainbow-colored, and the dark grew light
before him where he gazed. Indeed if he who lies here were well
he would be mightiest among your warriors. But I think that now
he clasps hands with the heroes of the Sidhe as well, and with
Druid power protects the Ultonians. I feel happy to be beside him."
"It is Lu Lamfada guarding the hero. Now his destiny will draw
nigh to him again," thought Cu's companions, and they welcomed
the stranger.
"I see why he lies here so still," he continued, his voice strange
like one who is inspired while he speaks. "The Sidhe looked out
from their mountains. They saw a hero asleep. They saw a God
forgetful. They stirred him to shame by the hands of women. They
showed him the past. They said to Fand and Libau, 'Awake him.
Bring him to us. Let him come on the night of Samhain.' They
showed the chosen one from afar, in a vision while hid in their
mountains. The Tuatha de Danaans, the immortals, wish for Cuchullain
to aid them. The daughters of Aed Abrait are their messengers.
If Fand and Liban were here they would restore the hero."
"Who are you?" asked Laeg, who had joined them.
"I am Angus, son of Aed Abrait." While he spoke his form quivered
like a smoke, twinkling in misty indistinctness in the blue twilight,
and then vanished before their eyes.
"I wonder now," muttered Laeg to himself, "if he was sent by the
Sidhe, or by Liban and Fand only. When one has to deal with women
everything is uncertain. Fand trusts more in her beauty to arouse
him than in her message. I have seen her shadow twenty times cooing
about him. It is all an excuse for love-making with her. It is
just like a woman. Anything, however, would be better for him than
to lie in bed." He went off to join the others. Cuchullain was
sitting up and was telling the story of what happened last Samhain.
"What should I do?" he asked.
"Go to the wise King," said Laeg, and so they all advised, for ever
since the day when he was crowned, and the Druids had touched him
with fire, a light of wisdom shone about Concobar the King.
"I think you should go to the rock where the women of the Sidhe
appeared to you," said Concobar when appealed to.
So Laeg made ready the chariot and drove to the tarn. Night came
ere they reached it, but the moon showed full and brilliant. Laeg
waited a little way apart, while Cuchullain sat himself in the
black shadow of the rock. As the warrior gazed into the dark,
star-speckled surface of the waters, a brightness and a mist
gathered over them, and there, standing with her robe of green
down--dropping to her feet and trailing on the wave, her pale
flaxen hair blown around her head, was Liban. She smiled strangely
as before, looking through him with her subtle eyes.
"I am one of the Sidhe," she said, and her voice sounded like a
murmur of the water. "You also, O warrior, though forgetful, are
one of us. We did not indeed come to injure you, but to awaken
remembrance. For now the wild clouds of demons gathered from the
neighboring isles and we wish your aid. Your strength will come
back to you exultant as of old. Come with me, warrior. You will
have great companions. Labraid, who wields the rapid fires as you
the sword, and Fand, who has laid aside her Druid wisdom longing
for you."
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