The mist thickened and whirled. Shea felt the pull
of Belphebe’s hand, clutching his desperately as
though something were trying to pull her in the other
direction.

Another jerk at Shea’s hand reminded him that
they might not even wind up in the same place, given
that their various mental backgrounds would spread
the influence of the generalized spells across different
space-time patterns. “Hold on!” he cried,
and clutched Belphebe’s hand tighter still

Shea felt earth under his feet and something hitting
him on the head. He realized that he was standing in
pouring rain, coming down vertically and with such
intensity that he could not see more than a few yards
in any direction. His first glance was toward Belphebe;
she swung herself into his arms and they
kissed damply.

“At least,” she said, disengaging herself a little,
“you are with me, my most dear lord, and so there’s
nought to fear.”

They looked around, water running off their
noses and chins. Shea’s heavy woolen shirt was already
so soaked that it stuck to his skin, and Belphebe’s
neat hair was taking on a drowned-rat appearance.
She pointed and cried, “There’s one!”

Shea peered toward a lumpish dark mass that had
a shape vaguely resembling Pete Brodsky.

"Shea?" came a call, and without waiting for a
reply the lump started toward them. As it did so, the
downpour lessened and the light brightened.

"Curse it, Shea!" said Brodsky, as he approached.
"What kind of a box is this? If I couldn't
work my own racket better, I’d turn myself in for
mopery. Where the hell are we?”

“Ohio, I hope,” said Shea. “And look, shamus,
we’re better off than we were, ain’t we? I’m sorry
about this rain, but I didn’t order it.”

“All I got to say is you better be right,” said
Brodsky gloomily. “You can get it all for putting the
snatch on an officer, and I ain’t sure I can square the
rap even now. Where’s the other guy?”

Shea looked around. “Walter may be here, but it
looks as though he didn’t come through to the same
place. And if you ask me, the question is not where
we are but when we are. It wouldn’t do us much
good to be back in Ohio in 700 A.D., which is about 
the time we left.  If this rain would only  let up . . .”

With surprising abruptness the rain did, walking
away in a wall of small but intense downpours.
Spots and bars of sky appeared among the clouds
wafted along by a brisk steady current of air that
penetrated Shea’s wet shirt chillingly, and the sun
shot an occasional beam through the clouds to touch
up the landscape.

It was a good landscape. Shea and his companions
were standing in deep grass, on one of the higher
spots of an extent of rolling ground. This stretch in
turn appeared to be the top of a plateau, falling
away to the right. Mossy boulders shouldered up
through the grass, which here and there gave way to
patches of purple-flowered heather, while daisies
nodded in the steady breeze. Here and there was a
single tree, but down in the valley beyond their plateau
the low land was covered with what appeared at
this distance to be birch and oak. In the distance, as
they turned to contemplate the scene, rose the heads
of far blue mountains.

The cloud-cover thinned rapidly and broke some
more. The air had cleared enough so they could now
see two other little storms sweeping across the middle
distance, trailing their veils of rain. As the
patches of sunlight whisked past, the landscape
blazed with a singularly vivid green, quite unlike that
of Ohio.

Brodsky was the first to speak. “If this is Ohio,
I’m a peterman,” he said. “Listen, Shea, do I got to
tell you again you ain’t got much time? If those yaps
from the D.A.'s office get started on this, you might
just as well hit yourself on the head and save them
the trouble. He’s coming up for election this fall and
needs a nice fat case. And there’s the F.B.I. Rover
boys — they just love snatch cases, and you can’t
put no fix in with them that will stick. So you better
get me back before people start asking questions.”
Shea said, rather desparately, “Pete, I’m doing all
I can. Honest. I haven’t the least idea where we are,
or in what period. Until I do, I don’t dare try sending
us anywhere else. We’ve already picked up a
rather high charge of magical static coming here,
and any spell I used without knowing what kind of
magic they use around here is apt to make us simply
disappear or end up in Hell — you know, real red
hell with flames all around, like in a fundamentalist
church.”

“Okay,” said Brodsky. “You got the office. Me,
I don’t think you got more than a week to get us
back at the outside.”

Belphebe pointed, “Marry, are those not sheep?”

Shea shaded his eyes. “Right you are, darling,”
he said. The objects looked like a collection of lice
on a piece of green baize, but he trusted his wife’s
phenomenal eyesight.

“Sheep,” said Brodsky. One could almost hear
the gears grind in his brain as he looked around.
“Sheep.” A beatific expression spread over his face.
“Shea, you must of done it! Three, two, and out
we’re in Ireland — and if it is, you can hit me on the
head if I ever want to go back.”

Shea followed his eyes. “It does rather look like
it,” he said. “But when . . .”

Something went past with a rush of displaced air.
It struck a nearby boulder with a terrific crash and
burst into fragments that whizzed about like pieces
of an artillery shall.

“Duck!” shouted Shea, throwing himself flat and
dragging Belphebe down with him.

Brodsky went into a crouch, lips drawn tight over
his teeth, looking around with quick, jerky motions
for the source of the missile. Nothing more happened.
After a minute, Shea and Belphebe got up
and went over to examine a twenty-pound hunk of
sandy conglomerate.

Shea said, “Somebody is chucking hundredpound
boulders around. This may be Ireland, but I
hope it isn’t the time of Finn McCool or Strongbow.”

“Cripes,” said Brodsky, “and me without my
heater. And you a shiv man with no shiv.”

It occurred to Shea that at whatever period they
had hit this place, he was in a singularly weaponless
state. He climbed on the boulder against which the
missile had destroyed itself and looked in all directions.
There was no sign of life except the distant,
tiny sheep — not even a shepherd or a sheep-dog.

He slid down and sat on a ledge of the boulder and
considered, the stone feeling hard against his wet
back. “Sweetheart,” he said, addressing Belphebe,
“it seems to me that whenever we are, the first thing
we have to do is find people and get oriented. You’re
the guide. Which direction’s the most likely?”

The girl shrugged. “My woodcraft is nought without
trees,” she said, “but if you put it so, I’d seek a
valley, for people ever live by watercourses.”

“Good idea,” said Shea. “Let’s . . .”

Whizz!

Another boulder flew through the air, but not in
their direction. It struck the turf a hundred yards
away, bounced clumsily, and rolled out of sight over
the hill. Still — no one was visible.

Brodsky emitted a growl, but Belphebe laughed.
“we are encouraged to begone,” she said. “Come,
my lord, let us do no less.

At that moment another sound made itself audible.
It was that of a team of horses and a vehicle
whose wheels were in violent need of lubrication.
With a drumming of hooves, a jingle of harness, and
a squealing of wheels, a chariot rattled up the slope
and into view. It was drawn by two huge horses, one
gray and one black. The chariot itself was built more
on the lines of a sulky than those of the open-backed
Graeco-Roman chariot, with a seat big enough for
two or three persons across the back, and the sides
cut low in front to allow for entrance. The vehicle
was ornamented with nail-heads and other trim in
gold, and a pair of scythe-blades jutted from the
hubs.

The driver was a tall, thin freckled man, with red
hair trailing from under his golden fillet down over
his shoulders. He wore a green kilt and over that a
deerskin cloak with arm-holes at elbow length.

The chariot sped straight toward Shea and his
companions, who dodged away from the scythes
round the edge of the boulder. At the last minute the
charioteer reined to a walk and shouted, “Be off
with you if you would keep the heads on your shoulders!”

“Why?” asked Shea.

“Because himself has a rage on. It is tearing up
trees and casting boulders he is, and a bad hour it
will be for anyone who meets him the day.”

“Who is himself?” said Shea, almost at the same
time as Brodsky said, “Who the hell are you?”

The charioteer pulled up with an expression of astonishment
on his face. “I am Laeg mac Riangabra,
and who would himself be but Ulster’s hound, the
glory of Ireland, Cuchulainn the mighty? He is after
killing his only son and has worked himself into a
rage. Ara! It is runing the countryside he is, and the
sight of you Fomorians would make him the
wilder.”

The charioteer cracked his whip, and the horses
raced off over the hill, the flying clods dappling the
sky. In the direction from which he had come, a
good-sized sapling with dangling roots rose against
the horizon and fell back.

“Hey!” said Brodsky, tagging after them. “Come
on back and pal up with this ghee. He’s the number
one hero of Ireland.”

Another rock bounced on the sward and from the
distance a kind of howling was audible.

“I’ve heard of him,” said Shea, “and if you want
to, we can drop in on him later, but I think that right
now is a poor time for calls. He isn’t in a pally
mood.”

Belphebe said, “You name him hero, and yet you
say he has slain his own son. How can this be?”

Brodsky said, “It was a bum rap. This Cuchulainn
got his girlfriend Aoife pregnant way back
when and then gave her the air, see? So she’s sore at
him, see? So when the kid grows up, she sends him
to Cuchulainn under a geas . . .”

“A moment,” said Belphebe. “What would this
geas be?”

“A taboo,” said Shea.

Brodsky said, “It’s a hell of a lot more than that.
You got one these geasa on you and you can’t do the
thing it’s against even if it was to save you from the
hot seat. So like I was saying this young ghee, his
name is Conla, but he has this geas on him not to tell
his name or that of his father to anyone. So when
Aoife sends him to Cuchulainn, the big shot challenges
the kid and then knocks him off. It ain’t
good.”

“A tale to mourn, indeed,” said Belphebe. “How
are you so wise in these matters, Master Pete? Are
you of this race?”

“I only wisht I was,” said Brodsky fervently. “It
would do me a lot of good on the force. But I ain’t,
so I dope it this way, see? I’ll study this Irish stuff
till I know more about it than anybody. And then I
got innarested, see?”

They were well down the slope now, the grass
dragging at their feet, approaching the impassive
sheep.

Belphebe said, “I trust we shall come soon to
where there are people. My bones protest I have not
dined.”

“Listen,” said Brodsky, “This is Ireland, the best
country in the world. If you want to feed your face,
just knock off one of them sheep. It’s on the house.
They run the pitch that way.”

“We have neither knife nor fire,” said Belphebe.

“I think we can make out on the fire deal with the
metal we have on us and a piece of flint,” said Shea.
“And if we have a sheep killed and a fire going, I’ll
bet it won’t be long before somebody shows up with
a knife to share our supper. Anyway, it’s worth a
try.”

He walked over to a big tree and picked up a
length of dead branch that lay near the base. By
standing on it and heaving, he broke it somewhat
raggedly in half, handing one end to Brodsky. The
resulting cudgels did not look especially efficient,
but they could be made to do.

“Now,” said Shea, “if we hide behind that boulder,
Belphebe can circle around and drive the flock
toward us.”

“Would you be stealing our sheep now, darlings?”
said a deep male voice.

Shea look around. Out of nowhere, a group of
men had appeared, standing on the slope above
them. There were five of them, in kilts or trews, with
mantles of deerskin or wolfhide fastened around
their necks. One of them carried a brassbound club,
one a clumsy-looking sword, and the other three,
spears.

Before Shea could say anything, the one with the
club said, “The heads of the men will look fine in
the hall, now. But I will have the woman first.”

“Run!” cried Shea, and took his own advice. The
five ran after them.

Belphebe, being unencumbered, soon took the
lead. Shea clung to his club, hating to have nothing
to hit back with if he were run down. A glance backward
showed that Brodsky had either dropped his or
thrown it at the pursuers without effect.

“Shea!” yelled the detective. “Go on — they got
me!”

They had not, as a matter of fact, but it was clear
they soon would. Shea paused, turned, snatched up
a stone about the size of a baseball, and threw it past
Brodsky’s head at the pursuers. The spearmantarget
ducked, and they came on, spreading out in a
crescent to surround their prey.

“I — can’t — run no more,” panted Brodsky.
“Go on.”

“Like hell,” said Shea. “We can’t go back without
you. Let’s both take the guy with the club.”

The stones arched through the air simultaneously.
The clubman ducked, but not far enough; one missile
caught his leather cap and sent him sprawling to
the grass.

The others whooped and closed in with the evident
intention of skewering and carving, when a terrific
racket made everyone pause on tiptoe. Down the
slope came the chariot that had passed Shea and his
group before. The tall, red-haired charioteer was
standing in the front, yelling something like “Ulluul-
lu” while balancing in the back was a smaller, rather
dark man.

The chariot bounded and slewed toward them.
Before Shea could take in the whole action, one of
the hub-head scythes caught a spearman, shearing
off both legs neatly, just below the knee. The man
fell, shrieking, and at the same instant the small man
drew back his arm and threw a javelin right through
the body of another.

“It is himself!” cried one of them, and the survivors
turned to run.

The small dark fellow spoke to the charioteer,
who pulled up his horses. Cuchulainn leaped down
from the vehicle, took a sling from his belt and
whirled it around his head. The stone struck one of
the men in the back of the neck, and down he went.
As the man fell, Cuchulainn wound up a second
time. Shea thought this one would miss for sure, as
the man was now a hundred yards away and going
farther fast. But the missile hit him in the head, and
he pitched on his face.

“Get out the head bag and fetch me the trophies,
dear,” said Cuchulainn.

II
Laeg rummaged in the rear of the chariot and produced
a large bag and a heavy sword, with which he
went calmly to work. Belphebe had turned back, as
the rescuer came toward the three. Shea saw a smallish
man with curly black hair, not older than himself;
heavy black eyebrows and only a faint fuzz on
his cheeks to compare with the heavy beards of the
defunct five. He was not only an extremely handsome
man; there was also a powerful play of musculature
under his loose outer garment. The hero’s face
bore an expression of settled and brooding melancholy,
and he was dressed in a long-sleeved white
cloak embroidered with gold thread, over a red
tunic.

“Thanks a lot,” said Shea. “You just saved our
lives, in case you wondered. How did you happen
along?”

“'Twas Laeg came to me with a tale of three
strangers, who might be Fomorians by the look to
them, and they were like to be set on by the Lagenians.
Now I will be fighting any man in Ireland that
gives me the time, but unless you are a hero it is not
good to fight at five to two, and it is time that these
pigs of Lagenians learned their manners. So now it is
time for you to be telling me who you are and where
you come from and whither bound. If you are indeed
Fomorians, the better for you — King Conchobar
is friends with them this year, or I might be making
you by the head shorter.”

