Finn's Choice

by Darby Karchut

  Eighteen

  A gust of wind and swirling mist. The slap of his wet hair in his eyes. Voices shouting. Finn found himself on the outside of the Ring, behind one of the standing stones. The chilly fog wrapped around him again. He didn’t care. Elation and relief washed over him like the first warming rays of a rising sun.

  Peering around the stone, he could see the others clustered together near the dolmen, all speaking at once and gesturing. To one side, Gideon stood by himself. The Knight stared into the distance. Even from several yards away, Finn could see the desolation on his master’s face. Not wanting him to grieve one second longer, he stepped out from behind the pillar.

  “Gideon!” He hurried toward his master. Who was more than that. He broke into a run and flung himself at the man.

  Not caring what his friends thought—well, maybe a little—he hugged his master, who hugged him back with a fierceness that matched Finn’s own. They stepped back, clasping each other’s forearms.

  “Are you okay, Gideon?”

  “I am, thanks to you.” He glanced over Finn’s shoulder. “And the Scáthach? Will she…?”

  “No. She said I passed the test. I’ll explain later.” Thinking back to his conversation with her, he added, “She’s not as creepy as I first thought.”

  “Finn!”

  Lochlan, with Tara on his heels and the other Knights behind them, raced over. Hugs and slaps on the back followed. As Finn recounted what had transpired between himself and the goddess, their smiles grew larger.

  “You mean, you don’t have to stay here?” Tara said. “You can come home?”

  “Yup.”

  “And she looked at the whole thing with Griffin and Iona as simply ‘ally building?’” Lochlan made quote-y fingers in the air. “And not us tricking her?”

  Finn shrugged. “I guess so. But I wasn’t going to debate her about it, you know.” He kept glancing at his master, who was smiling as he talked with the other Knights.

  They started down the hill, hurrying to reach the beach before Sean Murphy left them there. Overhead, the midday sun burned away the last shreds of fog. Underfoot, the grass, still green even in late autumn, sparkled with droplets, and all around them, the sea was a blue-gray carpet with tufts of white.

  Tara fell in beside him, followed by Lochlan on her far side. As they walked in silence in the wake of their masters, Mac Roth’s words came back to Finn.

  “I mean, Finnegan MacCullen, that we Celts believe our fates are interwoven with the world around us. Much like a Celtic knot that twists and coils around in a pattern almost too complex to comprehend in whole. But, in the end, it brings us back to where we are supposed to be.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Life has a way of turning out how it was meant to. For good or for ill, you were meant to be Gideon Black Hand’s apprentice—this is your fate. For that is how we discovered you are the Spear, which saved a great many of our people. And mayhap will save even more in the future.”

  “But if we can bring back dead people who shouldn’t be dead, like Gideon’s wife and son, shouldn’t we try to do that?”

  Mac Roth shook his head. “No, we should not. For fate is a mighty river, and we are nothing more than twigs in the flood.”

  “Um, guys? I need to ask Gideon something,” Finn said to his friends. Lengthening his stride, he caught up with his master. “Gideon?”

  “Finn.”

  “Can I ask you something? In private.” They slowed and waited until the others went ahead, then Finn spoke in a low tone. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? About the MacCullen line.”

  Guilt flooded Gideon’s face. “She told you, then? The Scáthach? I thought as much, for she had asked me if you knew.”

  “So, why didn’t you tell me about it when we found out I was the Spear? Or during the Festival?” A dismal thought slowed his stride. “Are you…are you ashamed of me? Or don’t want—”

  “No!” His master pulled him to one side. “No, not a bit. How could you ever think that, lad?”

  “Then why?”

  Gideon stared toward the mainland, keeping his eyes locked on the high hills of the Burren. “I should have. At first, I kept silent out of respect for the love you bore your parents, not wanting to supplant them in any way. Later, I was afraid you would be disappointed in me. I am not the Knight my famous ancestor was.”

  “Me disappointed in you?” Finn snorted. “Yeah. Right.” He turned and looked in the direction Gideon was gazing. “Well, none of that matters. We’re family now. In a way.”

  “Truly.”

