Old Friends: The Lost Tales of Fionn Mac Cumhaill

by Tom O'Neill

  ‘If he has learnt anything he might be able to pretend to be humble and start a new life for himself over there.’

  ‘But won’t he tell the story, tell them that their god doesn’t actually care one way or the other whether they take their ships out of our sea?’

  ‘He won’t. He’s not stupid. He knows they’d not be able to look at him as a reminder of how they’d been fooled. That they’d torture him for any other information and then let him fight to death with some wild animal for their sport.’

  ‘It’s a big chance to take.’

  ‘We’ve taken bigger chances tonight,’ said Mac Cumhaill.

  And that was the end of that.

  He’d promised Skellig his life if he did the job asked of him. Skellig had done that. So he would live. He mightn’t like landing up where he was, but he didn’t have friends to miss and at least he had his health and his voice.

  They made it back to the sailboat before dawn. Old Crothán was leaning over the side talking mournfully to Conán, seated on ropes behind him. He was more than surprised to see them.

  ‘What was that about? I thought you told us we’d have the whole night of a storm,’ said Mac Cumhaill.

  ‘She shocked me. I haven’t seen her throw up storm and then take it away as quickly as that in my life before. I’ve just been standing here debating with myself what it meant. If it happened while you were still inside the bay at your work, it would mean she was offering you up to them. If it happened after your work was done, it would mean that they are the ones who have displeased her and that the storm was her way of offering something in de-fence of the people of Éirinn.’

  ‘You’re nearly worse than they are, old man,’ said Mac Cumhaill. ‘The sea doesn’t care for any of us, one way or the other.’

  ‘Don’t say that too loud, now’, warned Crothán in an alarmed voice.

  The lads were all nodding earnestly in agreement. Mac Cumhaill was reminded that men of the saltwater really belonged to another domain. The kings and chiefs of the land could come and go as they pleased, as far as these boys were concerned. These lads all served only one mistress. From the young and bold to the old and wizened, they all addressed her with tender respect.

  ‘You don’t want to make my job of getting you home any harder,’ said the sea hound.

  He was very keen to put more water between him and the enemy shore before the cover of darkness started to lift. Nobody had any argument with that.

  As they got further, the full realisation of what they had just done and appreciation that they were still alive started to hit the young lads. One of them started shaking. The others became giddy with the relief and laughed like lunatics, as the old seaman’s yarns resumed, only taller. And Mac Cumhaill was right: the pain of hunger on the way back to their homes was one they were very glad to be alive to experience.

  Within weeks, stories were coming through from friendly traders. The new headman of the Crúca Róma had received communication from his gods. An invasion of Éirinn would be a catastrophe. All the omens were telling him that there might be cruel traps set by these bloodthirsty madmen. He would be remembered and deified as the great and wise leader who pulled civilization back from a quagmire. The irrefutable signal from the gods had been voiced clearly to him when Neptune had conjured up a freak storm and made two perfect ships fall like stones through the water, and the water had turned calm again in an instant. The likes of it had never been seen before.

  From then on, the excuses starting to filter down to the Crúca’s subjects became more colourful and varied. The Crúca had left Éire alone because they could get all they needed there through trade. They didn’t bother because it was too small. They stayed away because the place was peopled by ungovernable braggarts who wore nothing but paint on their moist, white flesh and the lime they wore in their matted hair got into their brains and made them insane and fearless.

  That was more or less the end of that episode. There was a spate of raids on traders’ boats over the next years, where they would be relieved of their satins and fine goods and sent on their way. They were especially likely to be put upon if it was known they were carrying drink. Cormac would get upset when his supply of wine started running low and Mac Cumhaill and Conán were always sent to investigate. But strangely, they had very little luck in catching the old sea hooligan responsible for all this misfortune. Traders became reluctant to visit these shores for many years afterwards. There is no account of how old Crothán ended up, whether the sea finally lost patience with him or whether he continues to amuse her in his raggedy little boat to this day.

  The brave currach men were rewarded with silver bracelets and Mac Cumhaill held a feast for them at his own clan homestead. He didn’t bother warning them not to tell anyone about their adventure as he knew this would be too hard a task for them. But he also knew that once they went back to entrusting their lives to the great waters of the west, their stories would become enmeshed in the tapestry of other colourful tales from those parts and would never get back to the traders.

  So this was one of the greatest battles that never was. A great victory never celebrated because nobody died. And because very few souls on this earth ever fully knew what really happened that time. Not even Cormac. Mac Cumhaill didn’t have faith in the king’s ability to hold his tongue when in foreign company.

  Years later, Mac Cumhaill met Cormac out trying to perfect the mill he was still attempting to build on the Slaney. The king said, ‘I don’t like to boast about being right. But as I think you’ll remember I predicted, the Crúca never did bother with us. You were too busy worrying about nothing.’

  Mac Cumhaill just said, ‘Yes, chief. The poets don’t exaggerate when they verse about your greatness. Indeed, you’d be a horse of a man if you could shite trotting.’

  Bal’s cure was short-lived and costly. When Dark found himself alone in the morning not only was his cough back, but he also now felt groggy and had a terrible headache. When he got back to the house he crept into his bed, groaning.

