by Tom O'Neill
‘I betrayed nobody,’ said Mac Cumhaill, not very adamantly. Then he looked pathetically back at Matha and asked, ‘Did I?’
‘What do I know about anything?’ asked Matha.
‘Traitor? Fionn Mac Cumhaill, am I a traitor?’ said another voice. Another person. Standing right in front of Matha. About his own height. He was a soldier dressed in the ordinary tunic of a member of the Fianna. He had his sword drawn.
Mac Cumhaill looked up. For some reason, this was the first of the visitors he could see and the first time Matha saw any spirit of life in him. He jumped to his feet and pulled his own sword. ‘By Daghda, that is surely what you are, Midac! I never thought I’d see your wicked face again. The son of an enemy invader and I saved you. I brought you up as my own, trained you in the ways of the Fianna, gave you lands and wealth, and all... all for you to turn on me and bring foreign armies to wreak great destruction in our lands.’
‘How was this betrayal? Did you not kill my father? To honour him was all I sought. All my life had only that one purpose: That is what we call loyalty, not betrayal. What kind of weakness is on your mind?’
‘I will not allow you to twist my recollections,’ said Mac Cumhaill, drumming up a shaky anger.
‘But the “great Fionn Mac Cumhaill” is different,’ continued the taunting soldier. ‘You are not as good as most soldiers at forgiving yourself for killing other people’s sons. Because you have knowledge. How often do you curse that salmon? You have knowledge that sometimes you can’t quieten. Deep down you always know you are not blameless. That in fact you may be more guilty than many you have cut down. And this is not knowledge that is good for you, is it now, Fionn Mac Cumhaill? It worries you sick that you aren’t able to hold to the same high standards that you preach.’
‘The only consistent person is a dead person,’ said Mac Cumhaill.
‘Allow me then to fix you,’ said Midac, jumping forward.
This time Mac Cumhaill wanted to fight. He was raving and found the strength of a madman, desperate to silence this Midac. His sword clashed with the sword of Midac. It did not last long. Mac Cumhaill was by far the faster and more powerful. Midac soon tired from his defence. He fell over and his voice changed to pleading. Mac Cumhaill leapt in the air to bring his sword down on the dead man. As the metal pierced the defenceless body driven by confusion, fear and rage, he saw that it wasn’t who he thought at all. Not Midac, but a smiling face looking up at him and saying, ‘Father, what are you doing to me?’
The name he uttered as he fell weeping uncontrollably was the first name that Matha recognised all day. The name that he had been told by Conán and Dreoilín should never be uttered in Fionn’s presence. It was the name of his son who had been slain in a battle at the palace of the rowans. ‘Fiachna!’ Mac Cumhaill sobbed. ‘My darling boy! I would give the whole world ...’
Beneath his sword Fionn saw the face of his beloved son Fiachna.
Matha didn’t know what to say or do. He didn’t know what worse could come. He took the sword from the ground where it was stuck since Midac and Fiachna had disappeared. With the beautiful instrument that had done so much damage in its life and that had recently nearly killed himself, he started hacking at the magical tree. He knew very well that this was a terrible risk. Only misfortune followed those who cut a rowan.
But somewhere vaguely inside him he hoped that whatever accursed ability had allowed him to see Mac Cumhaill’s parade of horror, would also protect him from the rowan. Once he had started, he hacked and chopped with all his injured might, first cutting all the branches down and then going at the main trunk. The frenzy of his work soon made him stop feeling the pains in his head and chest and stomach. He didn’t ease until it was in ribbons on the ground. And then he picked up the branches and flung them in every direction in frenzy.
When he had composed himself he sat next to Mac Cumhaill and pleaded with him to find the strength to get on his feet and just put one foot in front of the other. To get away from this valley of torture. But Mac Cumhaill was still weeping and not able to move from the spot. ‘I will stay here forever,’ he said. ‘I cannot take them with me and I cannot desert them again.’