Shea searched his mind for details of the culturepattern
of the men of Cuchulainn’s Ireland. A slip at
the beginning might result in their heads being added
to the collection bumping each other in Laeg’s bag
like so many cantaloupes. Brodsky beat him to the
punch.

“Jeepers!” he said, in a tone which carried its
own message. “Imagine holding heavy with a zinger
like you! I’m Pete Brodsky — give a toss to my
friends here, Harold Shea and his wife Belphebe.”
He stuck out his hand.

“We do not come from Fomoria, but from
America, an island beyond their land,” said Shea.

Cuchulainn acknowledged the introduction to
Shea with a stately nod of courtesy. His eyes swept
over Brodsky, and he ignored the outthrust hand.
He addressed Shea. “Why do you travel in company
with such a mountain of ugliness, dear?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Shea could see the
cop’s wattles swell dangerously. He said hastily;
“He may be no beauty, but he’s useful. He’s our
slave and bodyguard, a good fighting man. Shut up,
Pete!”

Brodsky had sense enough to do so. Cuchulainn
accepted the explanation with the same sad courtesy
and gestured toward the chariot. “You will be
mounting up in the back of my car, and I will drive
you to my camp, where there will be an eating before
you set out on your journey again.”

He climbed to the front of the chariot himself,
while the three wanderers clambered wordlessly to
the back seat and held on. Laeg, having disposed of
the head bag, touched the horses with a golden goad.
Off they went. Shea found the ride a monstrously
rough one, for the vehicle had no springs and the
road was distinguished by its absence, but Cuchulainn
lounged in the seat, apparently at ease.

Presently there loomed ahead a small patch of
woods at the bottom of a valley. Smoke rose from a
fire. The sun had decided to resolve the question of
what time of day it was by setting, so that the hollow
lay in shadow. A score or more of men, rough and
wild-looking, got to their feet and cheered as the
chariot swept into the camp. At the center of it a
huge iron pot bubbled over the fire, and in the background
a shelter of poles, slabs of bark and branches
had been erected. Laeg pulled up the chariot and
lifted the head bag with its lumpish trophies, and
there was more cheering.

Cuchulainn sprang down lightly, acknowledged
the greeting with a casual wave, then swung to Shea.
“Mac Shea, I am thinking that you are of quality,
and as you are not altogether the ugliest couple in
the world, you will be eating with me.” He waved an
arm. “Bring the food, darlings.”

Cuchulainn’s henchmen busied themselves, with a
vast amount of shouting, and running about in patterns
that would have made good cat’s cradles. One
picked up a stool and carried it across the clearing; a
second immediately picked it up again and took it
back to where it had been.

“Do you think they’ll ever get around to feeding
us?” said Belphebe in a low tone. But Cuchulainn
merely looked on with a slight smile, seeming to regard
the performance as somehow a compliment to
himself.

After an interminable amount of coming and going,
the stool was finally established in front of the
lean-to. Cuchulainn sat down on it and with a wave
of his hand, indicated that the Sheas were to sit on
the ground in front of him. The charioteer Laeg
joined them on the ground, which was still decidedly
damp after the rain. But, as their clothes had not
dried, it didn’t seem to matter.

A man brought a large wooden platter on which
were heaped the champion’s victuals, consisting of a
huge cut of boiled pork, a mass of bread, and a
whole salmon. Cuchulainn laid it on his knees and
set to work on it with fingers and his dagger, saying
with a ghost of a smile, “Now according to the custom
of Ireland, Mac Shea, you may challenge the
champion for his portion. A man of your inches
should be a blithe swordsman, and I have never
fought with an American.”

“Thanks,” said Shea, “but I don’t think I could
eat that much, anyway, and there’s a — what do you
call it? — a geas against my fighting anyone who has
done something for me, so I couldn’t after the way
you saved us.” He addressed himself to the slab of
bread on which had been placed a pork chop and a
piece of salmon, then glanced at Belphebe and
added, “Would it be too much trouble to ask for the
loan of a pair of knives? We left in rather a hurry
and without our tools.”

A shadow flitted across the face of Cuchulainn.
“It is not well for a man of his hands to be without
his weapons. Are you sure, now, that they were not
taken away from you?”

Belphebe said, “We came here on a magical spell,
and as you doubtless know, there are some that cannot
be spelled in the presence of cold iron.”

“And what could be truer?” agreed Cuchulainn.
He clapped his hands and called, “Bring two knives,
darlings. The iron knives, not the bronze.” He
chewed, looking at Belphebe. “And where would
you be journeying to, darlings?”

Shea said, “Back to America, I suppose. We sort
of — dropped in to see the greatest hero in Ireland.”

Cuchulainn appeared to take the compliment as a
matter of course. “You come at a poor time. The expedition
is over, and now I am going home to sit
quietly with my wife Emer, so there will be no fighting.”

Laeg looked up with his mouth full and said,
“You will be quiet if Meddling Maev and Ailill will
let you, Cucuc. Some devilment they will be getting
up, or it is not the son of Riangabra I am.”

“When my time comes to be killed by the Connachta,
then I will be killed by the men of Connacht,”
said Cuchulainn, composedly. He was still
looking at Belphebe.

Belphebe asked, “Who stands at the head of the
magical art here?”

Cuchulainn said, “It is true that you said you have
a taste for magic. None is greater, nor will be, than
Ulster’s Cathbadh, adviser to King Conchobar. And
now you will come with me to Muirthemne in the
morning, rest and fit yourselves, and we will go to
Emain Macha to see him together.”

He laid aside his platter and took another look at
Belphebe. The little man was as good with a trencher
as he was with a sling; there was practically nothing
left, and he had had twice as much as Shea.

“That’s extremely kind of you,” said Shea. “Very 
kind indeed.” It was so very kind that he felt a
twinge of suspicion.

“It is not,” said Cuchulainn. “For those with the
gift of beauty, it is no more than their due that they
should receive all courtesy.”

He was still looking at Belphebe, who glanced
up at the darkening sky. “My lord,” she said, “I am
somewhat foredone. Would it not be well to seek our
rest?”

Shea said, “It’s an idea. Where do we sleep?”

Cuchulainn waved a hand toward the grove.
“Where you will, darlings. No one will disturb you
in the camp of Cuchulainn.” He clapped his hands.
“Gather moss for the bed of my friends.”

When they were alone, Belphebe said in a low
voice: “I like not the manner of his approach,
though he has done us great good. Cannot you use
your art to transport us back to Ohio?”

Shea said, “I’ll take a chance on trying to work
out the sorites in the morning. Remember, it won’t
do us any good to get back alone. We’ve got to take
Pete, or we’ll be up on a charge of kidnapping or
murdering him, and I don’t want to go prowling
through this place at night looking for him. Besides,
we need light to make the passes.”

Early as they rose, the camp was already astir
about them and a fire lighted. As Shea and Belphebe
wandered through the camp, looking for Brodsky,
they noted it was strangely silent, the elaborate confusion
of the previous evening being carried on in
whispers or dump show. Shea grabbed the arm of a
bewhiskered desperado hurrying past with a bag of
something to inquire the reason.

The man bent close and said in a fierce whisper,
“Sure, ‘tis that himself is in his sad mood, and keeping
his booth. If you would lose your head, it would
be just as well to make a noise.”

“There’s Pete,” said Belphebe.

The detective waved a hand and came toward
them from under the trees. He had somehow acquired
one of the deerskin cloaks, which was held
under his chin with a brass brooch, and he looked
unexpectedly cheerful.

“What’s the office?” he asked in the same stage
whisper the others were using, as he approached
them.

“Come with us,” said Shea. “We’re going to try
to get back to Ohio. Where’d you get the new
clothes?”

“Aw, one of these muzzlers thought he could
wrestle, so I slipped him a little jujitsu and won it.
Listen, Shea, I changed my mind. I ain’t going back.
This is the real McCoy.”

“But we want to go back,” said Belphebe, “and
you told us just yesterday that if we showed up without
you, our fate would be less than pleasant.”

“Listen, give it a rest. I’m on the legit here, and
with that magical stuff of yours, you could be, too.
At least I want to stay for the big blow.”

“Come this way,” said Shea, leading away from
the center of the camp to where there was less danger
of their voices causing trouble. “What do you mean
by the big blow?”

“From what I got,” said Pete, “I figured out
when we landed. This Maev and Ailill are rustling
out the mob and heeling them up to give Cuchulainn
a bang on the head. They got all the cousins of people
he’s bumped off in on the caper, and they’re going
to put a geas on him that will make him go up
against them all at once, and then boom. I want to
stay for the payoff.”

“Look here,” said Shea, “you said only yesterday
that we had to get you back within a week. Remember?
It was something about your probably being
seen going into our house and not coming out.”

“Sure, sure. And if we go back, I’ll alibi you. But
what for? I’m teaching these guys to wrestle, and
what with your magic, maybe you could even take
the geas off the big shot and he wouldn’t get shoved
over.”

“Perhaps I could at that,” said Shea. “It seems to
amount to a kind of psychological compulsion by
magical means, and between psychology and magic,
I ought to make it. But no — it’s too risky. I daren’t
take the chance with him making eyes at Belphebe.”

They had emerged from the clump of trees and
were at the edge of the slope, with the early sun just
touching the tops of the branches above them. Shea
went on, “I’m sorry, Pete, but Belphebe and I don’t
want to spend the rest of our lives here, and if we’re
going, we’ve got to go now. As you said. Now, you
two hold hands. Give me your other hand, Belphebe.”

Brodsky obeyed with a somewhat sullen expression.
Shea closed his eyes, and began: “If either A or
(B or C) is true, and C or D is false . . .” motioning
with his free hand to the end of the sorites.

He opened his eyes again. They were still at the
edge of a clump of trees, on a hill in Ireland, watching
the smoke from the fire as it rose above the trees
to catch the sunshine.

Belphebe asked, “What’s amiss?”

“I don’t know,” said Shea desperately. “If I only
had something to write with, so I could check over
the steps . . . No, wait a minute. Making this work
depends on a radical alteration of sense impressions
in accordance with the rules of symbolic logic and
magic. Now we know that magic works here, so that
can’t be the trouble. But for symbolic logic to be effective,
you have to submit to its effects — that is, be
willing. Pete, you’re the villain of the piece. You
don’t want to go back.”

“Don’t put the squeeze on me,” said Brodsky.
“I’ll play ball.”

“All right. Now I want you to remember that
you’re going back to Ohio, and that you have a good
job there and like it. Besides, you were sent out to
find us, and you did. Okay?”

They joined hands again and Shea, constricting
his brow with effort, ran through the sorites again,
this time altering one or two of the terms to give
greater energy. As he reached the end, time seemed
to stand still for a second; then crash! and a flash of
vivid blue lightning struck the tree nearest them,
splitting it from top to bottom.



Belphebe gave a little squeal, and a chorus of excited
voices rose from the camp.

Shea gazed at the fragments of the splintered tree
and said soberly, “I think that shot was meant for
us, and that that just about tears it, darling. Pete,
you get your wish. We’re going to have to stay here
at least until I know more about the laws controlling
magic in this continuum.”

Two or three of Cuchulainn’s men burst excitedly
through the trees and came toward them,
spears ready. “Is it all right that you are?” one of
them called.

“Just practicing a little magic,” said Shea, easily.
“Come on, let’s go back and join the others.”

In the clearing voices were no longer quenched,
and the confusion had become worse than ever.
Cuchulainn stood watching the loading of the chariot,
with a lofty and detached air. As the three travelers
approached he said, “Now it is to you I am grateful,
Mac Shea, with your magical spell for reminding
me that things are better done at home than abroad.
It is leaving at once we are.”

“Hey!” said Brodsky. “I ain’t had no breakfast.”

The hero regarded him with distaste. “You will be 
telling me that I should postpone the journey for the
condition of a slave’s belly?” he said, and turning to
Shea and Belphebe, “We can eat as we go.”

The ride was smoother than the one of the previous
day only because the horses went at a walk so as
not to outdistance the column of retainers on foot.
Conversation over the squeaking of the wheels began
by being sparse and rather boring, with Cuchulainn
keeping his chin well down on his chest. But he
apparently liked Belphebe’s comments on the beauty
of the landscape. As it came on to noon he began to
chatter, addressing her with an exclusiveness that
Shea found disturbing, though he had to admit that
the little man talked well, and always with the most
perfect courtesy.

The country around them got lower and flatter
and flatter and lower, until from the tops of the few
rises Shea glimpsed a sharp line of gray-blue across
the horizon; the sea. A shower came down and temporarily
soaked the column, but nobody paid it
much attention, and in the clear sunlit air that followed
everyone was soon dry. Cultivation became
more common, though there was still less of it than
pasturage. Occasionally a lumpish-looking serf, clad
in a length of ragged sacking-like cloth wrapped
around his middle and a thick veneer of dirt, left off
his labors to stare at the band and wave a languid
greeting.

At last, over the manes of the horses, Shea saw
that they were approaching a stronghold. This consisted
of a stockade of logs with a huge double gate.

Belphebe surveyed it critically and whispered behind
her hand to Shea, “It could be taken with fire-earrows.”

“I don’t think they have many archers or very
good ones,” he whispered back. “Maybe you can
show them something.”

The gate was pushed open creakingly by more
bearded warriors, who shouted: “Good-day to you,
Cucuc! Good luck to Ulster’s hound!”

The gate was wide enough to admit the chariot,
scythe-blades and all. As the vehicle rumbled
through the opening, Shea glimpsed houses of various
shapes and sizes, some of them evidently stables
and barns. The biggest of all was the hall in the middle,
whose heavily thatched roof came down almost
to the ground at the sides.

Laeg pulled up. Cuchulainn jumped down, waved
his hand, and cried, “Muirthemne welcomes you,
Americans!” All the others applauded as though he
had said something particularly brilliant.

He turned to speak to a fat man, rather better
dressed than the rest, when another man came out of
the main hall and walked rapidly toward them. The
newcomer was a thin man of medium height, elderly
but vigorous, slightly bent and carrying a stick, on
which he leaned now and again. He had a long white
beard, and a purple robe covered him from neck to
ankle.

“The best of the day to you, Cathbadh,” said
Cuchulainn. "This is surely a happy hour that brings
you here, but where is my darling Emer?”