  “So, what do I call you? Uncle? Second cousin?” A corner of his mouth twitched. “Grandpa?” He ducked the cuff at his head just in time.

  “Cheeky.”

  Nineteen

  The Journal of Gideon Lir: Tuesday, October 29

  In spite of the horror of the last few days, a high happiness it is, to return with Finn. This joy is due in large part to friends, old and new, who stood with us.

  Kel O’Shea. I will keep my thoughts tucked away until my heart is certain.

  Mac Roth. Since our youth, he has been a brother of the heart and a shield in the battle. May I prove as worthy of his friendship in times of joy and danger.

  The Steel family. Good it was to be reminded that humans have their own wisdom and courage and warrior ways. It is a privilege to share the world with people such as them.

  And Basil and young Griffin. They are a breed apart from us Fey. But without their help, things would have turned out much worse. May they prove victorious in their own battle to come.

  Even Iona aided us, if in a somewhat twisted fashion. She has fled the wrath of the Scáthach. I do not know where. Or care. I will never trust her or forgive her. I whispered a hint to Basil, in case he was tempted to do a wee bit of witch-hunting. Sadly, he is not the vengeful sort.

  Brits. Always with the proper thing.

  The Journal of Finnegan MacCullen: Tuesday, October 29

  Home. Home for good.

  Between battling a goddess and angel lag, I’m almost too tired to write.

  Angel lag: that’s what Lochlan calls it instead of jet lag. That’s when you get dragged by the hand through the air, flying from Ireland, across the Atlantic Ocean, then all the way across the country to Colorado, in like twenty minutes. Mac Roth got airsick over Newfoundland. Not a pretty sight.

  Griffin had managed to talk his master Mentor and the other angels into helping us get back home. I sure hope things turn out well for him and Basil—he told me they’re in the middle of a war with other angels. But I have a feeling it will. After all, they’re the ultimate good guys.

  And I’m really glad the Terrae Angeli are watching out for Rafe and Savannah, and their parents. Keeping them safe so we can go on being friends as long as Fate will let us.

  Because friends are the finest of fine gifts of this round world.

  Next to family.

  At the sound of a booming voice on the porch, Finn looked up from where he sat slumped on the sofa. Tossing his journal on the coffee table, he reached the front door before Mac Roth could knock. The evening’s cool air flowed in; the flames in the fireplace slapped at the cheeky breeze.

  “I see you have a new role as a footman,” Mac Roth said. Holding a plastic bag marked “deli” in one hand, the red-headed Knight stood aside to let Kel O’Shea enter first. She carried a covered casserole dish. With a smile for Finn, she headed toward the kitchen, trailing the aroma of potatoes and cabbage behind her.

  “Better than a butler.” Lochlan followed the Knights inside. He grinned over his shoulder at Tara behind him, who rolled her eyes. “See what I did there? ‘Better than a—’”

  “Yeah, I got it.” Tara studied him, her head cocked. A faint smile curled the corner of her mouth. “You know, you’re pretty funny, O’Neill.”

  “I-I am?”

  “Sure. Funny looking.”

  Finn laughed, then led the way to the kitchen. “
About time you guys got here. I’m starving!”

  It was a tight fit, with six of them around a table built for four. And, to Finn’s way of thinking, Mac Roth counted as two, so really it was seven. But, he didn’t mind. Not one bit. There was something about being crowded together for the evening meal, the kitchen filled with the aroma of good food and laughter and the afterglow of victory.

  Seated between Tara and Lochlan, Finn swallowed another mouthful of corned beef, then leaned closer to Tara. “Do you know yet?” he said under the general buzz of conversation.

  “No.” Tara cut her eyes once toward her master, who was laughing at something Mac Roth had just said. “She still hasn’t made up her mind.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Lochlan asked, helping himself to another serving of potatoes.

  “Kel wants to keep renting the house for a while longer. To make sure the Steels are safe, or so she says.”

  Finn groaned under his breath. “What are we going to do?”

  “Hey!” Lochlan poked Finn with his elbow. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or not?”

  “Gideon and Kel O’Shea like each other,” Finn whispered. “Like each other.” He wiggled his eyebrows up and down.

