Finn Mac Cool

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Bran pressed close to him and pushed a cold, comforting nose into his palm.

  Cormac folded his arms across his chest and leaned back on his bench. “Do you know how the Son of the Wolf discovered I was Airt’s son?” he asked with apparent irrelevance. “I’ll tell you. I gave myself away.”

  Finn thought, I don’t like the sound of this.

  Cormac continued. “At the Great Assembly when I was just a boy, I made a judgment too wise for my years, settling a dispute that had baffled the brehons. Those who heard me claimed they heard the echo of my father’s voice. Airt was famed for wise judgments—a talent the Son of the Wolf lacked, I might add.”

  Finn nodded, wondering where this was leading.

  “You have given yourself away,” said Cormac Mac Airt.

  Finn’s stomach turned over, sickeningly.

  “If there was any doubt before, I have none now. You are the son of Cuhal Mac Trenmor. Only Cuhal’s son would toss a severed head into my firepit and announce he’d slain a monster.

  “I’ve found my Rígfénnid Fíanna.”

  Stunned, Finn could only stare at the king.

  After a moment’s silence, his men burst into cheers. Goll was the first to pound the new commander of the Fíanna on the back, so heartily he almost knocked him down. The others clustered around, shouting congratulations and punching whatever parts of Finn’s body they could reach.

  From his bench, Cormac watched.

  The brehons watched with him.

  When the excitement died down, the king raised one finger. A brehon immediately began to recite, “As commander of the army of Tara, you are entitled to three fringed woollen mantles, three linen tunics, three pairs of leather boots, a bronze helmet with a flange to guard the nape of your neck …”

  Finn stopped listening.

  It seemed to him that he stood bathed in a shaft of golden light.

  This is a dream. This is a tale I’ve told myself.

  But Bran’s cold nose was pressing against his hand again, and the ground was reassuringly solid beneath his feet.

  The brehon droned into silence. Cormac took over in a crisp voice. “Once I’ve consolidated my kingship, we’ll improve your situation,” he said to Finn. “My Rígfennid Fíanna must have great prestige; it reflects on me. You’ll be the most honoured man among your people, Finn Mac Cool … so long as you serve me to my satisfaction.”

  If there was a warning implicit in that final phrase, Finn did not notice. Goll Mac Morna did. He tensed, his mind racing as he considered what this might mean for him.

  A new game was beginning.

  Finn’s own mind was beginning to function again. He turned to Lugaid. “Give me that sack now.” Carrying the sack to Cormac, he took out Huamor’s silver cups one at a time, holding them up so the light of the king’s beeswax candles would reveal the craftsmanship of their design.

  “My men and I earned these for you. There was one more of them, but I gave it to Fiachaid as a token of respect.”

  Cormac’s lips twitched. “That was clever of you.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be clever. The gesture was sincere.” Finn insisted.

  “I’m sure it was. But I’d thank you not to give away any more of my property without asking me first.”

  Finn tapped his fingers on his forehead.

  A rough banquet was served to the warriors of Tara, old and new, in honour of the occasion. Donn oversaw the cooking. Fiachaid and his men took part with stiff formality at first, though as the evening wore on and the ale flowed. they became jollier.

  “There sits a disappointed man,” Goll told Finn, indicating Fiachaid with a nod of his head. “I know the signs. He thought he’d be given command of the Fíanna, even though he’s not one of us. Watch your back with that one.”

  “Are you saying I should watch my back every time someone else is disappointed?”

  Goll shrugged. “Take it any way you will.”

  Finn got up, collected his new spear from the stack of weapons the warriors had left in a corner of the hall, and carried it to Fiachaid. “This is yours, I believe,” he said. “I thank you for the loan of it.”

  Fiachaid accepted the trifurcated spear. Its iron head was held to its shaft with thirty brass rivets, each gleaming like a star from fresh polishing. “I thought you meant to keep this,” he said.

  “You were mistaken. It isn’t mine, it’s yours.”

  Fiachaid hesitated. Then, like Iruis with the deer’s hide, he handed the object in question back to Finn. “It’s yours now,” he said.

