Finn Mac Cool

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “You mean she was wrapped in deerskin?”

  “I do not. I mean she became a deer. My mother had … certain powers,” Finn said mysteriously, eyes dancing.

  His listeners leaned forward. Such a claim was not without precedent. And on a night such as this, a night of windhowl and fireglow, anything seemed possible.

  “The two old women trained me, and a hard school they ran. They would put me into a meadow leaping with hares and order me not to let a single one escape, or I should not be fed for three days. They threw me into a river and shouted that I must discover how to swim or drown straightaway. They taught me to survive in a world without mercy, those fierce old women.”

  “A wise-woman and a druid?” Iruis sounded impressed.

  Embellishing his tale, Finn said, “The druid was a kinswoman of mine, actually.” He could not resist adding, “She taught me some of her magic. She was that fond of me.”

  If they laughed, he was ready to laugh with them. But they did not laugh. He saw belief in their eyes. They came of a race with a long experience of druidry. They had accepted Muirinn’s transmogrification; they had no trouble accepting this.

  That’s it! Finn suddenly realized.

  Until this night, his youth had seemed an insurmountable obstacle. He looked older than he was. In truth, he was scarcely old enough to lead one fían, much less entertain higher ambitions. But for a man who could do magic—or was believed capable of doing magic—age was irrelevent.

  His future opened out before him, richly, goldenly, the gift of accident and inspiration.

  The wind blowing off the western sea moaned around Black Head. The flames of the campfire leaped and writhed. In the wind’s voice Finn thought for a moment he could hear her voice, urging him on. Goading. Pleading. Tormenting. Or was it the stag’s voice, belling a warning?

  He could taste deer meat on his tongue.

  Shapes shifted in his brain. He fought his way back to his story. “Bomall and Lia kept me with them until I was of an age when no woman could control me, and then I went wandering. I made Erin my pillow and hunted in forests where the trees were as thick as hairs on a hound. I learned to rely on myself only.”

  “But would you not seek out your own people, your clan?” Red Ridge wondered.

  “I didn’t know who they were. The old women would never tell me.”

  “Didn’t your mother tell you when she visited you?”

  “She couldn’t. She came to me as a deer, not as a woman.”

  “Then how,” asked Conan reasonably, “could you possibly recognize her?”

  Finn saw his mistake. To cover it, he snapped, “And would you not know your own mother, no matter what she looked like? If not, it’s a poor son you are!”

  He went on hastily. “On the banks of the Liffey, in my fifteenth year, I saw a group of lads my own age. They challenged me to a swimming race. When I stripped to join them in the river, they called me Fionn because of my fair hair and fair, strong body; but when I outswam them all, they were jealous. So I left. them and went away alone again.

  “But I kept the name they had given me.

  “Soon afterward, my skill at hunting attracted the notice of a chieftain who hired me to hunt one summer for him. It was he who first told me of the Fíanna and their murdered leader. Peering into my face one day, he said, ‘If Cuhal had a son, Finn, I think that son would be exactly like you.’

  “From that day, curiosity tormented me worse than fleas. I learned that Cuhal’s widow had married a chieftain in Kerry, so I made my way south. As soon as I saw her, I knew Muirinn of the White Throat for my mother.”

  “Marvellous powers of recognition,” Conan said dryly.

  Finn ignored him. “Muirinn told me of my people, the Clan Baiscne, and also the details of my father’s death. But her husband wouldn’t let me stay with her. He was afraid Cuhal’s enemies would learn of me and come to kill me while I was under his protection, which would have forced him to break battle against them.”

  “‘The guest in the house is sacred’,” quoted Fergus.

  “Indeed. So my mother’s husband insisted I leave, and she took his part. At the last moment, however, she drew me aside and urged me to …” he paused, letting the tension build “ … urged me to seek out the Fíanna and join them.”

  A tight voice asked, “Is that all she asked you to do?”

  Finn looked up. Across the flames, he locked gazes with Goll Mac Morna. As if the wind had shifted, there was a sudden change in the atmosphere.

  “Did you?” Red Ridge asked eagerly. “Did you join the army then?”

