One day, in Emain, Cathba, the druid of King Conchobar, was taking classes in druidic lore. Eight eager students sat in his class, avidly taking in all that Cathba was teaching them. One of the eight eager students then asked his teacher, ‘O Cathba, can you tell us what fortune this day will bring? Will it be good or will it be ill?’

Cathba, druid and seer then answered, ‘The little boy who takes up arms today shall be renowned for deeds of arms above all the youths of Erin. The tales of his deeds shall be told forever. But his life will be short and fleeting.’

Seven-year-old Cuchulainn, at play in another corner of Emain, heard what Cathba had said. At once he threw his playthings away and ran to his uncle, his mother’s brother, King Conchobar. Conchobar saw the little boy come running up, as though he had something very important to say. ‘What is it, little fellow? It seems you have something to tell me,’ said Conchobar to the child.

‘I would take up arms today,’ said Cuchulainn to the king.

‘Who has advised you to do so?’ asked Conchobar.

‘Cathba the druid has told me so,’ said Cuchulainn.

‘Cathba would not say wrong,’ said Conchobar. And he gave to Cuchulainn two spears and a sword and a shield.

Cuchulainn took the spears and sword and shield and shook them, and they lay in fragments on the floor of Conchobar’s hall.

 Then Conchobar gave him another two spears, a sword and a shield. These too shattered into fragments in the little boy’s hands.

Conchobar then gave him, one after another, all the weapons he had in reserve to arm the youths of Emain. Cuchulainn took the weapons, one after another, and shook them, and all of them shattered into pieces one after another on the floor of Conchobar’s hall.

‘Truly, these arms are not good, O Conchobar,’ said Cuchulainn. ‘Give me weapons that are worthy of me!’ 

Then Conchobar gave the little boy his own two spears,  his  sword, and his shield. Cuchulainn took the weapons and he brandished them in the air, and he shook them and bent them, and they did not break; they stood up to his strength and skill. ‘These are good weapons, O Conchobar,’ cried Cuchulainn. ‘They suit me well.’ And Cuchulainn saluted the weapons and the king to whom they belonged.

Just then, Cathba the druid came by. ‘Has that child taken up arms?’ he asked Conchobar, seeing Cuchulainn with spears and sword and shield.

‘Yes,’ answered Conchobar. ‘He has.’

‘Not for anything would I have had him take up arms this day!’ cried Cathba.

‘Why not?’ asked Conchobar puzzled. ‘Didn’t you yourself advise him to do so?’

‘Oh, no, I did not,’ said Cathba.

Conchobar turned in anger to Cuchulainn. ‘What is this I hear?’ he asked. ‘Did you trick us into giving you arms?’

‘No, King, I did not,’ answered Cuchulainn. ‘Cathba did not speak directly to me, but he told his students that the boy who would take up arms today would be famous throughout Erin, though his life would be short and fleeting.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Cathba.

‘Fortunate, I am, therefore,’ said little Cuchulainn. ‘What care I how short my life if my deeds be good and great and live after me!’

And when he was asked, Cathba also said, ‘The one who mounts a chariot today, his deeds will live in Erin forever!’

Cuchulainn heard and tried out one chariot after another. Not one of the chariots that Conchobar had reserved for the youths of Emain stood up to little Cuchulainn, but broke instead into a hundred pieces.

Then Conchobar called to Ibar his charioteer and said, ‘Take my own two horses and yoke them to my chariot and give them to the child.’

Ibar did as he was asked, and Cuchulainn mounted the chariot of Conchobar and it withstood his strength and did not break. ‘Truly, this is a good chariot, O King,’ cried Cuchulainn. ‘It is suited to me.’

‘Come now, little boy,’ said Ibar, after Cuchulainn had tried out the chariot. ‘Get down from the chariot, and let the horses out to graze.’

‘It is too soon,’ said Cuchulainn. ‘Let me take first a round of Emain, since this is my first day of taking up arms.’ And Cuchulainn set off on a round of Emain.

Then Ibar said once again, ‘Come now, little boy. Get down from the chariot and let the horses out to graze.’

And Cuchulainn said, ‘It is still too soon. Let me drive as far as the fields where the boys are playing, so that they may wish me well on my first day of taking up arms.’ And Cuchulainn drove out to the play-fields of Emain.

The boys saw Cuchulainn with his arms, riding his chariot and wished him victory, triumph, and first wounding. ‘But it is too soon for you to take up arms,’ they said. ‘You will no longer play with us!’

