Old Friends: The Lost Tales of Fionn Mac Cumhaill

by Tom O'Neill

  He went down to the coast intending to assess the likely landing points of the incoming soldiers. But when he got to a good lookout position, he was most surprised to see only two ships. They were certainly of the Thinlia design. They were already at anchor, far out in the bay, but only one small rowing boat was coming ashore. Mac Cumhaill ran down to the beach to meet the visitors, who clearly were not yet ready for war, and to ensure that none of his men attacked them out of nervousness.

  When they landed, a stringy grey man emerged dressed in fancy regalia and ornamented with all kinds of decorations and ribbons and medals. The get-up of one of their senior army leaders, Mac Cumhaill assumed. His ear twitched nervously and he had a scarred face and a tense smile on his crooked lips. He opened his arms to embrace Mac Cumhaill, in the way the Thinliers did with every greeting. Mac Cumhaill disliked that custom, keeping his rare hugs for his family, and for them only on special occasions. But he was so relieved that his people might be spared a war that he gladly hugged the thin general, who started coughing as if he was being choked.

  ‘We’ve come in peace, Mr Mac Cumhaill,’ said the general.

  Mac Cumhaill couldn’t hide his puzzlement and said, ‘What about your queen?’

  ‘We’ve been told all that happened. And her servants and guards have told of the fairness you showed in letting them go. You have every right to punish her for her crime.’

  ‘Well, that is good news indeed,’ said Mac Cumhaill. ‘If you’d like to take her home, I’m sure I can convince Cormac to release her on assurance that she’ll never come back here.’

  ‘Well, that’s the other thing. We were tired of her and while she was away courting you,’ the general laughed, ‘we took the opportunity to replace her with a kinder, smarter queen.’

  All the men on the brow of the hill looked down anxiously, trying to hear what was being said. They relaxed when they heard Mac Cumhaill laughing. ‘So. I take it that you are not in a hurry to have Tizzie back then?’

  ‘More than that,’ said the general. ‘In fact, we’ve been sent to assure you that the longer you keep her here, the more secure and long-lasting will be your peace pact with the people of Thinlia.’

  The general’s ships were replenished and his crews rested, though Diarmuid did not volunteer to organise any reception parties. Mac Cumhaill waved the men of Thinlia goodbye as they disappeared out of the harbour and headed back home.

  When he laid his head on the cosy feather cushion next to Úna that night, he sighed, ‘I’m relieved that that day is done and wouldn’t want one like it again for a while.’

  ‘Well, an awful war averted is indeed something to be mightily relieved about,’ said Úna.

  ‘Not just that,’ said Mac Cumhaill. ‘It’s the headache I have from spending a day with a whole crew of jittery, squabbling Thinliers – only eased as the noisy bugles of their boats disappeared across the horizon.’

  When Úna gave out to him for being a narrow-minded bog man, unappreciative of other sophisticated cultures, he was tempted to mention Tizzie’s observations about her. But on balance he thought it better to let Úna feel she’d got one up on him than to risk having her start a new war.

  After some time in captivity, Tizzie calmed down dramatically and was released. At Cormac’s insistence, she was trained to help the kitchen staff at Tara and to help the family of the old man who’d died as a result of her vapours. Cormac would call in regularly to see if she had grown more fond of him, which she, for some reason, even in her diminished circumstances, never did.

  Of course, she was never allowed to help with the preparation of food.

  Dark gathered himself to head home. He would have been happy enough to stay longer. But as usual with the dawn, the birds took their early morning turn as rulers of the country.

  He felt lonely as he trudged home.

  The principal, Magill, had been waiting at the gate. When Dark’s mother stopped to drop Dark off, he almost ran over to the car. He was agitated. He leaned in the passenger door and waved at Dark’s mother like he was thumbing a lift.

  ‘Would you come into my office for a minute, young lady?’