‘Get away from me, stranger,’ he said softly, looking at Matha with the eyes of a helpless child. ‘I have never done anything for you. Or for anyone else. You don’t owe me any kindness. Save yourself. It’s all over for me. You must leave this place. It will soon be night and far worse anguish will creep in here under the blanket of darkness and it will take you down into the pits of the earth along with me.’
As if by Mac Cumhaill saying it, the long shadows began stretching across the valley. The sun disappeared from view over the western wall of this basin. And the longest day of Matha’s life was coming to an end. As a shadow enveloped him, he was weak with fear of what would happen next. There was no way he could move the great hulk of Mac Cumhaill’s body to safety.
He started thinking other thoughts. Mac Cumhaill’s mind was already gone. Why should he not then take his advice and save himself? Why should he stay here putting himself in danger, to save a mere living corpse, a wreck? A corpse, at that, which had so recently damaged him. He had been duped into coming here in the first place, doing Dreoilín’s work. He wasn’t bound by bonds of love, like Innsa. He wasn’t tied by oath and reinforced by innocent belief in good, like Cáel. He was only here by trickery. How much did Dreoilín or any of them care about him? Yes, Dreoilín had some fondness for him, he had not imagined that. But he was still prepared to sacrifice him in a vague hope that he could somehow save Mac Cumhaill. As if he, a young man barely experienced in the world, could be expected to see a way.
Thinking like this, Matha was building his strength. Soon he was only debating whether he should say farewell to the muttering lump on the ground, or just leave without Mac Cumhaill noticing. As he stood, he felt a breath on his back. And its distinct waft of decay stung his nostrils. It was too late. The first of the night visitations had started. At first, he didn’t dare turn to see.
Another breath and yet no taunting voice nor whining pitiful story. And he noticed the breath was slightly warm. He turned. What was there might have frightened him earlier that day, but now it seemed a comfort. It was Bolcán’s injured scrawny horse. Close up, he saw an oozing gash the size of his head in the animal’s chest and one of its forelegs was dragging unnaturally, broken from an axe blow no doubt in the same battle that cost its master his life. At least the master was absent on this occasion, though Matha guessed he would not be far behind.
The horse was not hostile to him. He knew horses well enough to see that. It was looking for his company. He noticed for the first time how big it was. He started wondering. Was there any way he could ask this animal to help him with Mac Cumhaill. But he put the idea away. The animal had its own misfortunes to deal with. It would be a further cruelty to ask it to try to pull this enormous bulk of dead weight on its three working legs and its wasted muscles.
Then he heard the yells of Bolcán in the distance, calling, ‘Perchon! PERCHON! Come to me you useless donkey!’
Perchon knew what Matha wanted and didn’t wait for him to ask. He moved over in front of Mac Cumhaill. Matha didn’t think further. He patted the horse and looked in his eye, speaking softly to him. ‘You want freedom? Come with me. I’m no longer sure that my master is a much better one than your own, but I want to get him over that hill so he has a chance to repent for the injuries he has caused.’
Then he cut the ropes of Perchon’s bridle and tied them around Mac Cumhaill’s chest. Mac Cumhaill didn’t resist or even ask what Matha was doing. He was already dreading the return of Bolcán, whose voice was getting closer with every shout. He tied the rope to the leather rigging of Bolcán’s heavy saddle.
He had no faith. It would normally take two healthy horses to pull Mac Cumhaill and that was when he had wheels under him in a chariot. He was sure Perchon was going to disappear into a pile of skin and skeleton as soon as the p
ull came. But anyway, he took hold of the rope so as to give what little help he could and said, ‘Good enough, my friend, whenever you are ready.’
Instead of collapsing, unseen muscle tensed inside Perchon’s skin. He heaved forward on his three legs and Mac Cumhaill swore as he fell over on his side. The horse took another step and then, sensing that he had to keep going once he had his huge cargo moving, he put almighty heaving and snorting into it and started to gain speed up the stony hillside. Soon he was going so fast that Matha had to run to keep up. Mac Cumhaill was knocking into tree stumps and bouncing off rocks like he was as light as a sack of wool. As fast as they went, the deformed Bolcán and the giant Ógarmach were catching up quickly and now they were almost at Mac Cumhaill’s heels. Mac Cumhaill was delirious, shouting and laughing with every hard knock and scrape, ‘Oh welcome merciful closure, that is the way. Go ahead and pulverise my senses from me.’