‘Oh no,’ said Cuchulainn. ‘I will not leave you. It is only for luck that I took up arms today.’

Then Ibar said yet again, ‘Come now, little boy. Get down from the chariot and let the horses out to graze.’

But Cuchulainn answered yet again that it was too soon, for he wanted to follow the road that wound so invitingly before them.

Cuchulainn followed the road, which led up into the mountains. On the border of Ulster there stood a watchman – Connall Cernach it was that day who stood watch, to make sure no unwanted strangers entered Ulster.

When Connall saw Cuchulainn come driving by in Conchobar’s chariot and with his weapons, he asked, ‘Has the little fellow taken up arms?’

‘Yes, indeed, he has,’ said Ibar.

The Connell wished Cuchulainn victory, but said, ‘You’re too young to take up arms, little boy, for you are not yet old enough to do great deeds.’

But Cuchulainn was eager to try out his new weapons. Perhaps he could do so defending the border, he thought. ‘Let me keep watch in your place, O Connell,’ he said. 

But Connell wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Ah no, little son, I couldn’t do that,’ said Connell. ‘You are still too young to take on a real warrior should one appear to challenge you.’

‘Well, then,’ said Cuchulainn. ‘I shall carry on to the south. Perhaps there I will find a chance to use my weapons.’

When Connell saw that the child was determined, he said, ‘I cannot let you go into danger alone on the border. If something were to happen to you, no one would forgive me, saying I let a child go alone into danger. I will come with you.’ So Connell yoked his horses to his chariot and followed Cuchulainn, in order to protect the child.

Cuchulainn saw that Connell would not let him go alone. ‘He will not let me try my weapons even if I had the chance,’ thought Cuchulainn. Taking a stone and fixing it into his sling, Cuchulainn threw the stone at Connell’s chariot, so that the yoke broke and Connell was thrown to the ground.

‘What is this, little fellow?’ cried Connell. ‘Why did you throw that stone at me?’

‘I do not want you to follow me,’ said Cuchulainn. ‘And the only way to stop you was to break your chariot, for I know that it is forbidden among you men of Ulster to continue on a journey if your chariot has an accident of any sort.’

Connell admitted the truth of that, and leaving Cuchulainn to carry on southwards, turned back to his post.

Cuchulainn carried on, in search of a chance to try his weapons. Time and again, Ibar would urge him to turn back, for it was late and it was time they returned, but each time Cuchulainn found a reason to carry on.

Then Cuchulainn saw a fort in the distance. ‘What is that fort, O Ibar?’ he asked.

‘That is the fort of the three sons of Necht Scene the Fierce. Foill and Fandall and Tuachall are their names. Their father was slain by an Ulsterman, and they hate all men of Ulster since.’

‘Are they the ones who boast that they have killed more Ulstermen than are alive?’ asked Cuchulainn.

‘Alas, yes,’ said Ibar. ‘They are the ones –and they are dangerous.’

‘Onwards, then!’ cried Cuchulainn.

Disregarding all Ibar’s protests, Cuchulainn drove on to the fort of the sons of Necht. There, on the green, there stood a stone, with an iron band around it, and with writing on it in Ogham (pronounced Oh-am; this was the Celtic alphabet of 25 letters used for stone and wood inscriptions in Ireland). This is what the writing said: ‘Whoever comes to the green, if he be a champion, he cannot leave without giving challenge to single combat.’ Cuchulainn read the writing, and taking up the stone threw it, iron band and all, so that it fell into the river and sank. 

‘Ah,’ sighed Ibar. ‘I think that on this green you will finally get the chance you are seeking, to try your new weapons and prove yourself.’

‘Good,’ said Cuchulainn, and not in the least worried, he asked Ibar to spread the skins for him so that he may have a nap. Ibar did as he asked, and the child lay down to sleep.

Just then, out came Foill, son of Necht onto the green. ‘Whose are these horses?’ he demanded.

‘Conchobar’s,’ answered Ibar and explained how a lad who was but a child had driven them out that day, the day that he had taken arms for good luck.

‘May his taking of arms be not for victory,’ cried Foill. ‘If I knew that he were old enough to fight, he would not leave here alive.’

‘Ah, he is not old enough,’ said Ibar. ‘He is only a child of seven, even though he has taken up arms today.’

At that Cuchulainn woke up, and declared angrily that he was as fit as any warrior to fight.

Cuchulainn armed himself, as did Foill. Foill, who, it was said, could not be harmed by point or sharpened edge, advanced on the little child. But before Foill could strike, Cuchulainn threw his staff at him and killed him. Then he cut off Foill’s head and carried it off with him.