“Emer has gone to Emain Macha,” said Cathbadh.
“Conchobar summoned her . . .”

“Ara!” shouted Cuchulainn. “Is it a serf that I
am, that the King can send for my wife every time he
takes it into the head of him? He is . . .”

“It is not that at all, at all,” said Cathbadh. “He
summons you, too, and for that he sent me instead
of Levarcham, for he knows you might not heed her
word if you took it into that willful head of yours to
disobey, whereas it is myself can put a geas on you to
go.”

“And why does himself want us at Emain
Macha?”

“Would I be knowing all the secrete in the heart
of a King?”

Shea asked, “Are you the court druid?”

Cathbadh became aware of him for the first time,
and Cuchulainn made introductions. Shea explained,
“It seems to me that the King might want
you at the court for your own protection, so the
druids can keep Maev’s sorcerers from putting a
spell on you. That’s what she’s going to do.”

“How do you know of this?” asked Cathbadh.

“Through Pete here. He sometimes knows about
things that are going to happen before they actually
take place. In our country we call it second sight.”

Cuchulainn wrinkled his nose. “That ugly slave?”

“Yeh, me,” said Brodsky, who had approached
the group. “And you better watch your step, handsome,
because somebody’s going to hang you up to
dry unless you do something about it.”

“If it is destined none can alter it,” said Cuchulainn.
“Fergus! Have the bath water heated.” He
turned to Shea. “Once you are properly washed and
garbed you will look well enough for the board in
my beautiful house. I will lend you some proper garments,
for I cannot bear the sight of those Formorian-
like rags."

III
Along the side of the main hall was an alcove
made of screens of wattle, set at an angle that provided
privacy for those within. In the alcove stood
Cuchulainn’s bathtub, a large and elaborate affair
of bronze. A procession of the women of the manor
were now coming in from the well with jugs of
water, which they emptied into the tub. Meanwhile
the men were poking up the fire at the end of the hall
and adding a number of stones of about five to ten
pounds’ weight.

Brodsky sidled up to Shea, as they stood in the
half-light, orienting themselves. “Listen, I don’t
want to blow the whistle on a bump rap, but you better
watch it. The racket they have here, this guy can
make a pass at Belphebe in his own house, and it’s
legit. You ain’t got no beef coming.”

“I was afraid of that,” said Shea, unhappily.
“Look there.”

“There” was a row of wooden spikes projecting
from one of the horizontal strings along the wall,
and most of these spikes were occupied by human
heads. As they watched Laeg brought in the head
bag and added the latest trophies to the collection,
pressing them down firmly. Some of those already in
place were quite fresh, while others had been there
so long that there was little left of them but a skull
with a little hair adhering to the scalp.

“Jeepers!” said Brodsky, “and if you start beefing,
he’ll put you there, too. Give me time — I’ll try
to think of some way to rumble his line.”

“Make way!” shouted a huge bewhiskered retainer.
The three dodged as the man ran past them, carrying
a large stone, smoking from the fire, in a pair
of tongs. The man dashed into the alcove. There was
a splash and a loud hiss. Another retainer followed
with a second stone while the first was on his return
trip. In a few minutes all the stones had been transferred
to the bathtub. Shea looked around the screen
and saw that the water was steaming gently.

Cuchulainn sauntered past into the bathroom and
tested the water with an inquisitive finger. “That
will do, dears.”

The retainers picked the stones out of the water
with their tongs and piled them in the corner, then
went around from behind the screen. Cuchulainn
reached up to pull off his tunic, then saw Shea.

“I am going to undress for the bath,” he said.
“Surely, you would not be wanting to remain here,
now.”

Shea turned back into the main room just in time
to see Brodsky smack one fist into the other palm.
“Got it!”

“Got what?” said Shea.

“How to needle his hot tomato.” He looked
around, then pulled Shea and Belphebe closer. “Listen,
the big shot putting the scram on you now just
reminded me. The minute he makes a serious pass at
you, Belle, you gotta go into a strip-tease act. In
public, where everybody can get a gander at it.”

Belphebe gasped. Shea asked, “Are you out of
your head? That sounds to me like trying to put a
fire out with gasoline.”

“I tell you he can’t take it!” Brodsky’s voice was
low but urgent. “They can’t none of them. One time
when this guy was going to put the slug on everyone
at the court, the King sent out a bunch of babes with
bare knockers, and they nearly had to pick him up in
a basket.”

“I like this not,” said Belphebe, but Shea said,
“A nudity taboo! That could be part of a culture
pattern, all right. Do they all have it?”

“Yeh, and but good,” said Brodsky. “They even
croak of it. What gave me the tip was him putting
the chill on you before he started to undress — he
was doing you a favor.”

Cuchulainn stepped out of the alcove, buckling a
belt around a fresh tunic, emerald-green with
embroidery of golden thread. He scrubbed his long
hair with a towel and ran a comb through it, while
Laeg took his place behind the screen.

Belphebe said, “Is there to be but one water for
all?”

Cuchulainn said, "There is plenty of soapwort.
Cleanliness is good for beauty.” He glanced at
Brodsky. “The slave can bathe in the trough outside.”

“Listen . .” began Brodsky, but Shea put a hand
on his arm, and to cover up, asked, “Do your druids
use spells of transportation — from one place to
another?”

“There is little a good druid cannot do — but I
would advise you not to use the spells of Cathbadh
unless you are a hero as well as a maker of magic,
for they arc very mighty.”

He turned to watch the preparations for dinner
with a sombre satisfaction. Laeg presently appeared,
his toilet made, and from another direction one of
the women brought garments which she took into
the bathroom for Shea and Belphebe. Shea started
to follow his wife, but remembered what Brodsky
had said about the taboo, and decided not to take a
chance on shocking his hosts. She came out soon
enough in a floor-length gown that clung to her all
over, and he noted with displeasure that it was the
same green and embroidered patterns as
Cuchulainn’s tunic.

After Shea had dealt with water almost cold and a
towel already damp, his own costume turned out to
be a saffron tunic and tight knitted scarlet trews
which he imagined as looking quite effective.

Belphebe was watching the women around the
fire. Over in the shadows under the eaves sat Pete
Brodsky, cleaning his fingernails with a bronze
knife, a chunky, middle-aged man — a good hand
in a fight, with his knowledge of jujitsu and his
quick reflexes, and not a bad companion. Things
would be a lot easier, though, if he hadn’t fouled up
the spell by wanting to stay where he was, Or had
that been responsible?

Old Cathbadh came stumping up with his stick.
“Mac Shea,” he said, “the Little Hound is after
telling me that you also are a druid, who came here
by magical arts from a distant place, and can
summon lightning from the skies.”
“It’s true enough,” said Shea. “Doubtless you
know those spells.”

“Doubtless I do,” said Cathbadh, looking sly.,
“We must hold converse on matters of our craft. We
will be teaching each other some new spells, I am
thinking.”

Shea frowned. The only spell he was really interested
in was one that would take Belphebe and
himself — and Pete — back to Garaden, Ohio,
and Cathbadh probably didn’t know that one. It
would be a question of getting at the basic assumptions,
and more or less working out his own method
of putting them to use.

Aloud he said, “I think we can be quite useful to
each other. In America, where I come from, we have
worked out some of the general principles of magic,
so that it is only necessary to learn the procedures in
various places.”

Cathbadh shook his head. “You do be telling
me — and it is the word of a druid, so I must believe
you — but ‘tis hard to credit that a druid
could travel among the Scythians of Greece or the
Scots of Egypt, with all the strange gods they do be
having, and still be protected by his spells as well as
at home.”

Shea got a picture of violently confused geography.
But then, he reflected, the correspondence
between this world and his own would only be
rough, anyway. There might be Scots in Egypt here.

Just then Cuchulainn came out of his private
room and sat down without ceremony at the head of
the table. The others gathered round. Laeg took the
place at one side of the hero and Cathbadh at the
other. Shea and Belphebe were nodded to the next
places, opposite each other. A good-looking serf
woman with hair bound back from her forehead
filled a large golden goblet at Cuchulainn’s place
with wine from a golden ewer, then smaller silver
cups at the places of Laeg and Cathbadh, and
copper mugs for Shea and Belphebe. Down the table
the rest of the company had leather jacks and barley
beer.

Cuchulainn said to Cathbadh, “Will you make
the sacrifice, dear?”

The druid stood up, spilled a few drops on the
floor and chanted to the gods Bile, Danu, and Ler.
Shea decided that it was only imagination that he
was hearing the sound of beating wings, and only the
approach of the meal that gave him a powerful sense
of internal comfort, but there was no doubt that
Cathbadh knew his stuff.

He knew it, too. “Was that not fine, now?” he
said, as he sat down next to Shea. “Can you show
me anything in your outland magic ever so good?”

Shea thought. It wouldn’t do any harm to give the
old codger a small piece of sympathetic magic, and
might help his own reputation. He said, “Move your
wine-cup over next to mine, and watch it carefully.”

There would have to be a spell to link the two if he
were going to make Cathbadh’s wine disappear as he
drank his own, and the only one he could think of at
the moment was the “Double, double” from
“Macbeth.” He murmured that under his breath,
making the hand passes he had learned in Faerie.

Then he said, “Now, watch,” picked up his mug
and set it to his lips.

Whoosh!

Out of Cathbadh’s cup a geyser of wine leaped as
though driven by a pressure hose, nearly reaching
the ceiling before it broke up to descend in a rain of
glittering drops, while the guests at the head of the
table leaped to their feet to draw back from the phenomenon.
Cathbadh was a fast worker; he lifted his
stick and struck the hurrying stream of liquid, crying
something unintelligible in a high voice. Abruptly
the gusher was quenched and there was only the
table, swimming with wine, and serf women rushing
to mop up the mess.

Cuchulainn said, “This is a very beautiful piece of
magic, Mac Shea, and it is a pleasure to have so notable
a druid among us. But you would not be
making fun of us, would you?” He looked dangerous.

“Not me,” said Shea. “I only. . .”

Whatever he intended to say was cut off by a
sudden burst of unearthly howling from somewhere
outside. Shea glanced around rather wildly, feeling
that things were getting out of hand. Cuchulainn
said, “You need not be minding that at all, now. It
will only be Uath, and because the moon has reached
her term.”

“I don’t understand,” said Shea.

“The women of Ulster were not good enough for
Uath, so he must be going to Connacht and courting
the daughter of Ollgaeth the druid. This Ollgaeth is
no very polite man; he said no Ultonian should have
his daughter, and when Uath persisted, he put a geas
on Uath that when the moon fills he must howl the
night out, and a geas on his own daughter that she
cannot abide the sound of howling. I am thinking
that Ollgaeth’s head is due for a place of honor.” He
looked significantly at his collection.

Shea said, “But I still don’t understand. If you
can put a geas on someone, can’t it be taken off
again?”

Cuchulainn looked mournful, Cathbadh embarrassed,
and Laeg laughed. “Now you will be making
Cathbadh sad, and our dear Cucuc is too polite to
tell you, but the fact is no other than that Ollgaeth is
so good a druid that no one can lift the spells he lays,
nor lay one he cannot lift.”

Outside, Uath’s mournful howl rose again.
Cuchulainn said to Belphebe, “Does he trouble you,
dear? I can have him removed, or the upper part of
him.”

As the meal progressed, Shea noticed that
Cuchulainn was putting away an astonishing
quantity of the wine, talking almost exclusively with
Belphebe, although the drink did not seem to have
much effect on the hero but to intensify his sombre
courtesy. But, when the table was cleared, he lifted
his goblet to drain it, looked at Belphebe from
across the table, and nodded significantly.

Shea got up and ran around the table to place a
hand on her shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye,
he saw Pete Brodsky getting up, too. Cuchulainn’s
face bore the faintest of smiles. “It is sorry to discommode
you I am,” he said, “but this is by the
rules and not even a challenging matter. So now,
Belphebe, darling, you will just come to my room.”

He got up and started toward Belphebe, who got
up, too, backing away. Shea tried to keep between
them and racked his brain hopelessly for some kind
of spell that might stop this business. Everyone else
was standing up and pushing to watch the little
drama.

Cuchulainn said, “Now you would not be getting
in my way, would you, Mac Shea, darling?” His
voice was gentle, but there was something incredibly
ferocious in the way he uttered the words, and Shea
suddenly realized he was facing a man who had a
sword. Outside, Uath howled mournfully.

Beside him, Belphebe herself suddenly leaped for
one of the weapons hanging on the wall and tugged,
but in vain. It had been so securely fastened with
staples that it would have taken a pry bar to get it
loose. Cuchulainn laughed.

Behind and to the left of Shea, Brodsky’s voice
rose, “Belle, you stiff, do like I told you!”

She turned back as Cuchulainn drew nearer and
with set face crossed her arms and whipped the green
gown off over her head. She stood in her underwear.

There was a simultaneous gasp and groan of
horror from the audience. Cuchulainn stopped, his
mouth coming open.

“Go on!” yelled Brodsky in the background.
“Give it the business!”

Belphebe reached behind her to unhook her
brassiere. Cuchulainn staggered as though he had
been struck. He threw one arm across his eyes,
reached the table and brought his face down on it,
pounding the wood with the other fist.

“Ara!” he shouted. “Take her away! Is it killing
me you will be and in my own hall, and me your host
that has saved your life?”

“Will you let her alone?” asked Shea.

“I will that for the night.”

“Mac Shea, take his offer,” advised Laeg from
the head of the table. He looked rather greenish
himself. “If his rage comes on him, none of us will
be safe.”

Okay. Honest,” said Shea and held Belphebe’s
dress for her.

There was a universal sigh of relief from the background.
Cuchulainn staggered to his feet. It is not
feeling well that I am, darlings,” he said and,
picking up the golden ewer of wine, made for his
room.

IV
There was a good deal of excited gabble among
the retainers as Belphebe walked back to her place
without looking to right or left, but they made room
for Shea and Brodsky to join her. The druid looked
shrewdly at the closed door and said, “If the Little
Hound drinks too much by himself, he may be
brooding on the wrong you are after doing him, and
a sad day that would be. If he comes out with the
hero-light playing round his head, run for your
lives."

