“Feircus Black-Tooth was very new to the kingship, having just overthrown and killed the Son of the Wolf. My star had fallen with the old king. I was lucky to still be alive and I knew it. I was trying very hard to stay that way by not getting crosswise of Feircus.
“He was impressed with your audacity, anyone could see that. You amused him. You were bold and different and had the smell of the wild on you and he liked wild things. I had no choice but to let you live.”
“A good chance missed,” Finn remarked. “If you’d killed me that day at Tara, you wouldn’t be second in command to me now.”
“Second.” Goll spat the word. All warmth was gone from his voice. “I’ll never be second to you. Just because I didn’t kill you then, don’t assume I never will.”
Perversely, the surfacing enmity enabled Finn to relax. “I’m glad to know where we stand, Goll. Make no assumptions about me either.” He bared his teeth very slightly, signaling intent. “None.”
He would kill me! Goll thought. All that talk about never seeking to avenge his father, that was just talk. Lies. He’s playing a game with me, trying to lure me into a trap. When I least expect it, he means to kill me. I know it. I know it!
But I can’t prove it. What can I …
Just then Finn’s expression changed and he gave Goll a smile of such radiant affability that the older man doubted his own intuition.
At sunrise Iruis paced solemnly across his mountain, waiting for some ancient instinct to tell him, This is the place. Build here. He went by himself, though the others watched from a respectful distance.
“Imagine building your own fort!” Lugaid sighed wistfully. “Your own stones, your own place …”
At last Iruis found his site, and he and Red Ridge marked out its perimeter with piles of rocks.
Iruis bubbled with plans. “The walls will be higher than two spear shafts,” he enthused, “and from the top you’ll be able to see the western isles. Finn, you’ll come back here as my guest and I’ll serve you such a feast, you’ll have to let out your belt.”
“Never,” Finn laughed. “I’ll come, but I won’t let out my belt. Once a man does that, it means he’s lost the run of himself and he loses status in the Fíanna, Goll over there has had to let out his belt just since I’ve known him.”
Goll, watching, said nothing.
Iruis went over to him, eager to share his own good mood. “That Finn Mac Cool has the makings of a good officer,” he said. “He had courage in the dark before dawn, when most men lose theirs. And that story about his origins is very colourful. It’s the sort of tale men like to tell about their leaders. Is any of it true, Goll?”
In a carefully neutral tone, Goll replied, “I would say at least some of it is true.”
“You’ve known Finn for some time, I take it?”
“Know Finn? I don’t know him at all. I’ve merely been exposed to him.”
They marched the captive Ceth down the mountain and turned him loose, hurrying him on his way with threats and a growl from Bran. Iruis then guided them toward his father’s stronghold. “It’s not easy to find,” he said. “Huamor prefers to avoid visitors who need to be fed.”
Along their way, Finn paused once to soak his hurt hand in the waters of an ancient well snuggled into a brambled hillside. Finn overheard Iruis saying that the well was famed for its healing powers, sacred to the Tuatha Dé Danann.
He dropped back a few paces to let the others go on. Then he slipped through an opening in the well-kerb and made his careful way down moss-slick stone steps until he could thrust his hand into the water. The shock of icy cold made his whole arm tingle.
The wound he had received the night before was a deep, ugly gash running from the base to the ball of his thumb. It was sore and inflamed. He had not mentioned it to anyone, however. Compared to Goll’s many wounds, a lacerated thumb would have seemed ludicrous.
The damage had been done by a bronze reaping hook that had slashed to the bone. Finn’s other assailant had been armed with a fishing trident. Only the man Bran killed had had a sword, and daylight had revealed it to be pitted with rust, the edge nicked, the point broken. Weapons of desperation.
When the cold water had numbed his hand, Finn ran to catch up with the others.
The day was dull and dark. From time to time, sheets of grey rain swept across the Burren. “When we get to my father’s fort, you can dry your clothes and fill your bellies,” Iruis promised. “Huamor’s not the most generous man in Erin, but he’ll see you right.”