  “Really? Gideon and Kel O’Shea?” Lochlan blurted out in a loud voice. Classic O’Neill. “Are they dating or something?”

  The entire table went dead silent.

  “Sadly, no,” Mac Roth spoke after a long minute.

  “We’re working our way there.” Kel O’Shea shrugged.

  “Define ‘dating,’” Gideon said at the same time.

  After dinner, the Knights disappeared into the living room. Finishing kitchen duty in record time, the three apprentices headed upstairs to Finn’s room. Lochlan claimed the desk chair, spinning it around and draping his arms over the back. Finn and Tara flopped down on the bed, Tara sitting cross-legged on the foot while Finn leaned back against the headboard.

  “Still can’t believe I’m here. And not there.” He nodded eastward.

  “I would’ve liked to have stayed longer,” Tara said with a sigh, then she brightened. “Hey! We should go together. When we finish our apprenticeships. The three of us. We could backpack around. There’s probably some of our people still in Ireland we could stay with.”

  “And we should ask Savannah and Rafe to go with us, too,” Lochlan said. He rested his chin on the back of the chair. “So they don’t feel left out of the adventure.”

  “‘The adventure?’” Tara snorted. “Dude, this is real life, not some book. Of course, if it was a book, I’d be the heroine and you’d be the sidekick with the goofy name.” She poked Finn’s leg. “Or you. You both qualify for sidekick material.”

  Finn nodded absently.

  “There’s a secret, magical otherworld, full of heroes and monsters, going on side-by-side with our world. I mean, us humans’ world. Which is pretty awesome. It gives my boring, everyday life a kind of…” Savannah had frowned as she tried to explain. “A kind of glow. And, maybe Tolkien and Rowling and Le Guin and the other authors knew it, too. But they couldn’t tell the truth, because people would think they’re crazy. So they told it through stories.”

  Savannah’s words came back to him, even as he listened with one ear to his friends squabbling good-naturedly. I guess authors are like bards, he thought. In a way. Maybe, one day, I’ll write some stories of my own.

  “Lochlan!” Mac Roth bellowed from downstairs. “Come along, lad. I am in need of my beauty sleep.”

  Lochlan started to say something, then waved it away. “Nope. Too easy.”

  After Mac Roth and Lochlan left, followed a few minutes later by Kel O’Shea and Tara, Finn started to head upstairs, his bed whispering to him. A word from his master stopped him.

  “Come sit a bit. We’ll keep the fire company until it dies.”

  Gideon leaned an elbow on the mantel while Finn sank down on the sofa and rested his head on the arm. The crackle and snap of flames kept pulling his eyelids down. As did the aroma of wood smoke.

  A soft chuckle. “Busy day, eh?”

  “Busy five months,” Finn said around a yawn. “Do you think the rest of my apprenticeship will be like this?”

  “Oh, no doubt. Perhaps even more. But, the day will come, sooner than you think, when you will no longer be an apprentice. You’ll be a Knight, with the occasional apprentice to train, and maybe even a family of your own.” Gideon sighed. “Ye gods.”

  Finn raised his head. “What?”

  “The very thought sent a chill down my spine.”

  “The thought of what?”

  A corner of his master’s mouth curled up. “Why, the thought of another Finnegan MacCullen.”

  Twenty Years Later…

  Shifting his duffle bag to his other shoulder as he walked, the man glanced around the neighborhood with the eagerness of a traveler returning to a familiar place. He had dismissed the taxi he had hired at the airport while a few blocks away, his body grateful for action after being cramped on planes and uncomfortable airport chairs for the last eleven hours.

  Slowing down to a stroll, he paused and tilted his head back, relishing the warmth of the spring afternoon’s sun on his face. With a trace of a smile, he nodded at the mountain range to the west just peeking above the suburban houses. Hello, old friends. Moving on, he picked up his pace, singing softly in rhythm with his stride. “‘The minstrel boy to the war is gone; in the ranks of death ye shall find him. His father’s sword, he hath girded on, and his wild harp slung behind him.’”

