Finn Mac Cool

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “I acquired it after I became commander. But I was considerably older than you are now, Finn. A lad your age has no more need for a fort than a fish has for ear rings.”

  “If I had a wife, I’d need a household.”

  “You don’t have a wife, that’s something else you don’t need.” But no sooner had Goll spoken than he saw an opportunity to be taken. Finn was impulsive. If encouraged, he might make excessive demands and annoy Cormac, who would then look around for a different commander for his army. Someone more experienced and temperate.

  Goll said smoothly, “But if you are thinking of taking a wife, I would be the last to discourage you. How pleasant it is, after Samhain, to retire to your own fort with your own woman. Someone to heat your bed and your food and mend your cloaks and listen to your stories as if she’s never heard them before. A woman who can never reject you—”

  “Never reject you?” Finn echoed in astonishment.

  “If she does, under the law you can divorce her. Of course, if you reject her, she might divorce you. The marriage contract gives both of you rights and obligations. Neither of you can criticize or satirize the other in public. That. too, would be sufficient for divorce. You can say whatever you want to each other in private, but publicly you must support one another completely. Such a marriage is a strong alliance, Finn. For men like us, I would say it’s almost a necessity.”

  “Like ear rings on a fish?”

  “Och, it’s late, and I lost the run of myself when I said that. I approve of your taking a wife. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? I think you should go to the king and demand a fine, strong fort appropriate to the Rígfénnid Fíanna, and adequate property to supply a rich coibche.”

  “I already suggested some sort of … property. Cormac told me to go easy.”

  “He was testing you. He simply wants to see how aggressive you are. Don’t be passive, Finn. Don’t just stand around with one arm as long as the other. Go to Cormac first thing in the morning and demand the entitlements due you.”

  “That’s your advice, is it?”

  “My most emphatic advice.”

  Finn studied the older man’s face. The evening was dark and bitterly cold and Tara blazed with torchlight. The flickering light made Goll’s scar seem to writhe across his features with sinister purpose in spite of his efforts to look sincere.

  Putting his thumb in his mouth, Finn chewed on it thoughtfully. Goll watched him. At last Finn withdrew the thumb and said, “I think I’ll wait a while before I make demands of the king. But I thank you for your advice, Goll. I’m always interested to hear what you have to say.”

  He sauntered away.

  His thumb warned him! thought Goll, furious. The Thumb of Wisdom!

  Stop that, said a cooler voice inside his head. You don’t believe that nonsense and you know it. Finn’s a great teller of tales, a bold chancer who’ll try anything. When you were his age, you were the same; you’d seize any chance that came your way, Goll Mac Morna. If you’d thought you could get away with it, you’d have claimed magic yourself.

  Finn does seem to be getting away with it.

  But how far can his audacity take him?

  When will he make a crucial mistake?

  Goll’s one eye followed Finn until the younger man stepped from a pool of light into the surrounding darkness and disappeared as totally as if he had fallen off the world.

  Still Goll stared after him.

  Goll Mac Morna had sired a number of sons. Some had not lived to reach manhood. Others were scattered through various bands of the Fíanna, and at least two had fled Erin to fight in the service of a king in Alba. He had been proud of all his sons, however, until he met Firm Mac Cool.

  Compared to Finn, they seemed no great achievement.

  Finn was Cuhal’s victory over Goll Mac Morna.

  I wish he were my son, Goll thought.

  I wish I had a good excuse to take my sword and kill him.

  8

  AS THE SAMHAIN ASSEMBLY DREW TO A CLIMAX, THE Celtic year was dying. Samhain meant the end of the second half of the year, the warm half. The torches on Tara were never extinguished but burned defiantly night and day, as if to hold back the cold.

  It had already been cold, however, for a moon’s cycle. Druids said the early cold signalled change and danger. Change was obvious. Tara had a new king.

  Samhain had another meaning. The death of the old year and the birth of the new was the time when barriers were lowest between the world of the dead and the world of the living. Spirits could freely penetrate those barriers at Samhain, and visit the people and places they had left behind.