  Two hours later, when he woke up, he was still suffering and barely able to do the feeding, as each of the calves looked like they had two heads on them.

  In class that morning, Dark still couldn’t see straight. It took his best efforts just to sit calmly without letting his thoughts run out of control. When he shut his eyes he was getting a stream of weird dreams dancing in front of him. Like a pile of the worst nightmares all jumbled up together with bright lights and pounding noises thrown in. When he opened them again, Miss Sullivan still had two heads.

  He was extremely relieved when it started to go away. He was just quietly vowing that he would never trust Bal again when he realised that a single-headed Sullivan was looking at him and cracking her fingers. That was not good. She obviously hadn’t decided yet what new course of action to take with him now that she couldn’t put him out. She was apparently in the middle of some kind of quiz and she repeated the question she had just asked him.

  ‘Well, yourself there, are you deaf? What is the tallest mountain in Africa?’

  ‘Kilimanjaro,’ Dark said.

  She seemed surprised for a moment. Then she said, ‘Is that what you’ve written down? In case you hadn’t noticed, everyone else has been writing down answers for the past forty minutes. What have you written there?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Exactly. Well…’ Everyone was expecting the usual command to depart. Instead she said, ‘Write it down now.’

  There was a giggle around the class.

  ‘Where, Miss?’ said Dark.

  ‘On your hand, on your bag, where do you bloody well think? On your bloody geography copybook.’

  Dark didn’t do anything. He wasn’t trying to be smart. He didn’t have any particular desire to make her mad. He just didn’t happen to have brought any books with him that day. In fact, all that was in his rucksack was his sandwich, his DS, the telescopic rod and a plastic bag with a scoop of calf nuts he wanted to
feed to two weanlings that were in the road paddock, on his way down the lane later.

  ‘Are you refusing?’ she said, her voice rising dangerously.

  ‘No, Miss. Not really.’

  ‘Then up. Up you go and stand in the corner.’

  Dark went to the corner. Instead of looking out at the goings-on in the hedge, he was put facing the class. It wasn’t too great.

  But Sullivan had bigger problems. Again there was a murmur of insurrection. Sullivan was one teacher who had never shown cracks in her iron grip before. But now, the giggling from the others turned into whispers and then there was a long, elaborate belch from the back benches. When she looked around for the culprit, laughter and twenty random conversations that had been pressed beneath the surface since first bell broke out into the open as if there was no teacher in the room.

  ‘Hey, Quirke, who won the minor match last night?’

  ‘Yer one is uuuuseless, she’ll never win Idol.’

  ‘Canavan should have been on the team.’

  ‘Brendan is deadly cute.’

  ‘What did the cop say to you, Dark?’

  ‘Did he give you a few skelps?’

  Then there was a loud bang. Everyone jumped. A wood-backed duster that somebody had nicked from her desk earlier had just hit the metal blackboard with such force that only Cash was going to be the suspect. The laughter rose up. Julia Fortune fell off her chair she was laughing so much.

  For one moment, Sullivan seemed not to know what to do. Dark almost started to feel sorry for her. Then she walked slowly, dramatically, to the top of the class. Silence resumed as people wondered what she’d do next.

  She picked up the duster from the floor and she turned very slowly, completely composed again. She had a smile on her face.

  Very sweetly she asked, ‘Who wanted to know what the guard said to Mr McLean here?’

  Nobody answered. Absolute quiet had returned.

  ‘Was it…let me see now. Was it, maybe, you, Mr Cash? Did you want to know what the guard said to Mr McLean? Would you like me to arrange for you to find out? I’m sure they’d be interested in talking to a thug who tried to assault a female teacher with a dangerous projectile.’

  Cash went as white as a sheet of paper. Somehow, Sullivan had known what nerve to touch. Cash had a mortal fear of the guards.

  She carried on, very pleased with herself.

  ‘Ah. So you’re not prepared to respect me or any of your classmates. But you still have a little bit of respect for the…long arm, shall we say, of the law?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to hit you, Miss’, he stammered. ‘Honest to God.’

  Anyone could see that that was true. The duster went nowhere near hitting anyone. He had just wanted to make a bit of noise the same as everyone else.

  ‘Ah, so you admit you threw it! Leave God out of it. We bend over backwards for you people and this is the thanks we get. Go and tell the principal what you did. I’m sick of looking at your ugly mug.’

  David Cash left the classroom. He left the building. And they all watched through the window, including Miss Sullivan, as he left the school yard through the front gate. Sullivan carried on as if nothing had happened.

  That night the Old Man asked why Dark had such a sour look on him. Dark told them some kind of outline of what had happened.

  ‘Most peculiar carry-on,’ said the Old Man. ‘Maybe you should stay away from that school business altogether yourself for a day or two. Go down tomorrow morning to see what kind of form that young fellow is in and to see what kind of a pup he has for you.’

  That sounded like an excellent plan to Dark, and he felt lighter now for being back into the Old Man’s world.

  ‘How did you know about the far away mountain?’ asked the Old Man.

  Though he thought about it a bit, Dark couldn’t answer that question. TV probably.