Belphebe said, “But where would we go.”

“Back to your own place. Where else?”

Shea frowned. “I’m not sure. . .” he began, when
Brodsky cut in suddenly, “Say,” he said, “your
boss ain’t really got no right to get bugged up. We
had to play it that way?"

Cathbadh swung to him. “And why, serf?”

“Don’t call me serf. She’s got a fierce geas on her.
Any guy that touches her gets a bellyache and dies of
it. Her husband only stands it because he’s a magician.
It’s lucky we put the brakes on before the boss
got her in that room, or he’d be ready for the lilies
right now."

Cathbadh’s eyebrows shot up like a seagull taking
off. “Himself should know of this,” he said.
“There would be less blood shed in Ireland if more
people opened their mouths to explain things before
they put their feet in them.”

He got up, went to the bedroom door and
knocked. There was a growl from within, Cathbadh
entered, and a few minutes later came out with
Cuchulainn. The later’s step was visibly unsteady,
and his melancholy seemed to have deepened. He
walked to the head of the table and sat down in the
chair again.

“Sure, and this is the saddest tale in the world I’m
hearing about your wife having such a bad geas on
her. The evening is spoilt and all.. I hope the black fit
does not come on me, for then it will be blood and
death I need to restore me.”

There were a couple of gasps audible and Laeg
looked alarmed, but Cathbadh said hastily, “The
evening is not so spoilt as you think Cucuc. This
Mac Shea is evidently a very notable druid and spell
maker, but I think I am a better. Did you notice how
quickly I put down his wine fountain? Would it not
lift your heart, now, to see the two of us engage in a
contest of magic?”

Cuchulainn clapped his hands. “Never was truer
word spoken. You will just do that, darlings.”

Shea said, “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee . . .” but
Belphebe plucked his sleeve and with her head close
to his, whispered, “ Do it. There is a danger here.”

“It isn’t working right,” Shea whispered back.

Outside rose the mournful sound of Uath’s
howling. “Can you not use your psychology on him
out there?” the girl asked. “It will be magic to
them.”

“A real psychoanalysis would take days,” said
Shea. “Wait a minute, though — we seem to be in
a world where the hysteric type is the norm. That
means a high suggestibility, and we might get something
out of post-hypnotic suggestion.”

Cuchulainn from the head of the table said, “It is
not all night we have to wait.”

Shea turned round and said aloud, “How would it
be if I took the geas off that character out there
training to be a bar-room tenor? I understand that’s
something Cathbadh hasn’t been able to do.”

Cathbadh said, “If you can do this, it will be a
thing worth seeing, but I will not acknowledge you
can do it until I have seen it.”

"All right,” said Shea. “Bring him in.”

“Laeg, dear, go get us Uath,” said Cuchulainn.
He took a drink, looked at Belphebe and his expression
became morose again.

Shea said, “Let’s see. I want a small bright object.
May I borrow one of your rings, Cuchulainn? That
one with the big stone would do nicely.”

Cuchulainn slid the ring down the table as Laeg
returned, firmly gripping the arm of a stocky young
man, who seemed to be opposing some resistance to
the process. Just as they got in the door Uath flung
back his head and emitted a blood-curdling howl.
Laeg dragged him forward, howling away.

Shea turned to the others. “Now if this magic is
going to work, I’ll need a little room. Don't come
too near us while I’m spinning the spell, or you’ll be
apt to get caught in it, too.” He arranged a pair of
seats well back from the table and attached a thread
to the ring.

Laeg pushed Uath into one of the seats. “That’s a
bad geas you have there, Uath,” said Shea, “and I
want you to cooperate with me in getting rid of it.
You’ll do everything I tell you, won’t you?”

The man nodded. Shea lifted the ring, said,
“Watch this,” and began twirling the thread back
and forth between thumb and forefinger, so that the
ring rotated first one way and then the other,
sending out a flickering gleam of reflection from the
rushlights. Meanwhile Shea talked to Uath in a low
voice, saying “sleep” now and then in the process.
Behind him he could hear an occasionally caught
breath and could almost feel the atmosphere of
suspense.

Uath went rigid.

Shea asked in a low voice, “Can you hear me,
Uath?”

“That I can.”

“You will do what I say.”

“That I will.”

“When you wake up, you won’t suffer from this
howling geas any more.”

“That I will not.”

“To prove that you mean it, the first thing you do
on waking will be to clap Laeg on the shoulder.”

“That I will.”

Shea repeated his directions several times, varying
the words, and making Uath repeat them after him.
There was no use taking a chance on slipups. At least
he brought him out of the hypnotic trance with a
snap of the fingers and a sharp “Wake up!”

Uath stared about him with an air of bewilderment.
Then he got up, walked over to the table and
clapped Laeg on the shoulder. There was an
appreciative murmur from the audience.

Shea asked, “How do you feel, Uath?”

“It is just fine that I am feeling. I do not want to
be howling at the moon at all now, and I’m thinking
the geas is gone for good. I thank your honor.” He
came down the table, seized Shea’s hand and kissed
it and joined the other retainers at the lower part of
the table.

Cathbadh said, “That is a very good magic,
indeed, and not the least of it was the small geas you
put on him to lay his hand on Laeg’s shoulder at the
same time. And true it is that I have been unable to
lift this geas. But as one man can run faster, so can
another one climb faster, and I will demonstrate by
taking the geas off your wife, which you have
evidently not been able to deal with.”

“I’m not sure. . .” began Shea, doubtfully.

“Let not yourself be worried,” said Cuchulainn.
“It will not harm her at all, and in the future she can
be more courteous in the high houses she visits.”

The druid rose and pointed a long, bony finger at
Belphebe. He chanted some sort of rhythmic affair
which began in a gibberish of unknown language,
but became more and more intelligible, ending with:
“ . . . and by oak, ash and yew, by the beauty of
Aengus and the strength of Ler and by authority as
high druid of Ulstr, let this geas be lifted from you,
Belphebe! Let it pass! Out with it! It is erased,
cancelled and no more to be heard of!” He tossed up
his arms and then sat down. “How do you feel,
darling?”

“In good sooth, not much different than before,”
said Belphebe. “Should I?”

Cuchulainn said, ‘But how can we know now that
the spell has worked? Aha! I have it! Come with
me.” He rose and came round the table, and in
response to Shea’s exclamation of fury and
Belphebe’s of dismay, added, “Only as far as the
door. Have I not given you my word?”

He bent over Belphebe, put one arm around her
and reached for her hand, then reeled back,
clutching his stomach with both hands and gasping
for breath. Cathbadh and Laeg were on their feet.
So was Shea.

Cuchulainn staggered against Laeg’s arm, wiped a
sleeve cross his eyes and said, “Now the American is
the winner, since your removal spell has failed, and
it was like to be the death of me that the touch of her
was. Do you be trying it yourself, Cathbadh, dear.”

The druid reached out and laid a cautious finger
on Belphebe’s arm. Nothing happened.

Laeg said, “Did not the serf say that a magician
was proof against this geas?”

Cathbadh said, “You may have the right of it
there, although, but I am thinking myself there is another
reason. Cucuc wished to take her to his bed,
while I was not thinking of that at all, at all.”

Cuchulainn sat down again and addressed Shea.
“A good thing it is, indeed, that I was protected
from the work of this geas. Has it not proved
obstinate even to the druids of your own country?”

“Very,” said Shea. “I wish I could find someone
who could deal with it. "He had been more
surprised than Cuchulainn by the latter’s attack of
cramps, but in the interval he had figured it out.
Belphebe hadn’t had any geas on her in the first
place. Therefore, when Cathbadh threw at her a
spell designed to lift a geas, it took the opposite
effect of laying on her a very good geas indeed. That
was elementary magicology, and under the conditions
he was rather grateful to Cathbadh.

Cathbadh said, “In America there may be none to
deal with such a matter, but in Ireland there is a man
both bold and clever enough to lift the spell.”

“Who’s he?” asked Shea.

“That will be Ollgaeth of Cruachan, at the Court
of Ailill and Maev, who put the geas on Uath.”

Brodsky, from beside Shea spoke up. “He’s the
guy that’s going to put one on Cuchulainn before the
big mob takes him.”

“Wurra!” said Cathbadh to Shea. “Your slave
must have a second mind to go with his second sight.
The last time he spoke, it would only be a spell that
Ollgaeth would be putting on the Little Hound.”

“Listen, punk,” said Brodsky in a tone of exas
peration, “get the stones out of your head. This is
the pitch: this Maev and Ailill are mobbing up everybody
that owes Cuchulainn here a score, and when
they get them all together, they’re going to put a geas
on him that will make him fight them all at once,
and it’s too bad.”

Cathbadh combed his beard with his fingers. “If
this be true. . .” he began.

“It’s the McCoy. Think I’m on the con?”

“I was going to say that if it be true, it is high
tidings from a low source. Nor do I see precisely how
it may be dealt with. If it were a matter of spells only
. . ."

Cuchulainn said with mournful and slightly
alcoholic gravity, “I would fight them all without
the geas, but if I am fated to fall, then that is an end
of me.”

Cathbadh turned to Shea. “You see the trouble
we have with himself. Does your second sight reach
farther, slave?”

Brodsky said, “Okay, lug, you asked for it. After
Cuchulainn gets rubbed out, there’ll be a war and
practically everybody in the act gets knocked off,
including you and Ailill and Maev. How do you like
it?”

“As little as I like the look of your face,” said
Cathbadh. He addressed Shea. “Can this foretelling
be trusted?”

“I’ve never known him to be wrong.”

Cathbadh glanced from one to the other till one
could almost hear his brains rumbling. Then he said,
“I am thinking, Mac Shea, that you will be having
business at Ailill’s court.”

“What gives you such an idea?”

“You will be wanting to see Ollgaeth in this
matter of your wife’s geas, of course. A wife with a
geas like that is like one with a bad eye, and you can
never be happy until it is removed entirely. You will
take your man with you, and he will tell his tale and
let Maev know that we know of her schemings, and
they will be no more use than trying to feed a boar
on bracelets.”

Brodsky snapped his fingers and said, “Take him
up,” in a heavy whisper, but Shea said, “Look here,
I’m not at all sure that I want to go to Ailill’s court.
Why should I? And if this Maev is as determined as
she seems to be, I don’t think you’ll stop her by
telling her you know what she’s up to.”

“On the first point,” said the druid, “there is the
matter that Cucuc saved your life and all, and you
would be grateful to him, not to mention the geas.
And for the second, it is not so much Maev that I
would be letting know we see through her planning
as Ollgaeth. For he will know as well as yourself,
that if we learn of the geas before he lays it, all the
druids at Conchobar’s court will chant against him,
and he will have no more chance of making it bite
than a dog does of eating an apple.”

“Mmm,” said Shea. “Your point about gratitude
is a good one, even if I can’t quite see the validity
of the other. What we want mostly is to get to our
own home, though.” He stifled a yawn. “We can
take a night to sleep on it and decide in the morning.
Where do we sleep?”

“Finn will show you to a chamber,” said Cuchulainn.
“Myself and Cathbadh will be staying up the
while to discuss on this matter of Maev.” He smiled
his charming and melancholy smile.



Finn guided the couple to a guest-room at the
back of the building, handed Shea a rush-light and
closed the door, as Belphebe put up her arms to be
kissed.

The next second Shea was doubled up and
knocked flat to the floor by a super-edition of the
cramps.

Belphebe bent over him. “Are you hurt, Harold?”
she asked.

He pulled himself to a sitting posture with his
back against the wall. “Not — seriously,” he
gasped. “It’s that geas. It doesn’t take any time out
for husbands.”

The girl considered. “Could you not relieve me of
it as you did the one who howled?”

Shea said, “I can try, but I can pretty well tell in
advance that it won’t work. Your personality is too
tightly integrated — just the opposite of these hysterics
around here. That is, I wouldn’t stand a
chance of hypnotizing you.”

“You might do it by magic.”

Shea scrambled the rest of the way to his feet.
“Not till I know more. Haven’t you noticed I’ve
been getting an over-charge — first that stroke of
lightning and then the wine fountain? There’s something
in this continuum that seems to reverse my
kind of magic.”

She laughed a little. “If that’s the law, why there’s
an end. You have but to summon Pete and make a
magic that would call for us to stay here, then hey,
presto! we are returned.”

“I don’t dare take the chance, darling. It might
work and it might not — and even if it did, you’d be
apt to wind up in Ohio with that geas still on you,
and we really would be in trouble. We do take our
characteristics along with us when we make the
jump. And anyway, I don’t know how to get back to
Ohio yet.”

“What’s to be done, then?” the girl said. “For
surely you have a plan, as always.”

“I think the only thing we can do is take up Cathbadh’s
scheme and go see this Ollgaeth. At least, he
ought to be able to get rid of that geas.”

All the same, Shea had to sleep on the floor.

Synopsis
Fleeing Finland, Harold Shea, his wife Belphebe (late of
FAERIE QUEEN) and the indomitable Pete Brodsky find
themselves in Celtic Ireland instead of Ohio, arriving in a
downpour.

It is Pete’s knowledge of Ireland that saves them; a
lifetime of being around Irish cops, and trying to be one of
the boys, makes Brodsky invaluable.

Upon arrival, they are mistaken for Fomorians by the
‘Hound of Ulster, the legendary Cuchulainn himself.
However, they are set upon by Lagenians, and Cuchulainn
rescues them, being upset with them for ganging up.

Falling in with Cucuc, as they came to find he was called,
they set out for his camp. As usual, they claim to be
magicians, and ask to see the leading druid in Ireland.

To resist the amorous advances of Cucuc, Belphebe strips
naked in public, thereby violating a taboo, and driving
Cucuc from her. To explain her behavior, Pete improvises
the tale that she has a horrible geas laid on her that makes
any man that comes near her violently ill. This mollifies
Cucuc, but prompts the druid to attempt the lifting of the
bogus geas. In so doing, he inflicts a real one, and Shea is
even more bereft.

All his magic has failed dismally in Ireland; the return
spell attempt nearly fried them when it tracted lightning, his
water-to-wine spell nearly inundated the party at which he
tried it. He has impressed Cathbadh, the druid of Cucuc’s
faction, by removing a werewolf-like curse from a man with
some elementary hypnosis. When Cathbadh inadvertently
puts the bogus geas on Belphebe, he admits defeat, and tells
Shea that there is one other in Ireland that might be able to
help — Ollgaeth, chief druid to the Connachta, hereditary
enemies of Ulster.