  Finn relaxed. “Not for a while. First I went looking for my father’s brother, Crimall, who was reputed to be hiding out with the last surviving officers from my father’s command.

  “But on the way, I met an old widow, and she was grieving. Her only son had just been slain by … a giant.” Finn paused in his narrative to adjust his neck bag, which had become twisted on its thong. “For the old woman’s sake, I hunted down the giant and killed him. And on his body I found a … a bag made of crane skin. I subsequently found Crimall and showed the bag to him, and he identified it as having belonged to my father. So the giant I had killed was one of Cuhal’s murderers,” he concluded with satisfaction.

  Goll Mac Morna sat up very straight. “You never mentioned this before.”

  “I never did,” Finn agreed. “The giant was called Luachra and the bag he had stolen from my father contained the treasures of Clan Baiscne.”

  “What were they?” asked a breathless voice.

  Finn twisted around to scowl up at Blamec. “You’re supposed to be standing watch, so why are you hanging over my shoulder?”

  Shamefaced, Blamec scurried back to his post. Finn went on weaving words from smoke and flame. He was lost in them now himself. He believed, so his audience believed.

  “The bag was made from the skin of a bird that had once been the beloved second wife of the sea god, Manannán Mac Lir. His jealous first wife turned her into a crane, but the magic killed her. Manannán took the crane’s skin and had it made into a bag in which he kept his shirt and knife, and the shears of Alba, and the tools of Goibniu the smith—all of them items of great magical power, you understand? Treasures.”

  His audience nodded as one, spellbound.

  “Because the bag belonged to the sea god, it was full when the tide was full but appeared empty when the tide was out.” He was constructing his tale carefully now. There must not be another mistake like claiming he could recognize a deer to be his mother. “The bag was given by Manannán to Lugh son of Evleen. Lugh in turn gave it to Cuhal my father, when he married Lugh’s sister, Muirinn White Throat.” Finn took a deep breath, satisfied that the provenance of the magical bag was now firmly established.

  Iruis asked, “Do you still have it?”

  With one forefinger, Finn tapped his neck bag. Fénnidi were called Men of the Bag, Fir Bolg, because they carried pouches on thongs around their necks to hold their flints and combs and razors and needles and other necessaries of a nomadic life. The appellation Fir Bolg was an ancient one, predating the founding of the Fíanna, and had been applied to some of the most ancient tribes of Erin, many of them including Finn’s ancestors.

  Finn’s bag happened to be covered with crane skin taken from a bird he had killed with a slingshot on the Bog of Almhain, near his birthplace. He neglected to mention this detail. He merely called attention to the bag and let the others draw their own conclusions.

  Conan said doubtfully, “Clan Baiscne must be poor in treasures. That bag isn’t exactly bulging.”

  Finn was ready for him. “Of course not. The tide’s out.”

  Conan glowered.

  The others laughed and elbowed him. “The tide’s out! Didn’t you even know that?”

  Finn let himself relax. He had told them enough for now. Give them time to think about it, time to digest and accept. He felt as if he were watching the scene from a distance, a dispas
sionate observer assessing the advantage Finn Mac Cool had just won for himself.

  Until tonight, his skills had been enough to entitle him to leadership of one band of warriors. But to lead the entire army, a man must be extraordinary.

  Goll Mac Morna had been such a man. In his prime, he was reputedly the strongest man in Erin, and his hardiness was legendary. The injury that had cost him an eye was minor compared to some of the wounds he had survived. His body was a map of warfare. In addition, he owned the famous Gold and Silver Chessboard and was a master at the game.

  Possession of the magic bag of Manannán Mac Lir would bestow a similar prestige on Finn Mac Cool.

  He knew that someday he might be challenged to prove his tale. But not tonight. No Gael would ruin a good story on a night like this by questioning it too closely.

  He drew up his knees and spread his legs so the fire could warm his private parts. Resting his arms on his knees, he stared again into the flames. One hand scratched the shaggy head of Bran, who lay beside him.