Not a minute later they were in a small outcrop of blackthorn bushes on the outer edge of a forest. Mac Cumhaill was wedged between two large tree stumps. The horse had slipped out of the leather straps and ropes. All that was left of the beautiful animal was a moonlight shadow that Matha saw disappear into the trees beyond the valley. Back down the hill Bolcán’s voice was fading. A dog was barking in the distance.
They were out.
It took a while lying there on the ground in silence for Matha to trust that it was finished. It took Mac Cumhaill even longer. But when he eventually sat up and looked around he said, ‘Matha, is that you? What has you out here on a wild night like this?’
Matha didn’t answer.
Then Mac Cumhaill broke the stumps that he was trapped between and stood up. He was confused. ‘I’m not going to say anything bad about you, Matha, but would you think carefully before you explain to me how I’m covered in bruises and knotted up in horse ropes. What were you trying to do to me?’
Matha still didn’t answer.
Then a cloud removed itself from the moon and Mac Cumhaill put Matha under closer scrutiny. ‘And you? With your bloody eyes and all hunched up, what happened to you?’
‘Can we go back to Tara and I will tell you there?’ Matha said.
‘Aha, now that we are out on this fine night, we might as well wander a while,’ said Mac Cumhaill. ‘There is a little valley that is the only one in Éirinn I have never set foot in. I set out looking for it last evening and lost track of time and thought. But I know it is not far from here. I am always warned by the druids not to enter. But I am not afraid of the woeful warnings of priests. Come with me. I believe it is not far from here, to the west.’
Matha looked up into Mac Cumhaill’s eyes and said, ‘You can go there alone, but I am going east.’
‘What kind of talk is that?’ said Mac Cumhaill. ‘You talk just like one of the priests now, with your dark muttering.’
‘You can go there and revisit Bolcán,’ said Matha.
Mac Cumhaill looked around wildly for a moment. Then he grabbed Matha by the tunic and pulled him to him, whispering in panic, ‘How do you know about Bolcán? Ah, I see, Dreoilín has been telling you a few names to frighten me into coming home. Listen to me now, sonny, it’s dangerous to splash another man’s past into his face. Be fair wide. I don’t know you well enough to miss you when I leave you for wild boar to eat. I’ll go alone to the valley.’
Matha knew there was the only one way he could stop Mac Cumhaill going back. He braced himself for another hammering as he continued, ‘And go and explain to Innsa why you sent him to fight when in your heart you knew he was too gentle to defend himself. And explain to Fiachna why you can’t take him and his foster brother home to rest.’
‘Where did you learn my thoughts about Innsa?’ Mac Cumhaill stopped moving. He dropped Matha. He whispered now like a dying man. ‘I never told anyone. And Fiachna? What kind of dark spirit are you? Have you seen them? How are they?’ He looked down at where Matha had fallen.
‘Now do you know what happened to my head and why I am crumpled?’ Matha picked himself up. ‘I was trying to save a lunatic from himself.’
The look Mac Cumhaill gave Matha changed from anger to fear. ‘Nobody knows those things that have never escaped my nightmares. You know too much about me. Who are you really?’
‘Don’t think further, but let us go to the east,’ said Matha.
It was a very strange turn of events for Matha, to have Mac Cumhaill following his instruction meekly. They walked silently for a while.
Only when they saw the fires of Tara ahead did Mac Cumhaill get more life back in his step. While they were still in the silent shadows beyond the outer enclosure, Mac Cumhaill stopped and turned to Matha. ‘I don’t know exactly what you have seen. Or how you have seen it. But can I ask you to keep it to yourself? I ask not as a commander. I ask as another person. What you have seen is mine alone to bear.’
‘I will,’ said Matha.