Brodsky, with his knowledge of Celtic lore, has tried to
warn Cucuc that the Connachta will still try to do him
mischief. Cucuc is undismayed, and so the trio set out to
meet Ollgaeth to try once more to return to Ohio . . .


arold Shea. Bel-phoebe. and Pete
Brodsky rode steadily at a walk across the central
plain of Ireland, the Sheas on horses, Brodsky on a
mule which he sat with some discomfort, leading a
second mule carrying the provisions and equipment
that Cuchulainn had pressed on them. Their accouterments
included serviceable broadswords at the
hips of Shea and Brodsky and a neat dagger at Belphebe’s
belt. Her request for a bow had brought
forth only miserable sticks that pulled no farther
than the breast and were quite useless beyond a
range of fifty yards, and these she had refused.

All the first day they climbed slowly into the uplands
of Monaghan. They followed the winding
course of the Erne for some miles and splashed
across it at a ford, then struck the boglands of western
Cavan. Sometimes there was a road of sorts,
sometimes they plodded across grassy moors, following
the vague and verbose directions of peasants.
As they skirted patches of forest, deer started and
ran before them, and once a tongue-lolling wolf
trotted paralled to their track for a while before
abandoning the game.

By nightfall they had covered at least half their
journey. Brodsky, who had begun by feeling sorry
for himself, began to recover somewhat under the
ministrations of Belphebe’s excellent camp cookery,
and announced that he had seen quite enough of ancient
Ireland and was ready to go back.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “Why don’t you just
mooch off the way you came here?”

“Because I’m unskilled labor now,” explained
Shea.” You saw Cathbadh make that spell — he
started chanting in the archaic language and brought
it down to date. I get the picture, but I’d have to
learn the archaic. Unless I can get someone else to
send us back. And I’m worried about that. As you
said, we’ve got to work fast. What are you going to
tell them if they’ve started looking for you when we
get back?”

“Ah, nuts,” said Brodsky. “I’ll level with them.
The force is so loused up with harps that are always
cutting up touches about how hot Ireland is that
they’ll give it a play whether they believe me or not.”

Belphebe said in a small voice, “But I would be at
home.”

“I know, kid,” said Shea. “So would I. If I only
knew how.”

Morning showed mountains on the right, with a
round peak in the midst of them. The journey went
more slowly than on the previous day, principally
because all three had not developed riding callouses.
They pulled up that evening at the hut of a peasant
rather more prosperous than the rest, and Brodsky
more than paid for their food and lodging with tales
out of Celtic lore. The pseudo-Irishman certainly
had his uses.

The next day woke in rain, and though the peasant
assured them that Rath Cruachan was no more than
a couple hours’ ride distant, the group became involved
in fog and drizzle, so that it was not till afternoon
that they skirted Loch Key and came to Magh
Ai, the Plain of Livers. The cloaks with which Cuchulainn
had furnished them were of fine wool, but
all three were soaked and silent by time a group of
houses came into sight through air slightly clearing.

There were about as many of the buildings as
would constitute an incorporated village in their own
universe, surrounded by the usual stockade and wide
gate — unmistakably Cruachan of the Poets, the
capital of Connacht.

As they approached along an avenue of trees and
shrubbery, a boy of about thirteen, in shawl and kilt
and carrying a miniature spear, popped out of the
bushes and cried: “Stand there! Who is it you are
and where are you going?”

It might be important not to smile at this diminutive
warrior. Shea identified himself gravely and
asked in turn, “And who are you, sir?”

“I am Goistan mac Idha, of the boy troop of
Cruachan, and it is better not to interfere with me.”

Shea said, “We have come from a far country to
see your King and Queen and the druid Ollgaeth.”

He turned and waved his spear toward where a
building like that at Muirthemne, but more ornate,
loomed over the stockade, then marched ahead of
them down the road.

At the gate of the stockade was a pair of hairy
soldiers, but their spears were leaning against the
posts and they were too engrossed in a game of
knuckle-bones even to look up as the party rode
through. The clearing weather seemed to have
brought activity to the town. A number of people
were moving about, most of whom paused to stare
at Brodsky, who had flatly refused to discard the
pants of his brown business-suit and was evidently
not dressed for the occasion.

The big house was built of heavy oak beams and
had wooden shingles instead of the usual thatch.
Shea stared with interest at windows with real glass
in them, even though the panes were little diamondshaped
pieces half the size of a hand and far too irregular
to see through.

There was a doorkeeper with a beard badly in
need of trimming and lopsided to the right. Shea got
off his horse and advanced to him, saying, “I am
Mac Shea, a traveler from beyond the island of the
Fomorians, with my wife and bodyguard. May we
have an audience with their majesties, and their
great druid, Ollgaeth?”

The doorkeeper inspected the party with care and
then grinned. “I am thinking,” he said, “that your
honor will please the Queen with your looks, and
your lady will please himself, so you had best go
along in. But this ugly lump of a bodyguard will
please neither, and as they are very sensitive and this
is judgment day, he will no doubt be made a head
shorter for the coming, so he had best stay with your
mounts.”

Shea glanced round in time to see Brodsky replace
his expression of fury with the carefully cultivated
blank that policemen use, and helped Belphebe off
her horse.

Inside, the main hall stretched away with the usual
swords and spears in the usual place on the wall, and
a rack of heads, not as large as Cuchulainn’s. In the
middle of the hall, surrounded at a respectful distance
by retainers and armed soldiers, stood an
oaken dais, ornamented with strips of bronze and
silver. It held two big carven armchairs, in which
lounged, rather than sat, the famous sovereigns of
Connacht.

Maev might have been in her early forties, still
strikingly beautiful, with a long, pale, unlined face,
pale blue eyes and yellow hair, hanging in long
braids. For a blonde without the aid of cosmetics,
she had remarkably red lips.

King Ailill was a less impressive figure than his
consort, some inches shorter, fat and paunchy, with
small close-set eyes constantly moving and a straggly
pepper-and-salt beard. He seemed unable to keep his
fingers still. An ulcer type, thought Shea; would be a
chain smoker if tobacco existed in this part of the
space-time continuum.

A young man in a blue kilt, wearing a silver-hilted
shortsword over a tunic embroidered with gold
thread, seemed to be acting as usher to make sure
that nobody got to the royal couple out of turn. He
spotted the newcomers at once, and worked his way
toward them.

“Will you be seeking an audience, or have you
come merely to look at the greatest King in
Ireland?” he asked. His eyes ran appreciatively over
Belphebe’s contours.

Shea identified himself, adding, “We have come to
pay our respects to the King and Queen. . . ah. . .”

“Maine mac Aililla,. Maine mo Epert,“said the
young man.

This would be one of the numerous sons of Ailill
and Maev, who had all been given the same name.
But he stood in their path without moving.

“Can we speak to them?” Shea said.

Maine mo Epert put back his head and looked
down an aristocratic nose. “Since you are foreigners,
you are evidently not knowing that it is the
custom in Connacht to have a present for the man
who brings you before a King. But I will be forgiving
your ignorance.” He smiled a charming smile.

Shea glanced at Belphebe and she looked back in
dismay. Their total possessions consisted of what
they stood in. “But we have to see them,” he said.
“It may be as important to them as to us.”

Maine mo Epert smiled again

Shea said, “How about a nice broadsword?” and
pushed forward his hilt.

“I have a better one,” said Maine mo Epert, exasperatingly,
and pushed forward his. “If it were a
jewel, now . . .”

“How about seeing Ollgaeth the druid?”

“It is a rule that he will see none but those the
Queen sends him.”

Shea felt like whipping out the broadsword and
taking a crack at him, but that would probably not
be considered polite. Suddenly Belphebe beside him
said:

“Jewels have we none, sirrah, but from your
glances, there is something you would prize more. I
am sure that in accordance with your custom, my
husband would be glad to lend me to you for the
night.”

Shea gasped, and then remembered. That geas she
had acquired could be handy as well as troublesome.
But it had better not be taken off till morning.

Maine mo Epert’s smile turned into a grin that
made Shea want more than ever to swat him, but he
clapped his hands and began to push people aside.
Shea had just time to whisper, “Nice work, kid,”
when the usher pushed a couple of people from the
end of a bench and sat them down in the front row,
facing the royal pair. At the moment a couple of
spearmen were holding a serf and giving evidence
that he had stolen a pork chop.

Maev looked at Ailill, who said, “Ahem — since
the lout was starving, perhaps we ought to exercise
mercy and let him off with the loss of a hand.”

“Do not be a fool,” said Maev, “when it is not
necessary at all. What! A man in Connacht of the
heroes who is so weak-witted that he must starve?
Hang him or burn him, would be my decision if I
were king.”

“Very well, darling,” said Ailill. “Let the man be
hung.”

Two little groups stepped forward next, glaring at
each other. Maine mo Epert began to introduce
them, but before he got halfway through, Maev
said, “I know of this case and it promises to be a
long one. Before we hear it I would willingly learn
something of the business of the handsome pair of
strangers you have brought in.”

Maine mo Epert said, “This is a pair from a
distant island called America. The Mac Shea and his
wife, Belphebe. They wish to pay their respects.”

“Let him speak,” said Maev.

Shea wondered whether he ought to make an obeisance,
but as no one else seemed to be doing it, he
merely stepped forward and said, “Queen, you have
become so famous that even in America we have
heard of you, and we could not restrain the desire to
see you. Also, I would like to see your famous druid,
Ollgaeth, since my wife is suffering from a most unpleasant
geas, and I am told he is an expert at removing
them. Also, I have a message for you and
the King, but that had better be private.”

Maev rested her chin on her hand and surveyed
him. “Handsome man,” she said, “it is easy to see
that you are not much used to deceiving people.
Your embroidery is in the style of Ulster, and now
you will be telling me at once what this message is
and from whom it comes there.”

“It doesn’t come from there,” said Shea. “It’s
true I have been in Ulster, in fact at Cuchulainn’s
house of Muirthemne. And the message is that your
plan against him will bring disaster.”

King Ailill’s fingers stopped their restless
twitching and his mouth came open, while Maev’s
eyebrows formed a straight line. She said in a high
voice, “And who told you of the plans of the King
of Connacht?”

Look out,, said Shea to himself, this is thin
ice. Aloud he said, “Why, it’s just that in my own
country, I’m something of a magician, and I learned
of it through spells.”

The tension appeared to relax. “Magic,” said
Maev. “Handsome man, you have said a true word
that this message should be private. We will hear
more on it later. You will be at our table tonight,
and there you will meet Ollgaeth. For the now, our
son, Maine Mingor, will show you to a place.”

She waved her hand, and Maine Mingor, a somewhat
younger edition of Maine mo Epert, stepped
out of the group and beckoned them to follow him.
At the door Belphebe giggled and said, “Handsome
man.”

Shea said, “Listen . . .”

“That I did,” said Belphebe, “and heard her say
that the message should be private. You’re going to
need a geas as much as I do tonight.”

The rain had stopped, and the setting sun was
shooting beams of gold and crimson through the low
clouds. The horses had been tied to rings in the wall
of the building, and Pete was waiting, with an expression
of boredom. As Shea turned to follow
Maine Mingor, he bumped into a tall, dark man,
who was apparently waiting around for just that
purpose.

“Is it a friend of Cuchulainn of Muirthemne you
are now?" asked this individual, ominously.

“I’ve met him, but we’re not intimates,” said
Shea. “Have you any special reason for asking?”

“I have that. He killed my father in his own
house, he did. And I am thinking it is time he had
one friend the less.” His hand went to his hilt.

Maine Mingor said, “You will be leaving off with
that, Lughaid. These people are messengers and
under the protection of the Queen, my mother, so
that if you touch them it will be both gods and men
you must deal with.”

“We will talk of this later, Mac Shea dear,” said
Lughaid, and turned back to the palace.

Belphebe said, “I like that not.”

Shea said, “Darling, I still know how to fence,
and they don’t.”

VI
Dinner followed a pattern only slightly different
from that at Muirthemne, with Maev and Ailill
sitting on a dais facing each other across a small
table. Shea and Belphebe were not given places so
lofty as they had been at Cuchulainn’s board, but
this was partly compensated for by the presence of
Ollgaeth the druid just across the board.

Only partly, however; it became quite clear that
Ollgaeth — a big, stoutish man with a mass of
white hair and beard — was one of those people
who pretend to ask questions only in order to trigger
themselves off on remarks of their own. He inquired
about Shea’s previous magical experience, and let
him just barely touch on the illusions he had encountered
in the Finnish Kalevala before taking off.

“Ah, now you would be thinking that was a great
rare thing to see, would you not?” he said, and
gulped at barley beer. “Now let me tell you, handsome
man, that of all the places in the world, Connacht
produces the greatest illusions and the most
beautiful. I remember, I do, the time when I was
making a spell for Laerdach, for a better yield from
his dun cow, and while I was in the middle of it, who
should come past but his daughter, and she so beau- 
tiful that I stopped my chanting to look at her.
Would you believe it now? The milk began to flow in
a stream that would have drowned a man on horseback,
and I had barely time to reverse the spell
before it changed from illusion to reality and
ravaged half a county.”

Shea said, “Oh, I see. The chanting . . .”

Ollgaeth hurried on, “And there is a hill behind
the rath of Maev this very moment. It looks no different
from any other, but it is a hill of great magic,
being one of the hills of the Sidhe and a gateway to
their kingdom.”

“Who . . .” began Shea, but the druid only raised
his voice a trifle: “Mostly now, they would be
keeping the gateways closed. But on a night like tonight,
a good druid, or even an ordinary one might
open the way.”

“Why tonight?” asked Belphebe from beside
Shea.

“What other night would it be but the
Lughnasadh? Was it not for that you would be
coming here? No, I forget. Forgive an old man.” He
smote his brow to emphasize the extent of his fault.
“Maine mo Epert was after telling me that it was
myself you came to see, and you could have done no
better. Come midnight when the moon is high, and I
will be showing you the powers of Ollgaeth the
druid.”