“We can’t stay,” Finn said. “It’s almost Samhain. That means the Samhain assembly at Tara, then we’re off to winter quarters.”
“You could spend the winter here with us.”
Finn shook his head. “Some other time perhaps. After we report to the king of Tara, I go straight to Slieve Bloom.”
The smell of Huamor’s fires reached them long before they reached his stronghold: rich, thick smoke from flames fed by dead bracken and gorse; billowing sweet smoke that cushioned the sharp air and made a man’s guts ache with nostalgia for hearth and home.
Finn’s companions began to walk faster.
Rounding a shoulder of hillside, they saw the ring fort ahead of them. A water-filled ditch that reflected the leaden sky ringed a high, circular bank of earthwork and rubble, faced with limestone. Rain spattering into the ditch shattered the reflections, drumming like fingers on a war drum. Set in the earthwork wall was a gateway, two timber doors half open, hanging on iron hinges. Through the gate, flashes of colour were visible as men and women inside the wall went about their chores.
Women.
Finn’s companions gathered speed.
“Let me go first,” Iruis cautioned. Cupping his mouth with his hands, he shouted, “I am Iruis returned, and I bring the Fíanna with me!”
A kilted man with a spear in one hand peered down from the top of the wall, yelled a greeting, and disappeared. A moment later he was at the gate. “Come in, come in!”
He escorted them to a round stone building in the centre of the enclosure, an impressive house with a conical roof of thatch. A grizzled, jowly man stood waiting in the doorway. He embraced Iruis, but over his son’s shoulder, Huamor said to Goll Mac Morna, “Thank you for bringing my son home.”
Goll’s good eye blinked. “Thank our rígfénnid,” he said, indicating Finn. “In single combat he destroyed three men who’d climbed Black Head to take your son hostage.”
“The maggots! I hope you fed them to the ravens. Come in out of the weather and tell me about it. You … what’s your name?”
“Finn Mac Cool.”
“You’ll sit in the place of honour, Finn Mac Cool.”
Inside the lodge there was brief confusion as the fénnidi arranged themselves on the flagstones around the central firepit. Huamor barked a constant stream of orders to various women who moved in and out of the building. He did not, Goll observed sourly, bother to introduce any of these women to the fénnidi.
“Bring cups!” Huamor demanded. “Here to me now!”
“And food,” Iruis suggested.
Finn quickly protested, “We eat only once a day, and that after sundown. We travel faster on empty bellies.”
“Nonsense. You saved me, my father will feed you.” Iruis looked hopefully toward Huamor, who at last snapped his fingers and issued an order for hot food.
He did not, however, order water for washing—a serious breach of hospitality. Finn had to suggest it. “My men and I need to cleanse ourselves and supple our muscles before we eat.”
Huamor raised his eyebrows. “You do? Och, of course you do. Good idea, that. Watch them and see what they do, Iruis. You might learn something from these lads. Young as they are, I’d say they’re men, every one of them.”
The interior of the lodge was blackened by smoke, hut an attempt had been made to brighten it by hanging rugs of dyed wool on the walls. Beyond the hearth, piles of seal and otter skins waited to provide luxurious bedding. Hon
ey mead and barley ale gurgled from stone jugs into elaborately chased cups of heavy silver.
A young woman offered mead to Finn. As his hand closed on the cup, his thumb throbbed and he winced in spite of himself.
“Have you a thorn?” the woman asked solicitously. “We keep a jar of foxes’ tongues, they’re the best for drawing thorns.”
Her eyebrows had been artificially blackened for beauty, and her hair was gleaming. Unbound hair, signifying an unmarried woman. Finn gave her a dazzling smile. “I’ve not a wound on me anywhere,” he boasted. “I’m perfect entirely, like a king.” He did not show her his thumb.
“You’re talking to my wife-to-be,” Iruis remarked.
Finn’s smile shrivelled like a tender leaf on a hot rock.
Iruis laughed. “She’s called Lannat. Her father’s a Connachta clan chief with four more daughters as arm-filling as this one. I could have had any of them. I might take another one yet as a second wife.”