  At the end of the cul-de-sac, he stopped in front of his destination—a small dark green house set between two towering pine trees. A stone wall, broken by a wrought-iron gate with a Celtic knot gracing its center, enclosed the yard. He brushed his fingers along a strand of bronze wire wrapped around the gate’s railings. They looked new, he noted. The yard beyond was well-tended, as was the sláinte nettle hedge on the north side. It perfumed the air with a spicy-earthy aroma. On the far side of the hedge, a newer model truck sat parked in the gravel driveway. He raised an eyebrow at the vehicle and gave a soft laugh.

  At that moment, the screen door opened. A young boy burst out. Letting the screen slap shut behind him, he paused at the edge of the porch and raised his arm. In his hand was an empty paper towel roll. He pointed it at the sky, then, with a whoop, he leaped off the porch. Slashing and stabbing, he danced about the yard. “Take that, ye manky beasties.” He ducked once, then lunged forward, impaling an imaginary foe with the cardboard tube. “Eat bronze!” Then, to the man’s delight, he thrust again and shouted, “‘I am a spear on the attack, pouring forth combat!’”

  “‘I am the god who fires your mind,’” the man finished with a smile that quirked a corner of his mouth. “Well struck, boyo. The Amandán haven’t a chance against you.” The boy froze, noticing the man for the first time. His blue eyes widened under a mop of dark red hair.

  “A fine morning to you,” the man said. He waited, suddenly reticent about entering, even though every inch of the yard and house was as familiar to him as his own fingers.

  “Hi.” The child lowered his make-believe weapon and eased closer. Standing on tiptoe, he craned his head and peered over the wall. His gaze swept from the large hunting knife the man wore at his hip, then locked on the man’s throat. “Is that a torc?”

  “’Tis.”

  “Are you a Knight?”

  “Aye.” The man gestured toward the boy’s right arm. “I’ll place a fair wager that you are, as well. Might I see your mark?”

  The boy laughed. A grin, one that was oh, so familiar, spread across his face. The man’s heart lurched. “I’m not a Knight. But I’m going to be. When I grow up. Just like my mom and dad.”

  “To be sure.”

  The boy took another step closer. “I know you.” He scrunched up his face, sending freckles dancing. “I think.”

  “Do you, now?”

  The boy nodded. “Mom and Dad have
a picture of you. On their desk.” Another step brought the boy to the gate.

  “And I know you, as well, lad. Although last I saw you, six years ago, you were a wee babe in your mother Tara’s arms.”

  Realization lit up the young face. “You’re Gideon Lir.”

  “I am.”

  “You were my dad’s master.”

  “I was.”

  The boy beamed. “I was named after you.”

  Hampered by an unexpected lump, Gideon cleared his throat before answering.

  “Just so.”

  The boy opened the gate and stood to one side. “Céad mile fáilte. That means ‘a hundred thousand welcomes.’”

  Stepping through, Gideon laid a hand on the red head. “Thank you, Lir MacCullen.” Then he shut the gate behind him, and followed Finn’s son along the flagstone walk.

  Finn stood inside the doorway, watching through the screen as two of the three people he loved best in the world got to know each other. In this place. Where his own adventures had begun years ago.

  He thought back to something his master had once told him: We Celts have always believed that life is a Circle. An unending, repeating pattern that twists and turns and bring us back to the beginning. “Aye, ‘tis true,” he whispered, using his best Irish accent. His grin widening, he slipped outside, letting the screen close softly behind him. Walking to the edge of the porch, he leaned a shoulder against the porch’s column. “What have I told you, son, about letting strange folk into our yard?”

  Dropping the duffle by his feet, Gideon paused on the walk, a matching smile lurking in a corner of his mouth. An eyebrow lifted—a gesture so familiar that Finn felt himself tumble backwards in time until he was thirteen again.

  “‘Strange folk,’ is it? A foine way to greet yer old master.” Five years of living in Ireland had refreshed Gideon’s lilt and made it green as a meadow in spring. “But, then, you always were a bit cheeky, Finnegan MacCullen.”

  “Um…sir?” Lir tugged on Gideon’s sleeve, his face turned up to the Knight’s. “Dad goes by Finn, not Finnegan.”