  Dark could see that his mother was quite dumb-founded at the way she was being spoken to, and she followed Magill almost like another schoolkid would. She even left the door of her car open. Some of the lads from Dark’s class went down to pass knowledgeable-sounding comments about the overhead valve train and the CO2 emissions, and mainly to shut the door for her.

  As they walked, Magill tried to maintain some appearance of manners.

  ‘I am very honoured at being granted a meeting with you,’ he said. ‘A pity I have to virtually ambush you to get it.’

  ‘Yes, that is a pity,’ said Dark’s mother timidly.

  ‘Well, if you had troubled yourself to answer the letters I sent you, you might have saved us both the bother.’

  His mother stopped and was about to say, ‘What letters?’ when she looked at Dark and walked on with the principal.

  Just as she was about to disappear into the building after him, her phone rang. Dark knew the sound – it was just an alarm that went off every morning to remind her to call her office with some sales numbers. But today it was like a call transforming her back from a schoolgirl into a working woman. She turned around at the school door, picked the phone out of her bag and put it to her ear. She turned away slightly and started talking into the phone. Then she turned and said, ‘Sorry Mr Magill. Something urgent. I really have to dash. But I will drop in very soon.’

  When she was back in the yard walking briskly past Dark, she looked into his eyes and said, ‘Arthur?’

  ‘Yes, Mam?’

  ‘Will you bring me those letters this evening so I can see what this Mr Magill is concerned about.’

  ‘Sorry, Mam.’

  ‘I need you to help me a little with this situation, love,’ she said.

  Chronic kindness was her biggest failing. Dark could never remember a minute when she had got really angry with him. Even at the funeral she had swallowed back her own tears, she was so focused on trying to say and do what she thought would be good for him.

  Dark intercepted letters only when he knew they’d upset her. What was the point of her reading such letters when they’d have no other result? As far as he remembered, the last letter from the school said something like, Dear Ms McLean, Would you be so good as to attend a meeting with me on such and such a date so that we can find a constructive intervention to deal with your son’s learning difficulties…

  When Dark reached the safety of the rath that night, the Old Man met him with the usual enquiries. He said, ‘Things are good at school?’

  ‘The finest,’ said Dark.

  ‘And what are you going to do about those letters you gave the geese to eat?’

  Dark was a little bit surprised. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Not much, I’d say,’ laughed the Old Man, ‘unless you think you’ll be able to reconstruct them from the droppings of those fine ladies.’

  ‘Maybe she’ll forget about it,’ said Dark.

  The Old Man just looked at him uncomfortably. Eventually, everyone else seemed to be getting restless at the fire and the fairy girl was impatiently holding his cup when the Old Man said, ‘Come and sit with us then, and leave other worries for another day.’

  Fathach Island

  One day Mac Cumhaill was walking along a white sand headland on the southwest coast of Corca Dhuibhne. He was thinking how quiet the country had become and even though that was certainly a good thing, he had to admit that he was feeling a bit flat and restless. He was not sure what to do with himself. Úna would have preferred him to be bringing manure out to prepare the field for barley and minding lambs. But the clan were well able to do that without him, and he had already spent the last three months of winter hanging around the home doing very little other than talking with neighbours.

  He wanted to be away now. He didn’t like hunting at this time of year, w
hen animals and birds were giving birth and minding young. So, two weeks back, he had told Úna he was going out for a short walk, to take a wander around the country and see how the first peep of spring was finding people.

  He was spotted by a group of fishermen about to launch three currachs. Probably their first time out this year. It was early for them to be going but the weather was unusually calm. Fionn was guessing that the salted fish at home was running out, and hungry eyes looking at them, as well as the same springtime restlessness as was agitating himself, had decided these people to venture out to try their luck.

  The big lump of a stranger kicking up bits of seaweed must have been a strange sight to them. They sent a boy over to invite him to join them.

  Sea fishing wasn’t exactly Mac Cumhaill’s greatest passion, but he thought he could do worse that day.