  The climax of the Samhain Assembly was always its final feast, a splendid and sombre event to which only the dead were invited. The feast served both to placate any malevolent intent on their part, and to reassure them as to the ongoing success and prosperity of their descendants. The best meats and fowl and fishes were served in abundance, together with cheeses and bread and buttermilk and dried fruits and honeycombs and hazelnuts and cups brimming with fragrant ale. The banquet was laid out in trestle tables in the hall. While the dead invisibly entered through the fourteen doorways and feasted, the living stood watch outside, keeping the Samhain vigil.

  Finn Mac Cool stood with them, close to the king. He wondered if Cuhal Mac Trenmor’s spirit was inside the hall. Closing his eyes, he tried to reach out and sense some flavour of his father but nothing came.

  He wondered what the other people. gathered outside the hall were thinking about. Parents? Kin? Loved ones?

  Who was inside? And what were they thinking?

  With the appearance of the first light in the east, the living, numbed with awe, dispersed. When they next entered the hall, all traces of the feast would be gone.

  No one spoke of it afterward. That was the custom.

  After the Feast of the Dead, the Celtic year began anew, as life follows death, as light springs from darkness.

  Cormac’s final act of the Assembly was the deliverance of a royal proclamation. In addition to naming Fithel as chief brehon, he appointed a royal bard, druid, historian, physician, musician, and three stewards, who were to accompany the king wherever he went. “This I proclaim for all the kings of Tara who follow me,” he announced, setting his stamp firmly on the kingship.

  “I shall also name an official companion to be my confidante, my soul-friend; to he the one set of ears I can trust implicitly. Such a man must, of course, have much in common with myself.”

  At this point Finn drew in a deep breath and held it. A famous father. he thought. Fostered by two women …

  “I have not yet selected this royal companion,” the king went on. “When I do, he will of course be a prince of my own blood.”

  Finn exhaled. What did you expect? he asked himself bitterly. You’re only a Fir Bolg. Cormac belongs to the nobility.

  But I’m as good as any Milesian, whispered a tiny voice deep inside Finn Mac Cool.

  “ … and the last of my appointments, for now, will he to name Lochan as royal smith. He will be given a workshop for himself and a dwelling for his family within the precincts of Tara,” the king concluded.

  His words cut through Finn’s thoughts and swept them away. The new Rígfénnid Fíanna straighted imperceptibly; a tiny muscle jumped in his jaw.

  I’m not going to winter at Slieve Bloom after all, he decided. I’m going to stay right here at Tara.

  When the assembly had been formally dismissed and people began leaving for their homes, Cormac returned to the House of the King. He found Madan there ahead of him, clearing out detritus while Lugaid made measurements, using the shaft of his spear.

  “What’s this in aid of?” the king enquired.

  “Finn assigned us to dredge out the firepit, get rid of the smell, then examine your lodge with a view toward tearing it down and building a new one.”

  Cormac was nonplussed. “Finn ordered that?”

  “He did,” Lugaid said, continu
ing his measurements.

  Cormac went in search of Finn, whom he finally found in discussion with Donn about the provisioning of the king’s kitchens.

  “Finn! When did I put you in charge at Tara?” Cormac demanded to know. He sounded angry. Donn prudently took himself off to the springhouse to examine the cheeses.

  “I’m not in charge,” said Finn innocently. “You are, you’re the king.” He smiled pleasantly. His eyes were as guileless as a child’s.

  “You know what I mean, Finn. Your men are all over the hill, doing this and that very busily. Tearing my house down, for one thing.”

  “Och, that. You said you planned to rebuild Tara. I thought we’d better begin with your lodge, since your family’s joining you soon.”

  “You’re a warrior, not a builder.”

  “My Madan’s an excellent builder,” Finn said cheerfully. “So is Lugaid. Each of my men has some valuable talent.”

  Cormac was losing his temper. “Isn’t it time you and your talented men went into winter quarters?”