Shea said, “As a matter of fact . . .” but Ollgaeth
rushed past him with: “I call to mind there was a
man — what was his name? — had a geas on him
that he would be seeing everything double. Now that
was an illusion, and it was me he came to in his
trouble. I . . .”

Shea was spared the revelation of what Ollgaeth
had done in the case of the double vision by King
Ailill’s rapping on his table with the hilt of his knife
and saying in his high voice, “We will now be
hearing from Ferchertne the bard, since this is the
day of Lugh, and a festival.”

Serfs were whisking away the last of the food and
benches were being moved to enlarge the space
around Ferchertne. This was a youngish man with
long hair and a lugubrious expression; he sat down
on a stool with his harp, plucked a few melancholy
twangs from the strings, and in a bumpish baritone
launched into the epic of the “Fate of the Children
of Tuirenn.”

It wasn’t very interesting, and the voice was definitely
bad. Shea glanced around and saw Brodsky fidgeting
every time the harpist missed a quantity or
struck a false note. Everyone else seemed to be
affected almost to the point of tears, however, even
Ollgaeth. Finally Ferchertne’s voice went up in an
atrocious discord, and there was a violent snort.

The harp gave a twang and halted abruptly. Shea
followed every eye in the room to the detective, who
stared back belligerently.

“You would not be liking the music now, dear?”
asked Maev, in a glacial voice.

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Brodsky. “If I couldn’t
do better than that, I’d turn myself in.”

“Better than that you shall do,” said
Maev. “Come forward, ugly man. Eiradh, you are to
stand by this man with your sword, and if I signal
you that he is less than the best, you are to bring me
his head at once.”

“Hey!” cried Shea, and Brodsky: “But I don’t
know the words.”

Protest was useless. He was grabbed by half a
dozen pairs of hands and pushed forward beside the
bard’s seat. Eiradh, a tall, bearded man, pulled out
his sword and stood behind the pair, a smile of
pleasant anticipation on his face.

Brodsky looked around and then turned to the
bard. “Give a guy a break, will you?” he said, “and
go back over that last part till I catch the tune.”

Ferchertne strummed obediently, while Brodsky
leaned close, humming until he got the rather simple
air that carried the words of the ballad. Then he 


straightened up, gesturing with one hand toward the
harpist, who struck a chord and began to sing:

“Take these heads unto they breast, O Brian . . .”

Pete Brodsky’s voice soared over his, strong and
confident, with no definite syllables, but carrying
the tune for Ferchertne’s words as the harp itself
never had. Shea, watching Queen Maev, saw her
stiffen, and then, as the melancholy ballad rolled on,
two big tears came out on her cheek. Ailill was
crying, too, and some of the audience were openly
sobbing. It was like a collective soap-opera binge.

The epic came to an end, Pete holding the high
note after the harp had stopped. King Ailill lifted
an arm and dried his streaming eyes on his sleeve,
while Maev dried hers on her handkerchief. She
said, “You have done more than you promised,
American serf. I have not enjoyed the ‘Fate of the
Children’ more in my memory. Give him a new tunic
and a gold ring.” She stood up. “And now, handsome
man, we will be hearing your message. You
will attend us while the others dance.”

As a pair of bagpipers stepped forward and gave a
few preliminary howls on their instruments, Maev
led the way through a door at the back, down the
hall to a bedroom sumptuous by the standards that
obtained here. There were rushlights against the
wall, and a soldier on guard at the door.

Maev said, “Indech! Poke up the fire, for it is
cool the air is after the rain.”

The soldier jabbed the fire with a poker, leaned
his spear against. the door, and went out. Maev
seemed in no hurry to come to business. She moved
about the room restlessly.

“This,” she said, “is the skull that belonged to
Feradach mac Conchobar, that I killed in payment
for the taking of my dear Maine Morgor. See, I have
had the eye-holes gilded.”

Her dress, which had been a bright red in the
stronger illumination of the hall, was quite a deep
crimson here, and clung closely to a figure that,
while full, was unquestionably well shaped. She
turned her head and one of the jewels in her coronet
threw a red flash of light into Shea’s eyes.

“Would you be having a drop of Spanish wine,
now?”

Shea felt a little trickle of perspiration gather on
his chest and run down, and wished he were back
with Ollgaeth. The druid was verbose and hopelessly
vain, but he had furnished the tipoff on the
chanting. It was some kind of quantity control for
the spells that went with it. “Thanks,” he said.

Maev poured wine into a golden cup for him,
more for herself, and sat down on a stool. “Draw
close beside me,” she said, “for it is not right that
we should be too much overheard. There. Now what
is this of planning and disasters?”

Shea said, “In my own country I am something of
a magician, or druid as you call it. Through this I
have learned that you’re going to get all
Cuchulainn’s enemies together, then put a geas on
him to make him fight them all at once.”

She looked at him from narrowed eyes. “You
know too much, handsome man,” she said, and
there was a note of menace in her voice. “And what
is this of disasters?”

“Only that you better not. You will succeed
against Cuchulainn, but it will end up in a war, in
which you and your husband and most of your sons
will be killed.”

She sipped, then stood up suddenly and began to
pace the floor, moving like a crimson tide. Shea
thought etiquette probably required him to get up,
too, and he did so.

Not looking at him, Maev said, “And you have
been at Muirthemne . . . Which is to say you have
told the Hound of what we hold in store for him . . .
Which is to say that Cathbadh knows of it also . . .
Ha!” She whirled with sudden panther-like grace
and faced Shea. “Tell me, handsome man, is it not
true that Cathbadh sent you here to turn us from our
purpose? Is not that tale of wars and disasters something
he made up and put into your mouth?”

Shea said, “No, it isn’t. Honest. I did talk to
Cathbadh, and he’d like to stop this chain reaction,
but I came here for something quite different.”

She stamped. “Do not be lying to me. I see it all.
Cathbadh can no more protect Cuchulainn against
the geas of Ollgaeth than a pig can climb trees, so he
would be sending you here with your talk of magic.”

This was getting dangerous. Shea said,
“Cathbadh did admit that Ollgaeth was the better
druid.”

“I thank him for the sending.” She turned and
stepped across the room, opened a big jewel case,
from which she took a gold bracelet. “Come
hither.”

Shea stepped over to her. She rolled up his sleeve
and snapped the bracelet on his arm.

“Thanks,” said Shea, “But I don’t think I ought
to accept . . .”

“And who are you to be saying what you will
accept from Queen Maev? It is a thing decided, and I
will never come to terms with Cuchulainn, no matter
if it costs me my life and all. Come, now.”

She filled the wine cups again, took his hand,
guided him to the stools and sat down close beside
him. “Since life will be so short we may as well have
what we can out of it,” she said, drank off the cup
and leaned back against him.

The thought leaped across his mind that if he
moved aside and let this imperious and rather
beautiful woman slip to the floor, she would probably
have his head taken off. He put his arm
around her in self-defense. She caught the hand and
guided it to her bosom, then reached for the other
hand and led it to her belt. “The fastening is there,”
she said.

The door opened and Maine mo Epert came in,
followed by Belphebe.

“Mother and Queen . . .” began the young man,
and stopped.

To give Maev due credit, she got to her feet with
dignity and without apparent embarrassment. “Will
you be forever behaving as though you were just
hatched from the shell, now?” she demanded.

“But I have a case against this woman. She made
a promise to me, she did, and she has a geas on her
that makes a man as ill as though bathed in venom.”

“You will be having Ollgaeth take it off, then,”
said Maev.

“‘Tis the night of Lugh. Ollgaeth is not to be
found.”

“Then you must even bed by yourself, then,” said
Maev. She looked at Belphebe and her expression
was rather sour.

“I think we had better be going along, too,
Harold,” said Belphebe, sweetly.

VII
When they were outside, Belphebe said, “Tell me
not. I know. She looked so fine in that red robe that
you wished to help her take it off.”

Shea said, “Honest, Belphebe, I . . .

“Oh, spare me your plaints. I’m not the first wife
to have a husband made of glass and breakable, nor
will be the last. What is that you have on your
arm?”

“Listen, Belphebe, if you’ll only let me tell you . . ."
 

A form stepped out of the shadows into moonlight
which revealed it as Ollgaeth. “The hour is met
if you would see the Hill of the Sidhe, Mac Shea,”
he said.

“Want to come along, kid?” said Shea. “This
might be useful for both of us.”

“Not I,” said Belphebe. “I’m for bed — geas
and all.” She lifted a hand to stifle an imaginary
yawn.

Shea said, “May I . . .” and stopped. He hated to
leave Belphebe alone in her present mood, no matter
how really unjustified it was. But it occurred to him
that if he wanted to get any cooperation out of the
vain druid, he would have to play along and butter
him up. And it was distinctly important to learn
about the system of magic here.

“All right,” he said. “See you later, dear.”

He turned to follow Ollgaeth through the dark
streets. The guards at the gate were awake, a tribute
to Maev’s management, but they passed the druid
and his companion through readily enough.
Ollgaeth, stumbling along the track, said, “The
Sidhe, now, they have the four great treasures of
Ireland — Dagda’s cauldron that will never let a
man go foodless, the stone of Fal that strikes every
man it is aimed at, Lugh’s spear and Nuada’s great
manslaying sword that is death to all before it but
protection to the bearer.”

"Indeed,” said Shea. “At the table you were
saying. . .”

“Will you never let a man finish his tale?” said
Ollgaeth. “The way of it is this: The Sidhe themselves
may not use the treasures — there is a geas
on them that they can be handled only by a man of
Milesian blood. Nor will they give them up, for fear
the treasures may be used against them. And all who
come into their land, they use hardly.”

“I should think . . .” began Shea.

“I do call to mind there was a man named Goll
tried it,” said Ollgaeth. “But the Sidhe cut off both
his ears and fed them to the pigs, and he was never
the same man after. Ah, it’s a queer race they are,
and a good man one must be to sit at table with
them”

The Hill of the Sidhe loomed in front of them.

“If you will look there carefully, handsome
man,” said Ollgaeth, “to the left of that little tree,
you will see a darkish patch in the rocks. Let us
move a little closer now.” They climbed the base of
the hill. “Now if you will be standing about here,
watch the reflection of the moon on the spot there.”

Shea looked, moving his head from side to side,
and made out a kind of reflection on the surface of
the rock, not so definite and clear as it might be,
more like that on a pond, wavering slightly with
ripples. Clearly an area of high magical tension.

Ollgaeth said, “It is not to everyone I would be
showing this or even telling it, but you will be going
back to your America, and it is as well for you to
know that because of the spells the Sidhe themselves
place on these gates, they may be opened without the
use of the ancient tongue. Watch how.”

    He raised his arms and began to chant:
        “The chiefs of the voyage over the sea
        By which the sons of Mil came.

    It was not very long, ending
        “Who opens the gateway to Tir na n-Og?
        Who but I, Ollgaeth the druid?”

He clapped his hands together sharply. The
wavering reflection faded out and Shea saw nothing
but blackness, as if he were looking into a tunnel in
the side of the hill.

“Approach, approach,” said Ollgaeth, “If is not
like that the Sidhe will be dangerous against a druid
as powerful as myself.”

Shea went nearer. Sure enough, he was looking
down a tunnel that stretched some distance into
blackness, with a faint light beyond. He put out a
hand; it went into the hole where solid rock had been
without resistance, except for a slight tingly feeling.

Shea asked, “How long will it stay open?”

“Long enough for whatever passes to reach the
other side.”

“Do you suppose I could open it, too?”

“Are you not a qualified magician, now? To be
sure you could, if you will learn the spell. But you
will give me something in exchange.”

“Certainly,” said Shea. He thought; there was the
one he had used in Faerie. “How about a spell to
change water into wine? I can teach it to you first
thing in the morning.” If he did it himself, the result
would probably be rum of an uncommonly potent
brew, but qualitative control was this guy’s own
business.

Ollgaeth’s eyes almost glittered in the moonlight.
“That would be a thing to see, now. Raise your
arms.”

He followed Ollgaeth through the spell a couple of
times, then repeated it alone. The wavelike shimmering
disappeared, and the tunnel came open.

“I am thinking,” said Ollgaeth, as they made
their way back to the town, “that it would be as well
not to come here again the night. The Sidhe will be
noticing their gate clap open and shut and setting a
guard over it, and though they are poor in arms, it’s
a bad-tempered lot they are.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Shea.

“Who’s there?” asked Belphebe’s voice.

“It’s me — Harold.”

The bolt slammed back, and the door opened to
show her still fully dressed, a little line of worry in
her forehead.

“My lord,” she said, “I do pray your pardon for
my angers. I do see now ‘twas no more your fault
than it was mine at Muirthemne. But we must be
quick.”

“‘What do you mean?”

She was collecting their small amount of gear.
“Pete was here but now. We are in deadly danger,
but more especially yourself. The Queen has given
permission to this Lughaid who accosted you to take
your head if he will.”

Shea put his hand on his sword. “I’d like to see
him try it.”

“Foolish man! He is not coming alone, but with a
band — six, half a score. Come.” She pulled him
toward the door.

“But where’s Pete? We can’t go back without
him.”

“Nor can we go back at all if we do not live out
the night,” she said, leading out into the dark, silent
street. “Pete is doing what he can to gain us
time — his singing’s wholly caught them. Hurry!”

“I don’t see what good merely running away
tonight will do us,” said Shea. “Wait a minute,
though. I can get in touch with Ollgaeth. You’re
right.”

There was only one guard at the gate, but he held

his spear crosswise and said, “I cannot be letting you
out again the night. The Queen has sent word.”

Belphebe gave a little cry. Shea half-turned to see
sparks of light dancing, back among the houses.
Torches. He swung round again, bringing his sword
out with a wheep, and without warning, drove a
thrust at the guard’s neck. The soldier jerked up his
buckler just in time to catch Shea’s point in the edge
of the bronze decorations. Then he lowered his spear
and drew it back for a jab.

Shea recovered, knocking the spear aside, but was
unable to get around the shield for a return lunge.
He thrust twice, feinting with the intention of
driving home into an opening, but each time a slight
movement of the buckler showed it would be futile.
The soldier balanced, drew back for another thrust,
and then swore as Belphebe, who had slipped past
him, caught the butt end of the weapon.