  No one urged him to go on with his storytelling. He appeared lost in thought, and out of a new respect, his companions left him alone. From time to time someone would dart a glance at him and quickly look away. Finn was aware of the glances, but he did not react. He concentrated on the warmth of the fire and the fullness of his belly—and on trying to keep his face impassive.

  The irrepressible boy just beneath Finn’s skin kept threatening to laugh out loud. They believe me. They believe me!

  His eyes were itching. The wind had shifted and was blowing smoke into them. He stood up and went around to the other side of the campfire. Bran lifted an ear, looked up quizzically, then rose and stalked after him.

  When Finn sat down again, he found himself beside Goll Mac Morna. “So it was you who killed my brother—Luachra the Large,” the older man said in an undertone.

  Finn reached for a partially gnawed bone and gave it his full attention, tearing off shreds of meat with his teeth.

  Undeterred, Goll went on. “Did you really take a bag from Luachra’s body? I suppose you thought it belonged to the widow’s son and meant to return it to her sometime. But was it Cuhal’s bag? I don’t recall precisely what his neck bag looked like, though I’m sure I saw it often enough during our seasons in the Fíanna together. I don’t even know if he was wearing it at the Battle of Cnucha.

  “There was a lot of confusion that day, Finn. You must understand. What happened to your father was no simple thing, one blow in the heat of the moment. There was a long history of bad feeling between Clan Morna and Clan Baiscne, and he’d brought it to a head with his own actions. Cuhal was responsible for his own death, really. He brought it on himself.”

  Frowning, Finn concentrated on worrying a resistant piece of gristle from the bone.

  “If you think we killed Cuhal for his treasure bag, you’re wrong,” Goll insisted. “It was politics. Mac Con, the Son of the Wolf, encouraged the feud between Clan Morna and Clan Baiscne for his own purposes.”

  Tilting the bone toward the fire, Finn squinted at it.

  “If you really did have that bag, you should have left it with your uncle. It would be dangerous to carry around a bag of … jewelry, perhaps?” Goll guessed. “And you with no guards.”

  At last Finn spoke. “I have the Fíanna.”

  “You have nine men, for now,” Goll corrected. “And the possibility of two more bands of nine if you do well.”

  Finn dug into the bone with his forefinger, extracting marrow. “Perhaps I did leave the bag with my uncle.”

  “The bag you’re wearing right now is crane skin.”

  Glancing down, Finn simulated surprise. “So it is!”

  “We didn’t rob Cuhal, Finn!”

  “You took his command. You killed him to get it.”

  “It was politics!” Goll protested. “And Cuhal’s own greed. He was loyal to Airt, and when the Son of the Wolf killed Airt and seized Tara, he naturally wanted his own man to command the Fíanna. But for years he was afraid to demote Cuhal, who was too popular with … a certain element of the fénnidi. Then Cuhal stupidly made a mistake that was used against him to stir up the feud between his clan and mine. That culminated in the Battle of Cnucha, when Clan Morna did what the Son of the Wolf wanted done and killed Cuhal. Afterward I was named as Rígfénnid Fíanna by the king simply because I was the best qualified.

  “I still am,” Goll added.

  As if none of this touched him, Finn recited in a singsong bardic chant, “And in time the Son of the Wolf was killed by Feircus Black-Tooth, himself the next king of Tara.”

  “Feircus, that Ulidian! I suppose you take vengeful pleasure knowing he demoted me to put a northerner in command of the army.”

  “I take no such pleasure,” Finn replied calmly. Then he raised his voice so that his next words were audible to everyone. “I’ve disavowed all forms of personal vengeance, Goll. When I killed that giant for the widow, it didn’t bring back her son. It just left another corpse to feed the ravens. I learned that day that revenge accomplishes nothing. I don’t intend to pursue it.”

  Goll fought to keep the relief out of his voice as he said, “You have an old head on young shoulders.”

  “Not at all. I’m just mindful of the oath I took when I joined the Fíanna. I’m supposed to pursue the king’s interests, not my own.”

  In the firelight, Goll studied Finn’s face. The younger man looked earnest, sincere. Devoid of guile.

  But is he? Goll asked himself. He’s Cuhal’s son, and Cuhal was unpredictable.

