I was reading a few poems from the Yeats volume I have, mentioned here and was struck by the notion that Irish mythology, or perhaps Yeats’ retelling of it, is raunchier than an episode of The Bold and the Beautiful and the like. Bloody hell! Where to begin???
So this fellow Cuchulain, has a mortal wife, Forgael. She has a daughter, Emer. But Cuchulain also has a son by Aoife. Aoife has knowingly sent her son Conlaech off to some mystical part of a forest that is by the seaside. Conlaech is angry because Cuchulain is consorting with a young woman called Eithne Inguba. They are in company with Conchubar and his army, the Red Branch. More on Conchubar later.
Cuchulain parts company for a bit, seeing that someone else has set up camp nearby (not yet knowing it is his son) and they engage in a bit of fighting. Conchubar, the king of Ulster, has been told by his Druids that Cuchulain will be fighting like a raving loony and that after three days pass, he will return and kill off the whole party. So Conchubar sends Cuchulain’s mistress Eithne Inguba (with me so far?) to whisper sweet nothings into his ear as he sleeps.
He goes mad, and kills his son of whose existence he was unaware (Conchubar forbade them to be friends, apparently), and somehow being enchanted into thinking that the sea waves is an Conchubar and his army, runs off into them trying to do battle till he dies. Reminds me a bit of the ancient Greek myth where Achilles is fighting an Amazon, Penthesilea, and upon thrusting the blow that is to kill her, he looks into her eyes as she is dying and he falls in love with her. Then mourns her death, tosser. Perhaps he got his phallic objects confused.
But apparently, Conchubar is only king because Fergus’ wife Ness tricked him into giving the kingdom to this stepson of his.
to be continued…groan.