  When he stepped over to them, he introduced himself. ‘I’m a son of Cumhall and I’d be very honoured to be in your company on this fine day.’

  The oldest of the Cinnéide clan, a little man with a grey beard and a weary face, stood creakily from his stumpy stool amongst the lines at the front of one of the currachs. The others went silent.

  He introduced himself croakily as Nóirín’s Caoimhín, and said, ‘It’s our honour to have you with us Mac Cumhaill, and a very lovely day it is indeed.’

  Affer that, he sat back down and resumed his blank stare out to sea.

  The other clan members were very shocked. Ulan Cinnéide, who was in charge of the operation, and was himself quite elderly, explained later to Mac Cumhaill that it was the first time his father had spoken in about five years.

  ‘Did he suffer some great shock or how did he lose the voice?’ asked Mac Cumhaill.

  ‘Not that,’ said Ulan. ‘It is just that the sea has made him so old and tired. It is one thing to be old and remember your parents and their parents and to feel sad at how they have all gone away from you. It is another to have lost many beloved young people, taken by her’ – he nodded at the harmless-looking waters – ‘before their proper time. It’s gone that almost nothing excites him or bothers him enough to throw words at it.’

  They started rowing out towards a favourite strip, where shoals of large fish were often hunting smaller ones at this time of year. The day was warm and was becoming even more eerily calm for any time of year, let alone so early in the spring. It was so calm that the water was smooth as jelly.

  They weren’t striking any fish. But they just kept rowing. Eventually, they realised that they had rowed further out than usual.

  Ulan gave a shout to the other boats: ‘It’s time to head back,’ he shouted.

  But Mac Cumhaill, for some reason, was gripped by a desire to go further out. Since the sea was so calm, Ulan didn’t see any harm in it. He asked the old man, who nodded agreement. He told the others that his boat would follow them in later.

  Soon enough, this unusual journey had taken them to beyond the point from which they could still see any land. This was breaking a Cinnéide rule - one that had often left the Cinnéide clan with smaller catches, but with fewer sacrifices to the ocean than other families.

  As they went further and further, Mac Cumhaill kept saying, ‘Come on now, just a little more.’ The four oarsmen started to get fearful. It was too far. They’d be too tired to row back. This went against every thread of wisdom that life had sewn into them.

  ‘It’ll be gone dark in a couple of hours, it’s still early in the year, Fionn Mac Cumhaill,’ said Ulan. ‘We can’t be abroad after dark, as there are many creatures of the sea that do not look favourably on that.’

  ‘Don’t worry about getting back. I’ll help with the rowing,’ Mac Cumhaill said.

  When he took over a set of oars, they picked up great speed and headed ever further. It wasn’t a fair thing for him to have done so. He knew they had a fear of being further out than anyone had ever been. He knew they feared reaching a deep hole in the sea, or meeting a giant sea cat intent on taking them down to reside in her damp domain. He was ready for what they might meet, but he knew in his heart it wasn’t fair to be dragging these people into mortal danger just because of his own restlessness. He didn’t know why he had become so fixed on this idea as he had no plan behind it or no idea of what it was he expected to find if he kept going out in a westerly direction.

  In the end, the other men were complaining so much that Mac Cumhaill could not keep them going anymore. Ulan pulled the little flask of water from Brigid’s well that they always kept under the front seat of the currach, and sprinkled it over everyone present. Just as he was starting to turn the boat, old Caoimhín stood up and pointed with his crooked blackthorn stick.

  ‘Look ahead.’

  ‘I see nothing,’ said the boy.

  ‘Me neither,’ said his uncle.

  But Mac Cumhaill also saw and he knew the strangeness in the old man’s voice. There was not supposed to be land out there.

  They had to pull the boat for another hour before the others could see what Mac Cumhaill and the old man had been pointing at. Once they did, they all regained their energy. Fuelled by curiosity and excitement, they rowed quickly. As they got closer, they could make out a lovely, green island with extremely tall trees and long grass.