Lannat turned toward him. “If I let you take a second wife,” she said with unruffled composure. “Under Brehon Law, the first wife has to give her permission, and I might not. I might not even marry you myself, come to that. We’re to spend this winter together to see if we’re suited.”
Huamor rescued his son from an awkward moment. “A second wife is a grand labour-saving device,” the chieftain interjected. “I got one for my first wife when she was heavy with my sons. Then my second wife complained of doing all the work of the first one plus her own, so I got a third wife to share the labours. Now they’re all happy.”
“Even the third wife?” Conan asked innocently.
Huamor belched a laugh. “Och, doesn’t she have the best of me in bed? She’s still new enough to make my pole rise!”
His guests joined in his laughter, a hearty rumble that earthquaked around the lodge. The women laughed too, secure in their status. The warriors rolled their eyes at the women, who smiled back as they passed wooden platters heaped with meat and fish. When a male hand happened to fall caressingly on a female flank, no one objected.
As they ate, the men took turns recounting the events of the previous day. They described the weather, the climb up Black Head, the meeting with Iruis and Red Ridge, the cooking of the deer, the battle against the outlaws.
Finn said nothing, content to let the others extol his victory. From time to time he managed a modest little smile.
I wish my mother could see me now, he thought. The smile faded, became briefly sad.
Lannat had settled herself between Iruis’s legs and was leaning back against his chest. From time to time he fed her bits of his own food. She asked Finn, “Are you really in charge of these men? You, and not the old one over there?”
“I am in charge. I’m a rígfénnid.” He inflated his chest.
“Hmmmm …” Lannat’s fingers began describing elaborate designs on Iruis’s kneecap. Her nails were neatly trimmed and dyed with a berry stain.
Finn tried to capture her eyes. She evaded him by lowering her chin and looking down. Her eyelids had the sheen of rubbed silk. Turning her head slightly, she allowed Finn to admire the plump curve of her cheek. Then she glanced at him sidelong.
Finn squirmed, deliciously uncomfortable.
Lannat looked pointedly at his tented lap. When she smiled, he could see that she had all her teeth.
Oblivious, Iruis sat with one hand ruffling Lannat’s hair while he listened to the conversation around him.
Finn’s mouth was dry. He wondered what her armpits smelled like. Was the hair in them soft and moist? Was it dark like her brows, or fair? How would it feel to bury his face there?
Something scratched and whined outside the lodge. “My hounds!” Finn cried with a start, guilty for having forgotten them.
“Call them in,” Huamor invited. “We appreciate good hounds here.” He twisted around to have a look at the dogs. Bran entered first. “What an immense creature!” Huamor said in surprise.
“And not yet full-grown,” Finn replied. “Wait until next year. This next one is a litter mate of the first. I call her Sceolaun the Survivor. She was the runt, but she’ll be a fine hunting dog with a little more growth on her. I give her extra fat,” he confided.
Huamor reached out to touch Sceolaun as she passed him but she curved her body delicately, just enough to avoid his fingers without being insulting, and sidled away. She and Bran threaded their way through the people seated on the floor until they came to Finn, then crowded in on either side of him. When the hounds sat on their haunches, their heads were as high as his.
“How did you come by them?” asked Red Ridge.
Before Finn could answer, Iruis said, “I’m more interested in hearing how our friend here became an officer of the Fíanna at such a young age. He started to tell us last night, but never finished.”
“I’d like to hear that myself,” said Huamor.
Finn knew that Goll was watching him. “We need to leave soon,” he said. “We have a long way to go …”
“I want to hear!” Huamor roared so commandingly that Sceolaun snarled.
Iruis leaned toward Finn. “I’d tell him if I were you. My father has a temper, he’s famous for it.”
“And if I don’t tell him?”
“You’re expecting payment for your services, aren’t you? Some form of tribute to take back to the king of Tara? If you anger Huamor, that payment could be slow in coming. Very, very slow.”
Goll Mac Morna was looking fixedly at Finn.
He might he waiting to see what Finn’s decision would be, the better to judge the quality of his leadership.
Or he might be waiting to hear what sort of story Finn might tell in response to the question.