Just then out came Tuachall, the second son of Necht. When he saw that Cuchulainn had killed his brother, he swore that the boy would not leave the green alive. Ibar warned Cuchulainn to beware, for if Tuachall escaped the first blow, he could not be defeated. But before Tuachall could attack, Cuchulainn ran him through the chest with Conchobar’s lance. Then he cut off Tuachall’s head and laid it beside that of his brother.

Just then out came Fandall, youngest son of Necht. ‘Fools, my brothers were, to fight you on dry land,’ he cried. ‘Come with me to the pool and fight me there, and you shall not leave here alive.’

 ‘Be careful, little lad,’ Ibar warned Cuchulainn. ‘Fandall is the best swimmer in the world, and no one can beat him in the water.’

‘You should not worry about me,’ said little Cuchulainn to Ibar. ‘In Emain, when the boys play in the river and some of them grow tired, I carry them across, a boy on each palm of my hand, and one on each shoulder, and I do not even wet my ankles with their weight.’

So Cuchulainn went down to the pool to fight Fandall. The two wrestled on the surface of the water, and Cuchulainn gripped Fandall, and cut off his head with Conchobar’s sword and carried it off to lay it with the heads of his brothers.

After that, Cuchulainn destroyed the fort of the sons of Necht and burnt it down to the ground. He then took the heads of the three sons of Necht and turned back towards Emain.

On the way they saw a herd of wild deer in the distance. ‘Let us try and catch some,’ cried Cuchulainn. But though Ibar drove the horses as fast as they could go, they were not fleet enough to catch the deer. So Cuchulainn dismounted from the chariot, and easily caught two of the swift, fierce deer. He tied them to the chariot and continued on his way to Emain.

After a while they saw a flock of swans flying by. ‘What birds are those, O Ibar?’ asked Cuchulainn. Ibar explained that they were swans, that came from the rocks and crags of the sea to feed on the plains of Emain.

‘What is a greater deed, O Ibar?’ asked Cuchulainn. ‘To take them alive or to take them dead?’

Ibar explained that it was definitely a greater feat to take the swans alive, for though many men had taken them dead, few had ever taken the great birds alive.

So Cuchulainn fitted a stone into his sling and brought down eight of them. Then he fitted another stone on his sling and brought down sixteen of them.  As the birds lay stunned on the ground, Cuchulainn asked Ibar to get down from the chariot and gather them.

‘I dare not move,’ said Ibar. ‘I cannot control the horses any more, and if move from where I am the horses will go wild and I will be crushed under the chariot wheels. And if I so much as stir from where I am, the horns of the deer will gore me.’

Then Cuchulainn bent upon the horses a fierce glare, and also upon the deer. The horses stayed still and the deer bowed their heads in fear, so that Ibar could gather up the great white birds that Cuchulainn had brought down. Then they tied the birds to the chariot and went on their way to Emain.

As they neared Emain, the fearsome chariot with its marvellous load of grisly heads and pinioned deer and white swans still alive was seen. ‘It is my sister’s son who comes thus,’ cried Conchobar when he was told of the sight. ‘The battle frenzy is still upon him, and unless he is cooled, all the sons of Emain will die by his hand tonight.’

At this, the women of Emain ran out to meet him, and as they neared the child they bared their bodies. Cuchulainn did not know what to do when he saw the women thus. He averted his eyes and looked only at his chariot. And while he was thus looking away, the little boy was lifted down from the chariot and put into three vats of cold water to cool his wrath. The first vat into which he was put burst with the heat of his battle frenzy. The second vat into which he was put boiled with bubbles as big as a man’s fist. The third vat into which he was put – well, some men might be able to bear it, and some men not. Then the boy’s anger left him, and he was taken out, and dressed in his best clothes.

Then the little lad Cuchulainn was seated in the place of honour, between the two feet of Conchobar. That became his place forever, and everyone gazed in wonder at this little boy of seven who had taken up arms that very day and overcome three fearsome warriors at whose hands had fallen two-thirds of the men of Ulster.

Thus it was that Cuchulainn took up arms and killed on the same day the sons of Necht. Cathba, the druid had spoken truly, for still are the deeds of Cuchulainn sung, in Erin and all the world. And truly too did Cathba prophesy that Cuchulainn’s life would be short and fleeting, for Cuchulainn died long before he had lived to the full age of mortal men – but that is another tale, for another day.