  Closer still, they could hear the bare ripple of the blue water on the sandy shore. There would be no danger bringing the boat right in close. They could make out fruit on the trees behind. And fresh streams rolling down gentle hills. This definitely wasn’t right. Brigid’s day wasn’t even passed. No birds should have been nesting yet. Surely no natural tree could be fruiting at this time of the year. But it looked so good that they all, Fionn included, were overcome with the desire to go ashore straight away.

  On shore, they walked across the golden sand to a big patch of soft grass, where they settled down for a rest. They refreshed themselves with delicious cold water from a tumbling stream.

  After some time, there was a rustling in the trees above them.

  ‘What was that?’ said Mac Cumhaill. The others didn’t hear.

  Next time it was much louder and the rest heard too.

  The rustling continued, and after some time they began to ignore it. They got back to eating guavas and other perfect fruit. Then Mac Cumhaill heard a groan. He looked at the fisherman who’d made the sound and said, ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  The fisherman just grunted and pointed behind Mac Cumhaill like a madman.

  ‘It’s... it’s... it’s a gigantic creature.’

  There was a creature walking slowly towards Mac Cumhaill. And it was a very large gentleman, right enough. It was taller than the tallest trees. Its shadow moved before it, big enough to darken the entire headland that they now stood on. It was covered from its single-toed feet right to the top of its round head, in stripes. Amber and black stripes. It had three arms that it seemed unsure of what to do with.

  Mac Cumhaill drew his sword and stood to face the enormous thing. It reached out one of its huge two-fingered hands. The situation was desperate. There was no way Mac Cumhaill could imagine being able to deal with it. Even if this enormous monster could be kept at bay for a while, there were surely more. He didn’t have any other armed man with him. They had no hope of reaching the boat with the old man so hobbled, and even if they did, this thing would be able to wade deep into the sea in one or two steps and just pick them up as they tried to row away.

  But he tried to keep up heart. He did all he could do. He swung his large metal companion in a desperate attempt to protect them. He assumed the fathach would retreat from the swinging sword. But it didn’t.

  ‘Its skin is so tough,’ said one of the fishermen who had now retreated back down to the waterfront, ‘that it knows a sword can do nothing to it.’

  However, as the hand came closer, Mac Cumhaill took his chances and made one more almighty swing at it, this time not as a warning. The hand fell right off. The large thing immediately let out a terrible cry and stood bolt upright
for an instant. They thought they were all as good as dead at that point. But then it turned and ran off with the other two hands holding the remains of the third.

  Mac Cumhaill immediately suspected he had made a terrible mistake. He threw down his sword and walked slowly towards the trees. The fishermen thought he had gone mad and tried to call him back. But they didn’t follow him.

  For days, Mac Cumhaill listened to the sounds of the fathach s talking to each other from hiding places that he could easily see, but did not want to disturb. He began to understand their language. What he learnt astonished him. The enormous creatures were all scared and confused. They had never seen a thing like a sword before. They had no understanding of why anyone would want to carry sharpened metal that could do such terrible damage. They had never known any creature to hurt another.

  He started talking to them in their own language.

  ‘I want to apologise a thousand times for what I have done. Myself and my people were afraid. And fear sometimes makes my people lash out without listening or thinking. I don’t know how I can make it up to the person whose hand I cut off.’

  He expected that it would take days of this kind of talk, if there was ever any chance they would come to trust him. And he expected that at best they would then start negotiating a high reward from him for what he had done. But he was prepared to pay it as he knew he had done wrong and Fionn Mac Cumhaill had seen too many wrongs left undone in his life. He had a determination in those days that he personally would never leave further wrongs behind him.

  He was surprised, though. Within minutes of him starting his appeasing talk to them, they started to pop their heads out of the caves and from behind the trees that they thought hid them. Obviously, they had never known a lie either and so to them there was no reason at all to doubt what Mac Cumhaill was saying. Soon they were gathering around him, making chortling noises. Even the one with only two hands.