He shouted, “Ho! An alarm!”

They would have to work fast. Shea aimed a cut at
the man’s head, but he ducked, simultaneously releasing
the spear into Belphebe’s hands, who went
tumbling backward as the man did a quick side-step
and whipped out his sword.

Shea made a lightning estimate; the guard’s face
and neck were too small a target and too well protected
by the shield, and the torso was doubly protected
by shield and mail. Down.

He made a quick upward sweep that brought the
buckler aloft, then drove the blade into the man’s
thigh, just above the knee and below the edge of the
kilt. He felt the blade cleave meat; the man’s leg
buckled, spilling him to the ground in a clang of
metal with a great groaning shout.

Behind them in the rath there were answering cries
and the torchlight points turned. “Come on!” cried
Belphebe, and began to run. She still clutched the
big spear, but was so light on her feet that it did not
appear to matter. Shea, trying to keep up with his
wife, heard more shouts behind him. “The hill,” he
gasped, and as he ran, was suddenly glad that the
Irish of this period were not much with bows.

There were only occasional trees, but the moonlight
was tricky and dubious. A glance backward
showed the torchbearers had reached the gate and
were beginning to spread. There ought to be just
barely time if he could remember the spell correctly.
Whatever dangers the country of the Sidhe held,
they were less than those to be encountered by
staying.

He was getting short of breath, though Belphebe
beside him was running as lightly as ever. The hill
loomed over them, dark now by reason of the movement
of the moon. “This way,” gasped Shea, and
led up the uneven slope. There was the black rock,
still shining queerly mirrorlike. Shea lifted his arms 
over his head and began to chant, panting for
breath:

    “The chiefs of the voyage — over the
        sea —
        By which — the sons of Mil came. . .”

Behind one of the pursuers set up a view-halloo.
Out of the corner of his eye, Shea saw Belphebe
whirl and balance the spear as though for throwing;
he didn’t have time to stop and tell her that such a
weapon couldn’t be used that way.

“Who but I, Harold mac Shea?” he finished, resoundingly.
“Come on.”

He dragged Belphebe toward the dimly seen black
opening and then through it. As he entered the darkness
he felt a tingling all over, as of a mild electric
shock.

Then, abruptly, sunlight replaced moonlight. He
and Belphebe were standing on the downward slope
of another hill, like the one they had just entered. He
had time to take in the fact that the landscape was
similar to the one they had quitted, before something
crashed down on the back of his head and
knocked him unconscious.

VIII
Briun mac Smetra, King of the Sidhe of Connacht,
leaned forward in his carven chair and looked
at the prisoners. Harold Shea looked back at him as
calmly as he could, although his hands were bound
behind his back and his head was splitting. Briun
was a tall, slender person with pale blond hair and
blue eyes that seemed too big for his face. The rest of
them were a delicate-looking people, clad with
Hellenic simplicity in wrap-around tunics. Their furnishings
seemed a point more primitive than those in
the Ireland from which they had come — the
building they were in had a central hearth with a
smoke-hole instead of the fireplaces and chimneys
he had seen there.

“It will do you no good at all to be going on like
this,” said the King. “So now it is nothing at all you
must lose but your heads, for the black-hearted
Connachta that you are.”

“But we’re not Connachta!” Said Shea. “As I
told you . . .”

A husky man with black hair said, “They look
like Gaels, they speak like Gaels, and they are
dressed like Gaels.”

“And who should know better than Nera the
champion, who was a Gael himself before he became
one of us?” said the King.

“Now look here, King.” said Shea. “We can
prove we’re not Gaels by teaching you things no
Gael ever knew.”

“Can you now?” said Briun. “And what sort of
things would those be?”

Shea said, “I think I can show your druids some
new things about magic.”

Beside him Belphebe’s clear voice seconded him.
“I can show you how to make a bow that will
shoot — two hundred yards.”

Briun said, “Now it is to be seen that you are full
of foolish lies. It is well known that we already have
the best druids in the world, and no bow will shoot
that far. This now is just an excuse to have us feed
you for a time until it is proved you are lying, which
is something we can see without any proof being
needed. You are to lose your heads.”

He made a gesture of dismissal and started to rise.
The black-thatched Nera said, “Let me . . .”

“Wait a minute!” cried Shea, desperately. “This
guy is a champion, isn’t he? All right, how about it if
I challenge him?”

The King sat down again and considered. “Since
you are to lose your head anyway,” he sid, “we may
as well have some enjoyment out of it. But you are
without armor.”

“Never use the stuff,” said Shea. “Besides, if
neither one of us has any, things will move faster.”
He heard Belphebe gasp beside him, but did not turn
his head.

“Ha, ha,” said Nera. “Let him loose and I will be
making him into pieces of fringe for your robe.”

Somebody released Shea and he stretched his arms
and flexed his muscles to restore circulation. He was
pushed rather roughly toward the door, where the
Tuatha De Danaan were forming a ring, and a sword
was thrust into his hand. It was one of the usual Irish
blades, almost pointless and suitable mainly for cutting.

“Hey!” he said. “I want my own sword, the one I
had with me.”

Briun stared at him a moment out of pale, suspicious
eyes. “Bring the sword,” he said, and then
called: “Miach!”

The broadsword that Shea had ground down to as
fine a point as possible was produced. A tall old man
with white hair and beard that made him look like a
nineteenth-century poet stepped forward.

“You are to be telling me if there is a geas on this
blade,” said the King.

The druid took the blade and, holding it flat on
both palms, ran his nose along it, sniffing. He
looked up. “I do not find any smell of geas or magic
about it,” he said, then lifted his nose like a hound
toward Shea. “But about this one there is certainly
something that touches my profession.”

“It will not save him,” said Nera. “Come and be
killed, Gael.” He swung up his sword.

Shea just barely parried the downstroke. The man
was strong as a horse, and had a good deal of skill in
the use of his clumsy weapon. For several panting
minutes the weapons clanged; Shea had to step back,
and back again, and there were appreciative murmurs
from the audience.

Finally, Nera, showing a certain shortness of
breath and visibly growing restive, shouted, “You
juggling Greek!” took a step backward and wound
up for a two-handed overhead cut, intended to beat
down his opponent’s blade by sheer power. Instantly
Shea executed the maneuver known as an advancethrust
— dangerous against a fencer, but hardly a
barbarian like this. He hopped forward, right foot
first, and shot his arm out straight. The point went
right into Nera’s chest.

Shea’s intention was to jerk the blade loose with a
twist to one side to avoid the downcoming slash. But
the point stuck between his enemy’s ribs, and, in the
instant it failed to yield, Nera’s blade, weakened and
wavering, came down on Shea’s left shoulder. He
felt the sting of steel and in the same moment the
sword came loose as Nera folded up wordlessly.

“You’re hurt!” cried Belphebe. “Let me loose!”

“Just a flesh wound,” said Shea. “Do I win, King
Briun?”

“Loose the woman,” said the fairy King, and
tugged at his beard. “Indeed, and you do. A great
liar you may be, but you are also a hero and
champion, and it is our rule that you take his place.
You will be wanting his head for the pillars of the
house you will have.”

“Listen, King;” said Shea. “I don’t want to be a
champion, and I’m not a liar. I can prove it. And
I’ve got obligations. I really come from a land as far
from the land of the Gaels as it is from Tir na n-Og
and, if I don’t get back there soon, I’m going to be
in trouble.”

“Miach!” called the King. “Is it the truth he is
telling?”

The druid stepped forward, said, “Fetch me a
bowl of water,” and when it was brought, instructed
Shea to dip a finger in it. Then he made a few fingerpasses,
murmuring to himself, and looked up.

“It’s of the opinion I am,” he said, “that this
Mac Shea has obligations elsewhere, and if he fails
to fulfill them, a most unfavorable geas would come
upon him.”

“We may as well be comfortable over a mug of
beer in deciding these questions,” said the King.
“We command you to follow us.”

Belphebe had been dabbing at Shea’s shoulder.
Now she caught his hand and they went in together.
The big sword was awkward, and they had taken his
scabbard as well, but he clung to it anyway. When
they were inside, and King Briun had seated himself
again, he said, “This is a hard case, and requires
thinking, but before we give judgment, we must
know what there is to know. Now, what is this of a
new magic?”

“It’s called sympathetic magic,” said Shea. “I
can show Miach how to do it, but I don’t know the
old tongue, so he’ll have to help me. You
see — I’ve been trying to get back to my own place,
and I can’t do it because of that.” He went on to
explain about the court of Maev and Ailill, and the
necessity of rescuing Pete and getting back with him.
“Now,” he said, “if someone will give me a little
clay or wax, I’ll show you how sympathetic magic is
done.”

Miach came forward and leaned over with interest,
as someone brought a handfull of damp clay to
Shea, who placed it on a piece of wood and formed
it into a rather crude and shapeless likeness of the
seated King. “I’m going to do a spell to make him
rise,” said Shea, “and I’m afraid the effect will be
too heavy if you don’t chant. So when I start moving
with my hands, you sing.”

“It shall be done,” said Miach.

A verse or two of Shelley ought to make a good
rising spell. Shea went over it in his head, then bent
down and took hold of the piece of wood with one
hand, while he murmured the words and with the
other began to make the passes. He lifted the piece
of wood. Miach’s chant rose.

So did a shriek from the audience. Simultaneously
an intolerable weight developed on Shea’s arm, a
crack zigzagged across the floor, and he half-turned
his head in time to see that the royal palace and all its
contents were going up like an elevator, already past
the lower branches of the trees, with one of the spectators
clinging desperately to the doorsill by his
finger-tips.

Shea stopped his passes and hastily began repeating
the last line backward, lowering his piece of
wood. The palace came down with a jar that sent
things tumbling from the walls and piled the audience
in a yelling heap. Miach looked dazed.

“I’m sorry,” began Shea. “I . . .”

Patting his crown back into position, King Briun
said, “Is it ruining us entirely you would be?”

Miach said, “O King, it is my opinion that this
Mac Shea has done no more than was asked, and
that this is a very beautiful and powerful magic.”

“And you could remove the geas on this woman
and return the pair to their own place?”

“On the wings of the wild swan.”

“Then hear our judgment.“ King Briun stretched
forth a hand. “It is the command of the gods on all
of us to help others fulfill their obligations, and this
we will do. Yet it is equally true that a doing should
be met with a doing in return, and this we cannot
escape. Now, Mac Shea has killed our champion,
and does not wish to take his place. There must be a
balance against this, and we set it that it shall be this
wonder-working bow of his wife’s, which if it is as
good as his magic, will surely shoot holes through
the walls of the mountains.”

He paused and Shea nodded. The man could be
quite reasonable after all.

“Secondly,” Briun went on, “there is the matter
of removing his wife’s geas. Against this we will
place the teaching of this new magic to our druid.
Now respecting the transfer of these two to their
own country, there is no counterweight, and it is our
judgement that it should be paid for by having Mac
Shea undertake to rid us of the sinech, since it is so
troublesome a monster and he is so great a champion
and magician.”

“Just a minute,” said Shea. “That doesn’t help us
find Pete or get him back, and we’ll be in trouble if
we don’t. And we really ought to do something for
Cuchulainn. Maev is going through with her plan
against him.”

“We would most willingly help you in this matter,
but you have no other prices to pay.”

Miach said, “Yet there is a way to accomplish all
they ask, save the matter of the man Pete, in the
finding of whom I have no power.”

Briun said, “You will be telling us about it, then.”

“Touching the geas,” said Miach. “Since it is one
that was imposed, and not a thing natural, it can be
lifted at the place and in the presence of the druid
who laid it, and it will be needful for me to accompany
these two to the place where it was put on.
Touching the sinech, it is so dreadful a monster that
even Mac Shea will be hard put against it by his own
strength. Therefore let us lend him the great invincible
sword of Nuada, which is forbidden to us by its
geas, but which he will be able to handle without
trouble, at all. Then he can lend it to this hero
Cuchulainn, who will make a mighty slaughter of
the Connachta we detest, and as I will be with the
sword and Mac Shea, I can see that it is returned.”

The King leaned his chin on one hand and
frowned for a minute. Then he said, “It is our command
that this be done as you advise.”

IX
Miach was an apt pupil. At the third try he succeeded
in making a man he did not like break out in
a series of beautiful yellow splotches, and he was so
delighted with the result that he promised Shea for
the hunting of the sinech not only the sword of
Nuada, but the enchanted shoes of Iubdan, that
would enable him to walk on water. He explained
that the reason for the overcharge in Shea’s magic
was that the spells were in the wrong tongue; but, as
the magic wouldn’t work at all without a spell of
some kind and Shea didn’t have time to learn
another language, this was not much help.

About the sinech itself he was more encouraging.
He did a series of divinations with bowls of water
and blackthorn twigs. Although Shea himself did
not know enough of the magic of this continuum to
make out anything but a confused and cloudy
movement below the clear surface of the bowl,
Miach assured him that in coming to this world of
legendary Ireland, he had himself acquired a geas
that would not allow his release until he had accomplished
something that would alter the pattern of the
continuum itself.

“Now tell me, Mac Shea,” he said, “was it not so
in the other lands you visted? For I see by my
divinations that you have visited many.”

Shea, thinking of how he had helped break up the
chapter of magicians in Faerie and rescued his wife
from the Saracens of the Orlando Furioso, was
forced to agree.

“It is just as I am telling you, for sure,” said
Miach. “And I am thinking that this geas has been
with you since the day you were born without your
ever knowing it. We all of us have them, we do, just
as I have one that keeps me from eating pig’s liver,
and a good man it is that does not have trouble with
his geasa.”

Belphebe looked up from the arrow she was
shaping. Her bow was a success, but finding seasoned
material from which to build shafts was a
problem. “Still, master druid,” she said, “it is no
less than a problem to us that we may return to our
own place late, and without our friend Pete. For this
would place us deeply in trouble.”

“Now I would not be worrying about that at all,
at all,” said Miach. “For the nature of a geas is that
once it is accomplished, it gives you no more trouble
at all. And the time you are spending in the country
of the Sidhe will be no more than a minute in the
time of your own land, so that you need not be
troubling until you are back among the Gaels.”

“That’s a break,” said Shea. “Only I wish I could
do something about Pete.”