‘One thing I am sure you understand now is why most soldiers love each other’s company best. The people and the King want us to keep their peace and freedom. They do not want to know the price at which it comes. That knowledge is left for us soldiers to carry delicately between us. We keep busy and laugh and we know what to celebrate and what to jeer about. And we also know what to never mention. A soldier grown in bravery is often a man whose internal enemies have started to become more terrifying to him than any external ones. Such a man is brave because he has gone from fearing death to calling out for its mercy. The best way for a soldier is to keep soldiering till he is killed by another.’
When the two of them entered the central camp supporting each other, and went over to the fire, there was a commotion about their injuries. Brehons and healers were asking what vagabonds had set upon them. Bards were asking what heroic exploits could be recorded for future generations.
Dreoilín flew over and said to Matha, ‘Well, I take it you found him in the Valley of Regrets?’
Matha didn’t answer.
‘I am sorry boy, but you were the best one I could send to rescue him. I guessed you’d be able to see the spirits. I would have gone there myself but there’s a savage three-legged horse in that valley and, well, you made the mistake of mentioning that mad horses have a grá for you. That horse would have kicked me or anyone else to death.’
‘Guessed? With every respect, great Dreoilín,’ said Matha, trying to bite back great anger, ‘it was only a stroke of luck that I didn’t die with Mac Cumhaill in there.’
‘Well, you didn’t, did you?’ said Dreoilín with steel in his eye. ‘What are you staring at? You think I should have put your safety above any other consideration? I am not your mother.’
Matha was shocked. He had never seen such hardness in anyone here.
‘Do you think the King provides the sheep you so ably help us to eat,’ Dreoilín continued, ‘only so that we gather here every day for the purpose of shouting and telling fibs? Protecting to the death is the job of every man and woman of the Fianna. There is no life here that cannot be thrown into that purpose. If you didn’t learn that much in the valley, then this is not the place for you to be.’
‘I didn’t say I would not have gone,’ said Matha. He probably wouldn’t have. But his pain and injuries were enough that he didn’t need Dreoilín’s sore words on top of them. He added with some pleasure, ‘Anyway, I have bad news for you. That “savage” horse is now at large in the woods on this side of the valley. And I won’t be helping anyone who wants to harm him. He earned his freedom, more luck to him.’
Dreoilín was frowning about this news when they were interrupted by a laugh from Conán, who they hadn’t noticed sitting at the back of the fire waiting for all the fussing about injuries and poultices to die down. ‘That’s the talk, lad, don’t let that miserable old worrier torment you!’
Then he stood up to shout across the camp at Mac Cumhaill, ‘Aha! Fionn Mac Cumhaill, you big gom! You thought you could wander into the Valley of Regrets as if you were the only one of us w
ith none! Ha! I hope they reminded you that the next time a big stout Gaul woman follows you home, you should send her straight back!’
Mac Cumhaill gave his old friend Conán the son of Liath a slightly worried look. He rubbed his eyes and ears where Liath’s stick had poked them just a few hours before. Then he hesitantly joined the laughing.
Chapter 9
SUSPICIONS OF WITCHCRAFT
And there Dark was, alone yet again in the depths of the cold wet rath with gossamer everywhere as if there’d been no human through the place in a thousand lifetimes.
He made his way back across the bog. Again he avoided the lower field, walking along by the low stone wall to get to the gate at the far end.
He was only half way along when he thought he saw a figure, a human, run into the stones ahead of him. He discovered that he was out of capacity for shock or fear. Instead of running away he just walked on till he got to the spot. There was no gap in the wall under the elder bush there, and no person could have been hiding in it. He was about to move on when he heard a voice. He looked again but still couldn’t see anything.
‘That’s a grand night now all the same,’ the woman’s voice repeated.
Dark didn’t respond.
‘No voice? No matter,’ the woman sighed. ‘You did well with that fellow the other night. Don’t ever let the talk of a person like that get past your ears because if you give him one chance, if you consider for just one minute whatever dirty proposition he is putting to you, he will get directly to your heart and poison it.’
‘I did consider it. For a lot more than one minute. Who are you?’ asked Dark.
‘Don’t mind that. There’s a bit of stuff that you were looking for?’
‘Are you ... Noble Lady?’