  The warriors, old and new, cheered him roundly.

  As entertainment for the evening, Finn told again the tale of the killing of the monster, complete with embellishments.

  It was a grand night for storytelling. The ubiquitous rains of winter ceased for a time, and Lara blazed with torch and candlelight to rival the stars in the wind-scoured sky. The brilliance of the occasion masked the shabbiness of the old buildings. Everyone who could crowded into the Assembly Hall to listen to Tara’s new champion. Persons of rank filled the formal compartments, rectangular timber boxes, while lesser beings stood in the aisles or lounged against the walls or peered in through the doorways.

  In spite of nightfall, people kept arriving. Next day was the first of the Samhain Assembly. Each new arrival hurried to the hall, swelling the throng that soon spilled out over the grassy lawns. People who were close enough to hear Finn repeated his words over their shoulders to others behind them, passing the story out into the night.

  By the time he finished speaking, Finn’s tale had taken on a life of its own. Each tongue had embellished it in the retelling. Those on the fringes of the crowd were informed that a supernatural force, undoubtedly the Tuatha Dé Danann, had entered into a conspiracy with Cormac’s other enemies in an effort to reclaim Tara. A magical monster had been sent to burn down the stronghold while Cormac’s men slumbered under a magical spell. It was obvious.

  Only the new Rígfénnid Fíanna had stood between Tara and the Magic People.

  It was a thrilling story. Everyone enjoyed it. When Finn reached the part where he cut off the monster’s head and yelled, “My dogs and I were bathed in its foul blood!” Bran and Sceolaun testified with a volley of barking that echoed across the ridge.

  If the Tuatha Dé Danann were slumbering in the mounds and mountains beyond, they surely heard the triumphant roar of Finn Mac Cool.

  7

  EVERYONE WAS TALKING ABOUT HIM. AT FIRST FINN gloried in being the cynosure of all eyes, the centre of excitement. Then it began to embarrass him. He was uncomfortable with such excess.

  A shy, wild boy who lived at the back of his skull wanted to run off into the forest and bathe himself in silence.

  But Cormac commanded, “Meet each rígfénnid as he brings in his men. Impress them. Show the officers that you’re worthy to command them.”

  So Finn strode forward with his silver hair gleaming and his face set in savage, triumphant lines. He recounted his victories and gesticulated with his shortsword and dared anyone to challenge him.

  He told the tale of the fire-breathing monster so many times he forgot he had ever mistaken it for a human idiot sent by the Ulaid.

  Unlike the triennial Great Assemblies that were held at Uisneach and Tara and attracted attendance from throughout Erin, Samhain Assemblies were regional, annual events. Local people came together to celebrate the end of the Celtic year and the beginning of the next with games and rituals and feasting.

  At the Samhain Assembly, a provincial king’s share of the harvest was delivered to him as part of the tributes due him from the tribes in his territory. Resplendent in the Mantle of Assembly that had belonged to his father, and wearing his grandfather’s gold thumb ring, Cormac Mac Airt redistributed some of this wealth in return for oaths of loyalty. Gifts were set aside to be sent to important chieftains outside of Míd to win their support as well—a custom originating with Conn of the Hundred Battles.

  M
eanwhile, territorial brehons adjudicated local disputes in the Fort of the Synods. If a problem was sufficiently complex, it might be held over and presented to the Convocation of All Brehons at the next Great Assembly.

  As rígfénnidi brought in their men, the atmosphere grew rowdier. Fénnidi were hard to control at the best of times. There was posturing and challenging between bands, and officers were taxed to their utmost to keep brawling to a minimum. Some decorum must be maintained. In spite of its festive air, the Samhain Assembly was essentially a solemn event, culminating in the Feast of the Dead. Therefore every effort was made to channel fénnid aggressions into sporting competitions as well as single combats judged for skill and style rather than for the amount of blood drawn.

