“Byron would like that term—he’s a romantic,” she said. “Come here and I’ll show you. This is one of the few spots on campus where you can get a good view of it. I think there’s enough moonlight tonight.”
She guided Max toward several small windows at the far end of the library. It was dark outside, and the sea was a calm sheet of black glass. Miss Boon pointed at a large rock jutting out from the water some fifty yards from shore.
“That is Brigit’s Vigil,” she sighed. “It’s an old legend here at Rowan, but fading fast, I’m afraid. It dates back to the founding of this school. It’s a bit sad or romantic, I suppose, based upon how you look at it. You see, among the survivors that fled here aboard the Kestrel was Elias Bram’s wife. Her name was Brigit. It’s said that before Elias ran to meet Astaroth during the great siege, he begged his wife to flee with the others. She refused to leave his side until he swore an oath to come for her, to follow over the sea and rejoin her in this new land.
“As you know, Bram was never seen again after Solas fell. After the survivors reached these shores and this school was built, Brigit spent her days wading in the surf, looking east in hope of her husband’s return. He never came. The legend says that one day Brigit disappeared and that rock emerged offshore in her stead. Some people—like Mr. Morrow, I’d imagine—insist the rock resembles a woman, dressed in a nightgown and staring out to sea.”
Max pressed his nose against the window and squinted. It was too dark to see the rock in any detail.
“Try as I might, I don’t see it—not even by daylight.” Miss Boon sighed. “Tell me later if you can. I think you’ll get very familiar with Brigit’s Vigil while you and Alex are scrubbing the Kestrel. Good night, Max.”
Max watched her go in a series of brisk, efficient steps across the room and down the stairs. He checked his security watch. He still had forty-five minutes before the chimes would sound again.
As Max smoothed down the book’s pages, his fingers seemed to crackle with electricity. The Hound of Ulster stared back at him from the book, his handsome face brimming with youth and purpose. Max leaned back to read, setting his watch to beep several minutes before the chimes.
Cúchulain’s tale takes place in Ireland at a time when that country was not united but divided into four great kingdoms. Like many heroes, Cúchulain was the son of a god: the sun deity, Lugh, who took the form of a mayfly and flew into the wine cup of a noblewoman on her wedding day. After drinking the wine, she was spirited away with her maidens to the Sidh—the Land of Faerie—as a flock of swans.
This noblewoman was sister to the king of Ulster, northernmost of Ireland’s four kingdoms, and thus many warriors searched for her throughout the land. A year later, the king himself came upon a house where his sister was found with a small child. The baby’s name was Setanta. It was decided that he should come to live with the king when he had reached boyhood.
Some years later, as the noble children of Ulster played on the field, a youth appeared and stole away their hurling ball to score a goal. As the boy was unknown and uninvited, the other children turned on him. Instead of fleeing, the youth ran wild among them, making each give way before his fierceness. The boy announced that he was Setanta, bidden by his mother to seek the king.
At the king’s court, Setanta was prized above all other youth. Thus one day he was invited to join the king’s company for a feast at the home of the blacksmith, Culann. In these days, smiths were vital to a kingdom, and Culann’s stature rivaled even that of the king. The king’s company had departed for the smith’s home before Setanta had left the playing fields, and the boy was left to travel alone across the countryside.
It was dark when Setanta approached the smith’s house, which was filled with light and the sounds of laughter. It was then that Setanta heard the growl of the smith’s hound, which had been loosed to protect his lands at nightfall. As the great wolfhound crouched to spring, Setanta hurled his ball with all his strength down the beast’s gullet, nearly splitting the creature in two. While the animal howled, the boy took hold and dashed its body against a stone until it was torn to pieces.
Max stopped breathing and read the paragraph again. It was horribly familiar. This was the very dream that had haunted him ever since he had seen the tapestry. He thought of the monstrous hound with its shifting face. “What are you about?” it always demanded of him. “Answer quick or I’ll gobble you up!” Max covered his mouth and glanced at his watch. He knew he needed to speak to David and that Nick would be getting hungry, but both would have to wait.
When Setanta looked up from the hound’s body, he saw that the king’s men had assembled around him. Culann the blacksmith was angry.
“I welcome thou, little lad,” said Culann, “because of thy mother and father, but not for thine own sake. I am sorry for this feast.”
“What hast thou against the lad?” asked the king.
The smith replied, “It is my misfortune that you have come to drink my ale and eat my food, for my livelihood is lost now after my dog. That dog tended my herd and flocks. Now all I have is at risk.”
“Be not angered, Culann my master,” said the boy. “I will pass a just judgment upon this matter.”
“What judgment would thou pass, lad?” asked the king.
“If there is a pup of that dog in Ireland, I shall rear him till he is fit to do his sire’s business. Until that day, I will be the hound to protect his flocks, his lands—and even the smith himself!”
The men laughed at the fierce boy’s pledge, but the king weighed the words and marked them a fair offer. On that day, the boy left behind his childhood name and became known as Cúchulain—the Hound of Culann.
Cúchulain was fierce and proud and anxious to become a warrior. So it was that one day he overheard the king’s druid and advisor remark that the child who took up arms that day would have the greatest name in Ireland but his life would be a short one. Upon hearing this, Cúchulain raced to the king, demanding his right to take arms that very hour.
“Who put that idea into your head?” inquired the king.
“The druid,” responded the boy.
Having great respect for the druid’s councils, but ignorant of the latest prophecy, the king relented, and Cúchulain ran off to the smithy. No weapon could be found to match the boy’s strength. Spears and swords were shattered until at last, the king allowed the boy to try his own. Only these proved true. When the druid saw this, he cried out, “Who has told this child to take arms this day?” to which the king replied that it was the druid himself. When the druid denied this and told the king of the prophecy, the king was furious and confronted his nephew.
“You have lied to me!”
“I have not,” replied the boy. “You asked only who put the idea in my head and I answered truthfully. It was the druid!”
Although the king was saddened, he acknowledged the boy spoke the truth. And so it was that Cúchulain took up the king’s arms and became Ulster’s champion.
Cúchulain’s legend spread rapidly. Fighting on foot or from his chariot, he conquered Ulster’s enemies. It was said that in battle he shook like a tree in the flood and his brow shone so bright he was near impossible to look upon. Chief among his weapons was the “gae bolg”—a great spear whose wound was always fatal.