“Unless I can see him, my divination will not
work on him at all,” said Miach. “And now I am
thinking it is time for you to try the shoes. King
Fergus of Rury was eat up by this same sinech because
he did not know how to use them, or another
pair like them.”

He accompanied Shea to one of the smaller lakes,
not haunted by sinechs, and the latter stepped out
cautiously from the shore. The shoes sank a little,
forming a meniscus around them, but they seemed
to give the lake-water beneath a jellylike consistency
just strong enough to support him. A regular
walking motion failed to yield good results. He
found he had to skate along, and he knew that, if he
tripped over a wave, the result would be unfortunate.
The shoes would not keep the rest of him from
breaking through the surface and, once submerged,
would keep his head down. But he found he could
work up quite good speed and practiced making
hairpin turns until night put an end to the operation.

Next morning they went out in a procession to
Loch Gara, the haunt of the monster, with King
Briun, Belphebe, and the assorted warriors of the
Tuatha De Danaan. The latter had spears, but they
did not look as though they would be much help.
Two or three of them fell out and sat under trees to
compose poems, and the rest were a dreamy-eyed
lot.

Miach murmured a druid spell, unwrapped the
sword of Nuada, and handed it to Shea. It was better
balanced than his own broadsword, coming down to
a beautiful laurel-leaf point. As Shea swung it appreciatively,
the blade began to ripple with light, as
though there were some source of it within the steel
itself.

He looked around. “Look, King,” he said, “I’m
going to try to do this smart. If you’ll cut down that
small tree there, then hitch a rope to the top of that
other tree beside it. We’ll bend down the second tree
. . . ,,

Under his direction the Tuatha did away with one
tree and bent the other down by a rope running to
the stump of the first. This rope continued on, Shea
holding the rest of it in a coil. “Ready?” he called.

“We are that,” said King Briun. Belphebe took
up her shooting stance, with a row of arrows in the
ground beside her.

Shea skated well out in the lake, paying out the
rope, which dragged in the water behind him. The
monster seemed in no hurry to put in an appearance.

“Hey!” called Shea. “Where are you, sinech?
Come on out, Loch Ness!”

As if in answer, the still surface of the lake broke
like a shattered mirror some fifty yards away.
Through the surface there appeared something black
and rubbery, which vanished and appeared again,
much closer. The sinech was moving toward him at a
speed which did credit to its muscles.

Shea gripped the rope with both hands and
shouted, “Let her go!”

The little figures on shore moved around, and
there was a tremendous tug on the rope. The men
had untied the tackle, so that the bent tree sprang
upright. The pull on the rope sent Shea skidding
shoreward as though he were water-skiing behind a
motorboat. An arrow went past him and then
another. Shea began to slow down, then picked up
again as a squad of King Briun’s soldiers took hold
of the rope and ran inland with it as fast as they
could. His theory was that the sinech would ground,
and in that condition could be dispatched by a combination
of himself, the soldiers with spears, and
Belphebe’s arrows.

But the soldiers on the rope did not yank hard
enough to take up all the slack before Shea slowed
down almost to a stop. Still twenty yards from
shore, he could see the sandy bottom below him,
looking a mere yard down.

Behind him he heard the water boiling and
swishing under the urge of the sinech’s progress.
Shea risked a glance over his shoulder to catch a
glimpse of a creature somewhat like a mosasaur,
with flippers along its sides. Just behind the pointed,
lizard-like head that reared from the water, a pair of
arrows projected. Another had driven into its cheekbone,
evidently aimed for the eye.

The instant of looking back brought Shea’s foot
into contact with a boulder that lay with perhaps an
inch projecting from the surface. Over it and down
he went, head first into the water of the marge. The
sinech’s jaws snapped like a closing bank-vault door
on empty air, while Shea’s head drove down until his
face plowed into the sand of the bottom. His eyes
open under the water, he could see nothing but
clouds of sand stirred up by the animal’s passage.
The water swished around him as the sinech came in
contact with solid ground and threshed frantically in
its efforts to make progress.

The shoes of Iubdan kept pulling Shea’s feet up,
but at last he bumped into the boulder he had
stumbled over. His arms clawed its sides and his
head came out of water with his legs scrambling
after.

The sinech was still grounded, but not hopelessly
so. It was making distinct progress toward Belphebe,
who valiantly stood her ground, shooting arrow
after arrow into the creature. The same glance told
him that the spearmen of the Tuatha De Danaan had
taken to their heels.

The monster, engrossed in Belphebe as its remaining
opponent, threw back its head for a locomotive
hiss. Shea, skating toward it, saw her bend suddenly
and seize up one of the abandoned spears to distract
it from him. Tugging out the sword of Nuada, he
aimed for the sinech’s neck, just behind the head,
where it lay half in and half out of water, the stiff
mane standing up above Shea’s head. As he drove
toward the creature, the near eye picked him up and
the head started to swivel back.

In his rush, he drove the sword in up to the hilt,
hoping for the big artery.

The sinech writhed, throwing Shea back and
ejecting the sword. There was a gush of blood so
dark it looked black, the animal threw back its head
and emitted a kind of mournful whistling roar of
agony. Shea skated forward on his magical shoes for
another shot, almost stumbling over the neck, but
reaching down to grasp a bunch of mane in his left
hand, and climbing aboard, cutting and stabbing.

The sinech threw back its head violently, it seemed
to a height of thirty feet. Shea’s grip on the mane
was broken, and he was thrown through the air. All
he could think of was that he must hang on to the
sword. He had hardly formulated this thought
before his behind struck the water with a terrific
splash.

When he got his head out against the resistance of
the shoes at the other end of his anatomy, the sinech
was creaming the water with aimless writhings, its
long head low on the bank, and its eyes already
glassed. The sword of Nuada had lived up to its
reputation for giving mortal wounds, all right. Shea
had to develop a kind of side-winding dog paddle to
carry him into shallow water past the throes of the
subsiding monster.

Belphebe waded out to help Shea to his feet, regardless
of the wet. She put both arms around him
and gave him a quick, ardent kiss, which instantly
doubled him over with cramps. Behind her the Sidhe
were trickling out of the wood, headed by King
Briun, looking dignified, and Miach, looking both
amazed and pleased.

Shea said, “There’s your job. Do you think that
lets me out from under that geas you say I’ve got?”

Miach shook his head. “I am thinking it will not.
A rare fine change you have made in the land of the
Sidhe, but it is to the land of men you belong, and 
there you must do what is to be done. So we will just
be going along to see if you can avert the fate that
hangs over this Cuchulainn.”

X
Shea and Belphebe were bouncing along in a
chariot on the route from the section of Tir na n-Og
corresponding to Connacht to the other-world equivalent
of Muirthemne in Ulster. They had agreed
with Miach, who was coming in another chariot,
that this would be better than to re-enter as they had
come and possibly have to fight their way through
hostile Connacht, even though he was wearing the
invincible sword of Nuada.

The country around seemed very similar to that
from which they had come, though the buildings
were generally poorer, and there were fewer of them.
Indeed, none at all were in sight when they stopped
at a furze-covered hill with a rocky outcrop near its
base. Miach signalled his charioteer to draw up and
said, “Here stands another of the portals. You are
to draw off a little while I cast my spell, as this is not
one of the holy days and a magic of great power is
required.”

From the chariot, Shea could see him tossing his
arms aloft and catch an occasional word of the
chant, which was in the old language. A blackness,
which seemed to suck up all the light of the day, appeared
around the outcrop, considerably larger than
the tunnel Shea himself had opened. The charioteers
got down to lead the horses, and they found themselves
on the reverse slope, with Cuchulainn’s
stronghold of Muirthemne in the middle distance,
smoke coming from its chimneys.

Shea said, “That’s queer. I thought Cuchulainn
was at Emain Macha with the King, but it looks as
though he came back.”

“By my thinking,” said Belphebe, “he is most
strangely set on having his own will and no other, so
that not even the prophecy of death can drive him
back.”

“I wouldn’t. . .” began Shea, but was interrupted
as a horseman suddenly burst from a clump of trees
to the right, and went galloping across the rolling
ground toward Cuchulainn’s stronghold.

Miach called from the other chariot, “That will be
a warden, now. I am thinking the fine man there is
expecting company and is more than a little ready to
receive it.”

They went down a slope into a depression where
the fold of the ground and a screen of young trees on
the opposite side hid the view of Muirthemne. As
they climbed the slope, the charioteers reined in.
Glancing ahead, Shea saw that the saplings and
bushes on the crest had all been pulled down and
woven into a tangle. At the same time a line of men
jumped out of cover, with spears and shields ready.

One of them advanced on the travelers. “Who
might you be?” he demanded truculently, “and for
why are you here?”

Miach said, “I am a druid of the Sidhe, and I am
travelling with my friends to Muirthemne to remove
a geas that lies on one of them.”

“You will not be doing that the day,” said the
man. “It is an order that no druids are to come
nearer to Muirthemne than this line until himself has
settled his differences with the Connachta.”

“Woe’s me!” said Miach, then turned toward
Shea. “You will be seeing how your geas still rules. I
am prevented from helping you at the one place
where my help would be of avail.”

“Be off with you, now!” the man said and waved
his spear.

Behind her hand, Belphebe said to Shea, “Is this
not very unlike them?”

The man said, “I do not know by what right you
are questioning me, but I will be telling you it was
the Shamus.”

An inspiration struck Shea. “You mean Pete, the
American?”

“Who else?”

“We’re the other Americans that were here
before. Get him for us, will you? We can straighten
this out. Tell him that Shea is here.”

The man looked at him suspiciously, then at
Miach even more suspiciously. He pulled a little
aside and consulted with one of his companions,
who stuck his spear in the ground, laid the shield
beside it, and trotted off toward Muirthemne.

Shea asked, “How comes Pete to be giving orders
around here?”

“Because it’s the Shamus he is.”

Shea said, “I recognize the title all right, but what
I can’t figure out is how Pete got away from
Cruachain and got here to acquire it.”

He was saved from further speculation by the
creaking of a rapidly driven chariot, which drew up
on the other side of the hedge. From it descended a
Pete Brodsky metamorphosed into something like
the Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur’s court. His
disreputable trousers projected from beneath a brilliantly
red tunic embroidered in gold; he had a kind
of leather fillet around his head and a considerable
growth of beard; and at his belt swung not one, but
two obviously home-made blackjacks.

“Jeepers!” he said, “am I glad to see you! It’s all
right, gang — let these guys through. They’re part
of my mob.”

Shea made room for him to climb in their chariot,
and the spearmen fell back respectfully as Pete
directed the driver through the winding gaps in the
entanglement. When they had cleared it Shea asked,
“How did you get here, anyway?”

Pete said, “It was a pushover. They had me singing
until I almost busted a gut. I tried to get this
Ollgaeth to send me back to Ohio, but he nixed it
and said I’d have to throw in with their mob when
they came over here to rub out Cuchulainn. Well,
hell, I know what’s going to happen to the guys in
that racket. They’re going to end up with their heads
looking for the rest of them, and anyway I figure
that if you go any here after you do your fadeout, it
will be here. So one day when this Ollgaeth has me in
the King’s ice house showing me some of the flash, I
figure it’s a good chance to take along some
presents. I let him have one on the conk, snatched
everything I could and make a getaway.

“You mean you stole Ailill’s crown jewels?”
asked Shea.

“Sure. I don’t owe him nothing, do I? Well, when
I get here, they roll out the carpet and send for,
Cuchulainn. Well, I give him a line about how this
Maev mob is coming to hit him on the head, like I
told him before, but I add that they’re gonna put a
geas on all his gang so they’ll go to sleep and can’t
do any fighting. That was different, see? They all
want to get into the act, but they can’t figure what to
do about it. I been watching this Ollgaeth, see, and
the line I got is that if he can’t get close enough, he
can’t make this geas business stick.”

“That’s good magicology,” said Shea. “Couldn’t
Cathbadh send you home?”

“Home? What do you mean, home? They told me
to go to it, so I stashed the combination around the
place like we done in the army. Then they made me
head shamus of the force. Do you think I want to go
back to Ohio and pound a beat?”

“Now, look here . . .” began Shea, but just then
the gate of Muirthemne loomed over them, with
Cuchulainn and Cathbadh beside it, accompanied
by a tall, beautiful woman who must be Emer.

The hero said, “It is glad to see you that I am,
darlings. Your man is less beautiful than ever, but
you will be handselling him to me, for I think that
with his help I may escape the doom that has been
predicted.”

Shea climbed down and helped Belphebe out of 
the chariot. "Listen," he said. Pete's already done 
all he can for you, and we don't dare go back to our 
own country without him."

Pete said, "Look, I'll write a letter or something 
to put you in the clear.  Leave a guy run his 
own racket, will you? This is my spot."

"Nothing doing," said Shea.  "Go ahead, 
Miach."

The druid lifted his arms, mumbled  one or two 
words, and lowered his arms again.  "The geas is still 
upon ou, Mac Shea," he said.  "I cannot."

“Oh, I forgot,” said Shea, and pulled the sword
from his belt. “Here, Cuchulainn, this is the sword
of Nuada. I borrowed it from the Sidhe for you, and
it will have to go back to them after you’re through,
with the Connachta, who ought to be here any
minute. But it will protect you better than Pete
could. Does that leave us square?”

“It does that,” said Cuchulainn, holding the great
sword up admiringly. Light rippled and flowed
along the blade.

“Now, Miach,” said Shea.

Miach lifted his arms. “Hey, I don’t want . . .”
began Pete, as the chant rose.

Whoosh! 

Shea, Belphebe, and Brodsky arrived with a rush
of displaced air in the living room at Garaden, Ohio, 
and almost in a heap.  Behind them, the door of 
Shea's study stood open.  As the trio landed, a 
couple of heavy-set men with large feet turned 
startled faces, their hands full of Shea's papers.

“It’s them!” said one.

The other said, "And by gawd -- Pete Brodsky, 
the synthetic harp, in a monkey suit!" They both 
began to laugh. 

"Hell with that, you punks," said Pete. "I've had 
enough Ireland to last me. From now on it's na 
zdorowie Polska!  See?

Shea paid little attention.  He was too busy kissing 
Belphebe. 

The End