  Goll Mac Morna made a point of seeking out arriving officers who had once served under him when he commanded the Fíanna. Before they could ask, he told them with seeming nonchalance, “I’m with Finn Mac Cool now. He’s a son of Cuhal Mac Trenmor, you know. Confidentially, that’s why this new king named him Rígfénnid Fíanna. It’s a political move to gain Cuhal’s people to his own cause. An astute manouevre, but very likely temporary. This lad’s far too young and inexperienced.

  “Anything might happen. You understand. In the meantime, I’ll give him the benefit of my advice and my own extensive experience, of course. At the end of the day, there’s no substitute for experience, is there?” Goll would nudge with his elbow and wink with his good eye.

  The hard-bitten warriors to whom he spoke understood “Your time will come around again,” they assured him.

  Meanwhile, Finn was determined to make himself and his fían indispensable. “Cailte, you’re to be the king’s personal messenger for the duration of the assembly. Later he’ll appoint someone else, of course—but make certain that person can never he as good as you were, or as fast.

  “Donn,” Finn commanded, “you’re to examine, personally, all the edibles brought into Tara. When food is prepared for the king, make it your business to he in the kitchens or at the ovens. Add any little touches of your own that will enhance the flavour. When we are no longer here, I want Cormac to miss us.

  “Madan, your assignment is to organize a work crew and mend everything that needs mending, no matter how small. Have this place in perfect condition if you can. Grease the hinges, replace worn ropes, do whatever wants doing. Let the king see you taking care of Tara.”

  Finn told Blamec. “Since you’re so argumentative, the best place for you is nearest the arguments. Stand guard at the door of the Fort of the Synods. You might overhear the debates of the judges. You might even learn something.

  “As for you, Fergus—you’re to greet the dignitaries. Flatter even the most minor chieftain. Smear honey all over them. Win every possible ally for Cormac. And if the king hears you doing it, so much the better.

  “Cael, go get the burned skull out of the king’s firepit and set it up on a pole just inside the Slige Mor gate. Tell everyone who passes about the fire-breathing monster, and who destroyed it. And make it sound good,” he added with a wink. “You know how, Cael Hundred-Killer.”

  Cael grinned with delight.

  “Lugaid, I have a serious job for a serious man. Oversee the counting of the tributes. Let no one think they can cheat Cormac Mac Airt of one hide or one sack of grain.

  “As for you, Conan … is there anything you do better than anyone else?”

  “I doubt it,” Conan growled.

  “Indeed! You doubt! So stay as close to the king as the skin on his elbow and question everyone who tries to get near him. Let no one within a spear’s throw of Cormac unless you’re sure they have a legitimate reason to be there.”

  Goll was the last to receive an assignment. “You recognize most of the people who’ve come for the Assembly, don’t you?” Finn asked him.

  “The nobles and warriors. And not a few of the common people, for that matter,” Goll agreed.

  “Then stay with me and tell me their names when we see them, as well as anything else you think I should know about them. I want to be well-informed.”

  “There’s no substitute for experience,” said Goll Mac Morna.

  Later that same day, Finn whispered behind his hand, “Who’s that young woman over there, Goll? The one beside the dark man in the leather apron.”

  “He’s Lochan the smith. She must be one of his daughters.”

  Round of face and ripe of body, the woman in question had unbound hair that rippled almost to her knees. Unbound hair.

  She also had a dimple in her chin. Finn had never seen a woman with a dimple in her chin before. “Stay here,” he told Goll. Putting on his most winning smile, he sauntered over to Lochan’s daughter.

  She was looking the other way.

  Stopping in front of her, Finn cleared his throat. “My mother has a dimple in her chin,” he began.

  She looked at him then, this extremely tall youth, obviously a few years younger than herself, who was looming over her and grinning like a famished wolf. “I remind you of your mother?” she asked coolly.

  Finn was taken aback. “That isn’t what I meant I meant … my mother is very beautiful.”

  “And I’m not?”

  Finn looked distressed.

  Conan was watching from the doorway of a nearby storehouse. The king and Lugaid were inside, counting a gift of hides. Conan beckoned Goll over to him. “What’s Finn doing, Goll?”

  “Talking to a woman. You can see that for yourself.”

  Conan gave a snort of derision. “Finn doesn’t know how to talk to a woman. His mother was a deer.”