  Finn pretended to be surprised. “And leave you and your family unprotected here?”

  “We’ll have Fiachaid and his men. They’ve done a good job so far.”

  “I noticed,” Finn retorted dryly. “When we first got here, I noticed how well protected you were.”

  “I won’t have you say a word against Fiachaid!”

  “I didn’t. He’s a good man and a fine warrior. When you were just Gormac Mac Airt, he was all the guard you needed. But things are different now.”

  “Not that different. And not so different that a band of fénnidi can fulfill the functions of carpenters and cooks, either!”

  “That’s what they’ve been doing,” Finn pointed out, “and you didn’t object.”

  “That was a temporary expedient and you know it. I have regular servants now, part of the tributes sent to me by—”

  “None of them are as good as we are.”

  Cormac laughed in spite of himself. “You’re an arrogant whelp.”

  Finn shrugged. “I know how good I am, that’s not arrogance. and you know how good I am. You wouldn’t have made me commander if you didn’t need me. So keep me here at Tara this winter; keep me and my men. You won’t regret it.”

  Cormac gazed at him thoughtfully. Finn stood with his feet planted and his chin high, letting the king see how big he was, how strong, how brimming with energy. How valuable.

  Don’t reject me, Cormac, he willed silently. Don’t you reject me.

  Cormac shifted weight from one foot to the other. “What about the two bands waiting for you at Slieve Bloom?”

  “I’ll send for them to join me here. I can command the army and them too. And we might need them here.”

  “In addition to Fiachaid’s company? I doubt that.”

  Finn relaxed inwardly, realizing the battle was won. “Anything could happen this winter, even if it isn’t battle season. This is your first year as king of Tara. Remember that Feircus Black-Tooth didn’t survive his.”

  Fergus Honey-Tongue was at the Slige Dala gate, bidding mellifluous farewells to departing dignitaries, when Cailte ran up to him. “Fergus! We’re to spend the winter at Tara!”

  “Are you joking? Did that prankster Cael put you up to this?”

  “He did not! Finn is sending me to tell everyone. It’s official. We’re to spend the season right here, helping ready the place for Cormac’s family whenever they arrive.”

  Fergus broke into a delighted grin. Cormac’s family! A king’s wife would surely travel with plenty of female attendants, perfumed women with soft hands. As Cailte sped off to pass the word, Fergus almost failed to say good-bye to a departing chieftain of the Deisi, so lost was he in a vision. Himself cavorting through Tara, grappling with scented women.

  Lugaid was less enthusiastic about the change in plans. When Cailte found him, he was just walking back toward the House of the King after saying good-bye to a wide-hipped girl with a bush of flaming red hair. The daughter of a carter from Slieve Bloom, she had thrown her arms around Lugaid’s neck and sobbed before following her father out the gate.

  “You mean we aren’t going to winter at Slieve Bloom?” Lugaid asked Cailte, unwilling to believe his ears.

  “Don’t take it so hard. Your face is as long as a wet winter.”

  “It will be a very long winter … now,” Lugaid replied disconsolately.

  As the fían were preparing their beds that night, Madan said to Blamec, “Did you happen to see Lugaid’s redhead? I had no idea our serious friend was so attractive to women.”

  Goll Mac Morna spoke up. “It’s the serious ones who always have the most success with women.”

  “I have plenty of success with women!” Cael claimed.

  “You succeed at teasing them and pulling their hair. It isn’t the same thing.”

  Cael looked puzzled. “I had seven sisters and that was how I always treated them. They loved it.”

  The others roared with laughter.

  “What women like best,” declared Fergus, “is a beautiful voice. They can hear your voice in the dark even when they can’t see your face, remember. Use poetry and sweet words on a woman and she’ll come to you like a bird to your hand.”

  As usual, Finn was lying a little apart from the others, with Bran and Sceolaun on either side of him. He was not asleep. He was listening as intently as he had listened to Fithel explaining Brehon Law.