  When Etain brought his cup, he spoke to her. ‘You didn’t let him put any of his cures in it tonight?’ nodding at Bal.

  She just laughed.

  The Old Man started. In the magic flames Dark was suddenly staring into something like a small fox hole and looking back out at him was the most twisted little man’s face he could ever have imagined.

  The Festering Bronloider

  Bronloider s were grumpy and fussy little creatures. Nobody knows where they came from or who they were related to. They were much smaller even than the average fear dearg or púca. And unlike our familiar little people, they were not elegant in any way. Their arms were too short to reach to their little feet when they bent over. They claimed they were unable to do anything for themselves, and unless big people in neighbouring houses brought them food, they yelled and moaned, saying that they were dying of starvation. They were always whining and complaining and were odd in a whole clatter of ways.

  Despite all their oddness, back in Fionn Mac Cumhaill’s time, any village having a bronloider choosing to live nearby was always considered very lucky indeed. And that wasn’t just because they were extremely rare. It was because of a very strange thing that happened to you when you were near one of these awkward little creatures. Your head would suddenly fill with warm and lovely dreams. Whatever it was that you liked most in the world would come right into your head in thoughts so clear you felt sure they were real. People who worried about where tomorrow’s food would come from would have their heads filled with the smells and images of feasting – there would be bountiful mountains of mutton, salmon, buttermilk and cake. Someone who liked flowers would imagine they were in an endless landscape of wonderful blooms, smelling as real as if they were walking amongst them. Someone fond of company would spend endless days by roaring fires surrounded by tellers of the most amazing stories, singers of the most wonderful songs, and everyone happy and never getting old. Fionn himself, when he was once near a bronloider, was overwhelmed with the feeling of sitting in a boat on a vast lake. There was a dry, cloudy sky above him. A small deer appeared at the distant edge and looked out at him from amongst the large trees warmly cladding the banks. And his mind was as clear of complications as the trout that were feeding undisturbed from the glassy surface.

  There was only one time ever when there was a problem with a bronloider. That was in a village above in the northwest, in the area of Baile Lugda. This one bronloider called Thum came to the settlement. People were very pleased, expecting the good hallucinations that others had spoken of. They had heard about all the beneficial effects they can have on people’s moods. And Daghda be blessed, but there were some people up there in those parts who would have needed a good lift just to get them to the normal level of mild satisfaction with life, not to speak of happiness.

  They were extra pleased when they discovered that their bronloider did not have the usual habit of grumbling about his dietary needs. This one seemed to demand no cake or meat at all from the locals. So, to people from that part of the world, it surely seemed that the Lughnasa celebrations had come early – they were going to get their good times at no cost at all to themselves.

  They didn’t have long to wait for the dreams nor for the unpleasant surprise that came with them. This particular little gent started having exactly the opposite effect of a normal bronloider. Anyone who came within two hundred paces of him would start having the most awful dreams. The dreams were different for everyone. Each person’s nightmare would be about their own worst fears. So people who were afraid of wolves would imagine themselves surrounded by a pack of the most ferocious, growling grey lads with the largest teeth and the most merciless eyes you could imagine. And people who were scared of heights would be jabbering wrecks, persecuted all day by the terrible certainty that they were standing on a cliff ledge, narrower than half the length of their feet, looking far down onto a raging sea smashing into the rocks in Moher.

  People most certainly hated having him around, especially because the children were not getting sleep at night. They were so upset by the horrible images that the bronloider had created in their minds.
They were seeing all kinds of horrors from huge waves washing across the countryside, great cracks opening in the ground taking them into a bottomless cavern, to doorways that turned into monsters’ mouths and swallowed everyone who walked through them. Many became terrified to close their eyes even for a blink.

  The people gathered and demanded that their chief ask the bronloider to move away. The chief agreed. He went to the tiny cabin made of a wad of mottled green and brown dock leaves, caked together with spit and bird droppings, where the darling little man now resided. As the chief approached, he could hear caoining. It sounded like the awful little horror was wailing at his unfortunate hedgehog companion for having taken some breadcrumbs off the ground. The chief had a strong feeling that this wasn’t going to go well. Then as he got closer, matters became worse. A nasty dream hit him like a stone in the middle of his forehead. He had always had a mortal fear of spiders, and now as he got closer to the bronloider ’s house, he thought he saw the most enormous pair of red eyes staring at him from behind a bush. He knew it was just a dream. He knew that this was impossible. But he also knew what those eyes belonged to. Though he was a brave person, his heart almost stopped with fear as the gigantic spider stepped out from behind the bush and sneered at him. The poor man stood his ground for a few seconds more and then he turned and ran away from the imaginary creature faster than he had ever run in his life before.

  Two days later, he was still shaking, and it was said he was never fully right in the head after that. He was certainly now in full agreement with the other villagers that they needed help. A messenger boy was sent for Fionn. Mac Cumhaill had never heard of such a problem and was very curious. He came at once. The people described their predicament in more detail than he would have preferred. Mac Cumhaill didn’t need much convincing about the bad currents that were in the dream air around those parts. He had had a poor feeling descend upon him from several miles back.