Of all the heros in Ireland, none was more powerful or more courageous than Cú Chulainn, the champion of Ulster. Blessed with superhuman strength from the day of his birth, he became the supreme master of combat. In his youth, he traveled to the Isle of Shadows, where a warrior-queen named Scáthach trained him in the arts of war. From her, he learned how to juggle nine apples in the air and hurl them at approaching foes; from her, he acquired the skill of balancing on the point of a spear and catching a javelin in full flight; from her, he developed the hero's sream, which could cause an enemy to drop dead with fright. More than all of these, it was SCáthach who gave him his most potent weapon, the gae bolga, a fearsome spear which could rip out a man's innards.

These talents were put to the test when Maeve, the warrior-queen of Connacht, brought her army into Ulster in order to steal a magic bull. At this time the men of Ulster lay under a curse which left them powerless to fight. Cú Chulainn alone was immune from this spell, and so the struggle fell squarely on his shoulders. By night, he harried the enemy from a distance, splitting many skulls with the stones from his sling; by day he defeated the cream of the Connacht army in single combat.

With the mounting desperation, Maeve sent champion after champion to confront the Ulsterman, but all were vanquished. Indeed, his fiercest battles were not with mortal foes, but with the Morrigan, the shape-shifting goddess of war. One morning, for example, when he was duelling in the river with Loch mac Emonis, he felt a sharp tugging at his heel. It was a hugh, black eel, which wound itself around his feet and sent him tumbling into the drink. As he lay there, Loch flailed at him with his sword, reddenind the water with the Ulsterman's blood.

Rising up, Cú Chulainn grabbed hold of the eel and dashed it against a stone, breaking it back. Instinctively, the creature loosened its grip butr, in an instant, it had changed into a snarling she-wolf. With a bound, it leaped out onto the bank and sent a herd of cattle stampeding against the stricken hero. Undaunted, Cú Chulainn readied his sling and sent a sharp stone speeding into the wolf's left eye. It recoiled, howling in pain, while at that same moment, Loch's sword cut into the Ulsterman's thigh.

Now the Morrigan assumed her final form, a hornless red heifer that hurtled toward him. Once again, Cú Chulainn loosed a stone from his sling, shich broke the animal's legs. The heifer sank to the ground with a sigh and came at him no more. Turning his attention to his human foe, Cú Chulainn brought out the gae bolga and sent it skimming along the surface of the water. As it always did, the weapon found its mark and Loch fell dead at his feet.

Wearily, Cú Chulainn climbed out of the river and looked for a suitable place to tend his wounds. As he walked, he came across a crippled, one-eyed hag milking a cow. It was a sorry-looking beast, for it only had three teats, but the sight of it filled the warrior with a bursting thirst. So he asked the crone for a drink of milk, and she readily obligded.

The milk tasted better than anything Cú Chulainn had ever drunk befor, so he thanked the hag effusively. "May your generosity bring you good health," he declared. And, as he spoke these words, the woman's back straightened up a little, Immediately, she handed him a drink from the second teat. It tasted even better than the first, and C&uacte; Chulainn swallowed it greedily. Then he repeated his blessing on the crone, wishing her the best of health. As he did so, the woman stretched her leg and it was clear that she was no longer lame.

Without being asked, the hag then gave the Ulsterman a drink from the final teat. This was the best yet, and he blessed her once again for the gift. Now the woman turned to look at him, and it was plain that her missing eye had been restored. On her face, there was a sinister smile that Cú Chulainn knew all too well.

"Thank you, my lord, for your blessings have made me whole again," said the Morrigan.

"If had know it was you," said Cú Chulainn bitterly, "I would never have opened my mouth."

The green fields of Erin were not only home to gods and warrior-heros, but also to a whole panoply of demons and spirits. The most feared of these was the pooka, a shape-shifting fairy who preyed on unwary travellers.

Certainly, Murtagh Sullivan gave little thought to the pooka as he embarked on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Gobnait. The journey took him through a remote, mountainous district, criss-crossed with unmarked pathways and tracks. Before long, he had taken a wrong turning and became hopelessly lost. The afternoon wore on and, as darkness approached, a thick fog began to descend. The unfortunate pilgrim felt a surge of panic and prayed aloud for someone who would rescue him from his predicament.

As the words left his lips, Murtagh spied a light in the distance, faint and twinkling. Immediately, he headed toward it, hoping that it might be some form of refuge where he could pass the night. Curiously, though, the light seemed to come no nearer, even though Murtagh was walking as fast as he could. "Perhaps it is a holy light," he mused, "sent by St. Gobnait herself to guide me out of this terrible place."

With this in mind, Murtagh offered up a furthur prayer. "If you have sent this light for me, O wondrous one, then please allow me to see your face, that I may worship you with all my heart." These words seemed to have some effect because, as the minutes went by, the light appeared to grow larger. Gradually, it became clear that its source was an open fire, beside which an old woman was warming herself. Murtagh was suprised by this, since the shriveled creature bore no resemblance to the noble images of the saint which he had seen in church. Nor could he understand how the light of the fire had recently seemed to move. These doubts, however, were dwarfed by a sheer sense of relief at finding a fellow human in this bleak terrain.

Murtagh walked boldly up to the fire, preparing to greet the woman. But as he opened his mouth, the old hag turned toward him and the sight of her face froze the pilgrim in his tracks. For the woman's eyes were not brown or blue or grey, but a deep, glowing red. Worse still, a sulphurous steam came from her lips when she spoke. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"Murtagh Sullivan, at your service," he stammered. "I am a humble pilgrim, on his way to visit the shrine of St. Gobnait." Murtagh wanted to fall to his knees at this very moment and call out for the saint's assistance, but he was rigid with fear. His body was no longer capable of making the slightest move.

"You have lost your way," crackled the woman, "and there is no saint here to help you. Nevertheless, take hold of my hand and I'll lend you a horse, which will carry you to your journey's end." So saying, she rose from her place by the fire and grasped Murtagh's hand firmly. He wanted to pull away, but there was an unnatural strength in her grip and he was powerless to resist.

Then the crone led Murtagh along a steep track, rising up into the mountains. Soon, they arrived at a large cavern, hollowed out of the rock. As they drew near, Murtagh could hear the clanging of giant hooves and a fearsome whinnying. Suddenly, an enormous black horse emerged from the chamber, stamping its feet impatiently. Murtagh recoiled in front of the beast, but the woman pushed him forward. "Mount up, traveller. Climb onto his back and he will give you the ride of your life." Then, with a feat of strength which belied her hag-like form, she lifted Murtagh onto the horse's back

Immediately, the animal took off, leaping from the mountain path into the chill, black void. With a desperate lunge, Murtagh managed to catch hold of its mane and held on grimly as it began to soar upward. Faster and faster it moved, hurtling past crags and crevices. Then as it reached the summit, the beast changed direction. Now it began to descend, plummeting toward a deep ravine. Murtagh could feel himself losing his balance, so he tried to tighten his grip on the mane. This time, however, his hands were left grasping at shadows, as the spirit horse dispersed, its limbs drifting apart like the wisps of a cloud. Now Murtagh was alone, falling swiftly into the darkness.

Next morning, a group of pilgrims found Murtagh Sullivan lying at the foot of the mountain. They gave him a Christian burial before continuing of their way, with each man offering up a silent prayer to St. Gobnait, to thank her for sparing him from the clutches of the pooka.