  For the next several days, as he busied himself around Tara, he wore the serious face of a man involved in weighty matters. When he chanced to see Cruina the smith’s daughter, he looked particularly serious; abstracted. He no longer stalked her as if he meant to pounce upon her. He appeared unaware of her, so much did he have on his mind.

  The less Finn noticed Cruina, the more often she arrived in his pathway.

  The majority of the Fíanna had departed for winter quarters, leaving Finn Mac Cool, his original band now augmented by the two nines from Slieve Bloom, at Tara. Together with Fiachaid’s men, they guarded the royal stronghold and lent their strength to whatever needed doing.

  Finn had just been issuing the day’s orders when he saw Cruina out of the corner of his eye. As his men departed to their tasks, she approached him. She wore a bright social smile. “Are you well?” she asked pleasantly.

  “I’m always well.” He started to add some boastful remark about his health, then caught himself in time. “I have to be well,” he said soberly. “Much is expected of me.” He began to walk away … slowly.

  As he had hoped, she fell into step beside him. “Is it so very difficult, being Rígfénnid Fíanna?”

  “Very difficult.” He dropped his voice lower, until he could feel it resonating throughout his chest. “It’s a most serious business.”

  “Ah. You have no time for pleasures, then?”

  Finn’s heart gave a jump. “This is not the season for pleasures, Cruina.”

  “When is, then?”

  He stopped and turned toward her. In the deepest voice he could summon—so deep it almost made him cough and ruin the effect—he intoned, “Beltaine, Summer is the season for pleasures. I once composed a poem about summer.”

  “You did? A warrior composed a poem?”

  “I did. I’m not just a warrior. I was trained in poetry by Finegas himself, who demanded not only that I memorize and recite, but also that I compose, so I would truly understand the art.”

  Cruina’s eyes were shining. “I should like to hear one of your poems. The one about summer.”

  Thank you, Fergus, Finn thought silently.

  He noticed a couple of Fiachaid’s men walking in his direction. Quickly taking hold of Cruina’s arm, he guided her behind one of the private chambers. “It’s better here, out of the wind,” he said. “You mustn’t be chilled.”

  “Are warriors usually so considerate?”

  “I told you, I’m not just a warrior.”

  Smiling down at Cruina, Finn let his mind flood wit
h memories of summer, with sights and sounds and fragrances, with languor and desire. Softly, he recited,

  Beltaine! Pleasing season of glowing colour.

  Blackbirds sing their sweetest lays,

  Strong and constant is the cuckoo.

  Welcome to you, sunlit days.

  Men grow mighty in the heat,

  Proud and gay the maidens grow.

  Fair is every mountain height,

  Fair and bright the plain below.

  Swallows skim the sparkling streams.

  Golden gleams the water-flag,

  Leaps the salmon; on the hills,

  Ardour thrills the leaping stag.

  Brilliant weather! Warm wind rushes

  Through the wild harp of the wood.

  Sings the foaming waterfall,

  White and tall, her one sweet word.

  Long-haired heather spreads bright tresses,

  White and fragile bog-down stands.

  Passion sets the stars to trembling,

  Seas are calmed; flowered the lands.

  A sigh escaped Cruina’s parted lips. “You capture all summer in your words,” she murmured. She seemed about to sway toward him.

  Finn could see the first faint lines creasing the delicate skin around her eyes. That sign of maturity moved him more than her full breasts or her rippling hair. It was hard not to reach out and clutch her to him. He ached to lie with her; there was no mistaking his rising heat. But he wanted more, something he could not articulate even to himself. He was swept by desire to envelop her womanhood and simultaneously be enveloped by it, to wrap her around him and lose himself in her. Flesh of my flesh, he thought.

  Finn had never had a woman. Looking up at him, Cruina saw it in his eyes.

  She was intrigued.

  Experimentally, she thrust her hips forward until they touched his body. She felt an answering surge of heat even through the layers of clothing. Then the shaft of Finn’s penis was pressing against her, huge, urgent.

  He groaned.

  Cruina drew back, more startled than frightened by the size and hunger of him.