  Goll chuckled. “I wish he’d raise his voice. It would be interesting to hear what he’s saying.”

  Finn was saying, “You’re very beautiful. As my mother is. That’s what I meant.” They were awkward, blurted statement.

  “Does she have hair like yours, your mother?”

  Finn hesitated, searching for a mental image. “Her hair was … is …”

  “More beautiful than mine? Longer? Thicker?”

  Finn chewed on the inside of his lip.

  “I told you he couldn’t talk to women.” Conan sniggered to Goll. “Look at him scuffing his toe in the dirt.”

  In an attempt to begin afresh, Finn said. “I’d like to know your name.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can talk with you.”

  “Are we not talking now?”

  Exasperated, he said, “Do you always answer questions with questions?”

  Her eyes sparkled. “I’m famous for it. They call me Cruina of the Questions, can you guess why?”

  Meanwhile, Lugaid emerged from the storehouse. “Finn’s found a woman,” Conan informed him, indicating the pair.

  “That shouldn’t be hard for anyone who looks like him. Maybe he’ll even take a wife.”

  “I don’t think he’s ready for a wife. He’s having enough trouble making conversation.”

  Goll said. “You don’t take a wife for conversation. A wife involves four generations, clans and property, ancestors and descendants. That’s what a wife means,”

  “I wouldn’t mind having a wife,” said Lugaid wistfully.

  “You? You’re a fénnid, a spear target, a man of no property. Sleep with any woman who’ll have you,” Goll advised, “but forget about wives. A soldier’s marriage is good enough for you.”

  When his official duties were over for the day, Cormac left the Assembly Hall and crossed the lawn to the area marked out for the footraces. He saw Finn among the spectators and joined him. “Are any of your fían in this race?” he asked.

  “My best runner is Cailte, but he’ll only challenge the final winner.”

  “I wouldn’t rely on that. He’s been running messages for me all day without stopping to draw breath.”

  “Och, that’s barely enough to warm him up. You’ll see, he’ll be rewarded with the ivy wreath at the end of the day. And … ah … speaking of rewards …”

  “Mmmm?” Cormac’s eyes
were following the runners as they sped barefoot across sheep-cropped grass.

  “You promised you’d improve my situation,” Finn reminded the king. “What will that mean exactly?”

  Cormac turned to look at him. “I just made you Rígfénnid Fíanna. Isn’t that enough improvement for a while?”

  “I thought there might be … something more. Some token, some emblem of the position …”

  “A gold thumb ring, perhaps?” Cormac said, displaying his. “Or a silver chain? Do you want something that would make a pretty gift for a woman, is that it? Has some woman heated your poker for you?”

  Cormac’s gift for accurate guesses was disconcerting. Finn dropped his eyes.

  “Listen here to me,” said the king. “Events have moved very quickly for you, you’ve run where other men walk. I’ll give you your share of whatever we win when the time is right, but for now, I have other concerns. There’s the condition of Tara—it’s a disgrace. It’s falling down around our ears. Then there are the Ulaid. Conn fought them, Airt fought them, I’ll have to fight them again too. They’ve had a taste of it, now they’ll want to recapture Tara and strut and swan around. As soon as battle season begins, I mean to make a circuit of Erin, aside from Ulidia, and start convincing the other kings of my superiority so they’ll stand with me against the Ulaid. We’re going to be very busy, you and I, so I suggest you forget this current woman. There’ll be plent more when you have time for them, but for now, go easy.”

  Go easy. When, Finn asked himself, did I ever go easy?

  Women remained very much in the thoughts of the fían during the Samhain Assembly. Wives and daughters of clan chieftains in attendance had brought numerous female servants with them. The rounded female form was everywhere, distracting the young males to the poir of madness.

  With one exception, Finn’s band made the most of every opportunity.

  The exception was Conan Maol. He remarked to Cael, who was now introducing himself as Cael Hundred-Killer, “Chasing women is more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “Only you would think so. You’re shockingly lazy. Just look at you, slumped on a bench when you should be standing tall outside the king’s doorway.”