  To distract himself from his doubts, Goll took up the telling of war stories. Unfortunately, he lacked the bardic gift. “That day when I took a spear through my body and walked away, it was lashing rain, and … och, I’m wrong, the sun was shining to split the stones. It was summer, and we were in … the spring, it was the spring. A fine, bright season, my third as Rígfénnid Fíanna. Or was it my fourth? Let me think …”

  The younger men yawned, stretched. One by one they rose and began constructing beds for themselves of moss and bracken, close to the fire. Occasionally one would say “Mmmm” out of politeness, to make Goll think they were listening to him.

  Finn went to urinate down the side of the mountain. Red Ridge followed him. “Is it so wonderful, being in the Fíanna?”

  “The best life in the world. Why? Are you interested?”

  “I might be. And then again, I might not.” A second stream of urine hissed into the cold air.

  “It’s not easy to join the Fíanna. You have to pass a number of hard tests.”

  “I’m sure I’m able for anything the rest of you can do.”

  Unseen, Finn’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Make water for longer than I can, then. And send it farther.”

  Red Ridge quickly tightened his muscles to control his flow, without stopping to realize that Finn must have done the same before issuing the challenge.

  One stream soon dwindled and died. The other did not.

  Embarrassed, Red Ridge tried to change the subject. “Why is that one-eyed man with you? He’s much older than the rest of you, a generation at least.”

  “This is my first command, actually. It’s customary to send an experienced officer like Goll in such a situation.”

  “Och, you don’t need him. I’d say you’ll do well enough without having an old one to carry.”

  “That old one,” said Finn, spacing out his words slowly for emphasis, “is more of a man than any of the young ones. There’s no one I’d rather have guarding my back.”

  Twice embarrassed, Red Ridge returned to the fire and cocooned himself inside his cloak.

  Meanwhile, Iruis was remarking to Goll, “Your young rígfénnid is most unusual.”

  “Because of his youth? Or his claim to magic?”

  “Because he disavows revenge. That goes against custom.”

  “Finn is the son,” Goll said sourly, “of a man who defied custom. Cuhal desired a woman who was far abo
ve his social rank. Her people were appalled. He’d made a reputation for himself and for many of the Fíanna as outlaws. Supported by the king of Tara, Cuhal and those like him took what they wanted without fear of reprisals. Eventually, Cuhal simply stole the woman against her will, ignoring her rights under the law as a free person. He stole not only the woman, but her jewelry. It was a great scandal. Her father, Tadg, a man of prestige and property, was so outraged that he cursed the Fíanna from a height.”

  Iruis whistled. “The most serious of curses! Did Cuhal not pay the father the woman’s honour price?”

  “Cuhal? He laughed at the very idea. He was too greedy, he wanted everything for himself. But what would you expect from a man of Clan Baiscne?”

  “You sound bitter, Goll.”

  “As a fénnid, I didn’t have much in those days, but I had my honour. Cuhal stole that from me by disgracing the Fíanna.”

  “I’m surprised you’re willing to serve under his son, then.”

  Goll gave Iruis a veiled look from his one eye “He’s my rígfénnid. I respect the discipline of the army.”

  The man they were discussing stood alone in the night. A blanket of cloud had enveloped the mountain. Finn savoured its taste on his lips: damp, chill, almost metallic, The wind had dropped, he noticed. The Bunen seemed to be holding its breath. Skin prickled on the back of his neck.

  He turned abruptly and went in search of Blamec. “Have you seen or heard anything?” he demanded of the sentry.

  “Not a thing. Finn. The only thing that’s moving is my hair glowing. Why do we have to take sentry duty up here anyway?”

  “Huamor requested the Fíanna because outlaws are overrunning the Bunen, or so he said. Suppose some of them saw Iruis coming onto Black Head with only one companion?”

  “What if they did? They wouldn’t follow him all the way up here.”

  “Why not? We came up here.”

  “We were chasing game.”

  “Outlaws might consider Iruis as game. The chieftain’s son, alone He’d be a prize worth taking.”

  “I still don’t think”

  “Go back to the fire and send me a sentry who won’t argue with me. Blamec.”