4
TO GIVE HIMSELF TIME TO THINK, FINN SLOWLY FINISHED the last of his food, savouring every bite, pausing to lick his lips and murmur appreciatively, thus flattering his host. When he could stall no longer, he cleared his throat.
Be careful, he warned himself.
The fénnidi were waiting expectantly for another tale spangled with magic. But Huamor was older, less credulous. His eyes lurked beneath puffy lids like predators in their holes, waiting to pounce on the unwary. He would require a story he could believe.
And what of Goll Mac Morna? What would he accept?
“Your son has heard of my early days,” Finn began to Huamor. “He can tell you about them later.” And if you find the tale too fantastic, you can blame him. he thought to himself. “As for my joining the Fíanna, I’m a son of Cuhal Mac Trenmor. When I was old enough, it was inevitahle I should go to the king of Tara and apply to serve him as my father had done. We are fénnidi. What other course was open to me?”
Goll gave a miniscule nod of approval, Finn noticed.
“The king was surprised to see me. I think everyone was surprised to see me,” Finn added, glancing at Goll, who kept a straight face but had one twinkling eye. “Most men weren’t awake Cuhal, had a living son in Erin until I walked into the Assembly Hall at Tara.”
Testing him, Huamor enquired. “Through which of its doorways.?”
“The Door of Beginnings, of course. So the king would know my intentions.”
“You made certain to learn proper protocol before you went to Tara?”
“I did of course. I was very thorough. I had already apprenticed myself to a poet and learned the twelve epics, so I could prove I was a person of education and wouldn’t be an embarrassment to the army of the king. I still remember every word,” he added mischievously, “unlike some, who forgot their poems as soon as they were initiated into the Fíanna.”
Conan glowered and studied his fingernails.
“Who was the poet?” Huamor asked. “Do we know of him?”
Finn’s thumb was throbbing again. Without thinking, he thrust it into his mouth to suck on it.
Lannat noticed. “You do have a thorn!”
Finn guiltily jerked his thumb from his mouth. He was embarrassed to have a woman catch him
in a lie. “Not at all. I was just … ah … remembering …”
“You remember by sucking your thumb like a baby?” Huamor sounded contemptuous. “You’re younger than I thought.”
Hot blood rushed to Finn’s cheeks. Searching for a reply, he ran his tongue around the inside of his teeth until it found a tiny fishbone wedged between two of them, relic of the salmon he had just eaten.
Finn’s eyes lit up. “The poet who taught me was called Finegas,” he announced. “Finegas lived beside the Boyne River, where for seven years he had been trying to catch the Salmon of Wisdom.”
“The Salmon of Wisdom?” Huamor looked blank.
“You’ve heard of it, of course,” Finn assured him, “just as you know of the fame of Finegas.”
“I do, I do surely, but—”
“Finegas thought he could catch the Salmon of Wisdom because an old prophecy foretold the fish would be caught by someone with his name. Possession of the fish was his dearest desire. Eating its flesh would give a man access to every form of knowledge … as you know, Huamor,” Finn added deferentially.
The chieftain beamed. “I know that. Everyone knows that.” He looked around the lodge, daring anyone to disagree.
“I spent my time with the poet, and he was a fine teacher. But he could never catch that fish. Then one leafsummer day when my studies were done and we were relaxing on the hank of the Boyne, we saw the salmon leap. Finegas ran for his net. But he was an old man, and easily exhausted. He finally caught the fish but the effort left him too weak to do more.
“As he lay gasping on the bank, he asked me to build a fire and cook the salmon for him. I was happy to think he would have his dearest desire, for he had been generous with me.”
Finn allowed himself a quick glance around the room. They were caught up in the story now, netted and held. Even Goll was listening with half-parted lips.
Satisfied, Finn continued. “I roasted that fish for Finegas. When a blister came up on its skin, ruining its perfection, I pressed the blister down with my thumb. But the roasting fish was very hot, and touching it burned my thumb. I put it into my mouth just for a moment, to ease the pain. Then I took the fish to my teacher.
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