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Poetry
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| Cormac and Becuma | |
| By Bagheera | ||||||||||||||
| 05 August 2007 | ||||||||||||||
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On a recent trip to Ireland, I was able to take part in some of the activities organised to take place during the McDermott Clan Gathering. The following verse is based on a family legend, dating from the 16th Century when the family were High Kings [ or "Ard Ri" ] in Tara, the largest of the Seven Kingdoms of Ancient Ireland
Cormac and Becuma
Out of the wild winter weather she came calling Halt and lame, haggard and loathsome Seeking sanctuary High-born Cormac, Prince of Coolavin High King at Tara, heard her cry Granting, graciously The boon the beldame begged Drenched, dismal, frozen and forlorn The Hag was hurried to the hearth Bread was broken, And warméd wine swiftly served Scheming secretly The sorceress sat, her true intent well-hidden Day followed, and night: soon week, then month had flown Cormac, considerate, courteous, had not the heart To bid brazen Becuma begone! Step by step she stole deeper into his demesne From sleeping in the scullery, soon she saw Her chance to charm her way Into his bedchamber. A chess-game challenge one morning she made And each their side of the foursquare battlefield they sat War was waged; men-at-arms, knights and nobles Defending to the death the royal couple, king and queen Each feint and foray the witch waged, could Cormac counter From sunrise to sunset they strove for mastery Under the blood-red sunset they battled in silence Then Becuma, as the balance of the game went ’gainst her With guile attempted Cormac to confound And scenes fantastic all around did conjure With which the High King’s vision she might cloud As his attention faltered, the gameboard she then altered “The game is mine!” Becuma cried “You play me false!” Cormac replied And stood, heart racing, reaching for his dagger’s hilt Yet honour stayed his hand, and won the day Courteous Cormac could not the false guest slay “The game is yours, though falsely: What forfeit must I therefore pay?” And Becuma, triumphant, raised her arms And spoke the words of her chosen charm: A curse she laid on Cormac, his courtesy abusing That he might ever and aye beholden be To offer unstinted hospitality To all who asked “Oh, Cormac Roe! High King at Tara! Weep! My curse shall beggar you, while others sleep In the bed you have denied me!” “No traveller may you turn away, no request refuse Friend and foe alike shall learn, And beat a broad path to your door Friends at the fore gate, enemies in the entry hall None may you deny, nor stay your hand But give unstinting, forever and a day!” Through the long, dark hours of the night, Cormac sat, silent Hearth flames were close to cold, ashy death before he stirred “Know, scarecrow, my solar is mine alone! If thou wouldst share, the stone-flagged stairs now climb To gain my bed, bold Becuma The turret must be stormed! And so she crept from step to step A sinister shadow, sneaking soundless, ever higher Closer now the solar, and her goal: Cormac’s kingly frame. Her one desire To taste her victim’s royal blood, She hastens onward, heeding not her doom A careless foot placed on a certain stair Releases a bouncing boulder, crashing, crushing Doom-laden, death-bringing Screaming, she stands, too shocked to flee Sudden silence: she screams no more.
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