Finn Mac Cool

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Finn was with them, more or less. He was in one of his distracted moods and kept wandering away from the cooking area, then sauntering back again. “Smells good,” he commented once or twice.

  Cailte said anxiously, “I hope there’s enough.”

  Finn chuckled. “There’s not enough food for you on this whole island, my friend. I’ve never dared get an arm too close to your face for fear you might gnaw it off.”

  In spite of his seeming cheerfulness, Finn grew increasingly restless as the day wore on. He paced back and forth as if to keep himself warm, even though he was wearing a great heavy mantle across his undiminished shoulders.

  One of the newer recruits called out to him, “Tell us a story of your victories in battle, Commander!”

  Finn did not seem to hear. He kept wandering about aimlessly, his thoughts far away.

  There was a murmur of disappointment among the men waiting for the feast. It was the sort of cold grey day that made men hunger for vivid, hot-blooded tales of adventure.

  Unexpectedly, Oisin cleared his throat.

  “I’ll tell you a story,” he ventured. “What would you like to hear? My father’s victory at the Battle of the White Strand? Or how he outsmarted the Sídhe in their hidden stronghold?”

  The other men turned to him eagerly. Their eyes glowed. One enquired, “Do you know the story of the Battle of the Sheaves?”

  “Or the House of the Quicken Trees?” another asked.

  “I do of course, I know them all. Am I not the son of Finn Mac Cool?”

  They gathered around Oisin in an expectant circle, and he began to recite the tales they loved to hear.

  Meanwhile, the hero of the stories wandered farther and farther from the cooking fires. He would go back eventually, in time to share the meat and the crisp skin and the foaming ale sent down from the fort on the hill.

  But not just yet. Not for a little while. Not while there was open sky ahead of him and soft land beneath his feet, luring him onward.

  Concluding one story and already urged to tell another, Oisin looked up to see where his father was. At first he could not find him. Then, as he narrowed his eyes against the silvery light of a winter afternoon, he made out a distant figure walking along slowly as if deep in thought.

  As Oisin watched, a red deer emerged from a clump of hawthorn and glided gracefully forward to walk beside Finn Mac Cool.

  Read on for a preview of

  Only the Stones Survive

  Morgan Llywelyn

  Available in January 2016 by Tom Doherty Associates

  A Forge Hardcover ISBN 978-0-7653-3792-4

  Copyright © 2016 by Morgan Llywelyn

  PROLOGUE

  Concealed within the stones are frozen fires.

  Borne on vast waves of polychrome gas that attracted, discarded, formed and re-formed patterns of infinite complexity, the living sparks had taken their allotted places. They were burning before the beginning. They will burn after the end. Their fire is impervious to time.

  Time is a human concept. Creation is on a different scale.

  Every spark was a syllable spoken into silence, a miniscule portion of the great Word that became a roar of limitless power and exploded to create a universe.

  From chaos, cosmos.

  The Word defied understanding. There was no need to explain that which was everywhere and everything.

  Before us.

  CHAPTER ONE

  When it was over and the soil had drunk its fill of blood, the slaughtered Túatha Dé Danann lay amid their tattered banners. Their weapons of bronze had been no match for the cold iron brought by the invaders.

  The most recent battle had reached its inevitable conclusion.

  Day was dying too. A low winter sun could not warm the bodies scattered across the plain. Their garments were all the hues of the rainbow; their faces were the colour of death. The tarnished sky above them would surrender to a blaze of stars, but for the dead, beauty and brilliance were cancelled.

  Near the centre of the battlefield a man lay curled up like an infant. His blood-soaked garments concealed any sign of life. His shield was shattered, its princely emblazonment unrecognizable. The victors had kicked the ruined shield aside but paused long enough to strip him of his weapons.

  The spark within him refused to die. Hot and stubborn, it smouldered with a will of its own. His slow return to consciousness was not pleasant. His mouth and throat were parched with thirst. A thousand angry bees were buzzing in his ears.

  Me.

  I.

  Am alive. Yes.

  Dizzy, very dizzy.

  But alive.

  Without opening his eyes he knew his wounds were deep. The brain in his battered skull struggled to function. At first he only could manage a single thought at a time, but each led to another like stepping stones across a river.

  This is not the end.

  No.

  The invaders cannot destroy the Children of Light.

  No.

  They only want our land.

  Our sacred land.

  The taste of bile flooded his mouth; his stomach cramped in revolt. He lay very still until he was sure he was not going to vomit. A fastidious man, he did not want to die in a puddle of vomit.

  He was not ready to die. Not now and not like this, with so much time still ahead of him like a banquet waiting to be enjoyed.

  My time, our time. Together.

  Yes.

  He fought to throw off the pain that held him captive.

  Terrible wounds can be healed. We can summon the power. Through the ancient ritual.

  We?

  Are there enough of us left … for the Being Together?

  When he tried to raise his head and look around, fresh waves of agony washed over him. He was being torn and twisted, he was pierced and bludgeoned!

  Before he could draw breath to scream, the torment ceased. The abrupt shock was almost worse than the pain.

  Opening his eyes meant another shock. He was staring into a void, the total absence of anything perceptible to the senses. No sight, no sound.

  Nothing. Nullity.

  Is this what death is?

  No. No!

  He tried to move; his body would not respond. His limbs seemed to be detached from the rest of him. There was no longer any pain but he would have welcomed pain. Pain would mean he was still alive.

  Like trapped mice, his thoughts raced around inside his skull.

  No way out, no way back.

  Go forward, then.

  But how?

  He was as helpless as a child waiting to be born.

  Born into what?

  Part of him longed to crawl into a corner and cower there, gibbering.

  No. That is not who I am.

  I am me!

  As if in response, the void gave way to an impenetrable blackness. Like ebony. Or was it onyx? His frantic mind sought reassurance in definition.

  Black means it is … something.

  He clung to the thought as random streaks of coloured light began to spangle the darkness; warmly radiant lights that appeared both immeasurably distant and close enough to touch.

  He reached out to them.

  The result was unsettling, as if he were falling upward.

  His body responded with a violent start.

  Instantly he was cocooned in a thick mist as comforting as a mother’s arms. Through the mist came the chime of distant bells.

  Fear gradually faded into acceptance. His worries ceased to weigh upon him. His damaged body was a burden he need not endure. It would be so easy to let go, he could just drift away and…

  No! He concentrated his entire will, his formidable will, on that word. The denial of surrender.

  The little strength he retained was just enough to repel the mist. The cloud dispersed reluctantly, fading to a grainy half-twilight. He began to see huddled shapes lying near him. By forcing his eyes to focus he recognized the fallen fruits of battle, left to spoil.

>   None of those dead bodies belonged to the woman he loved. His relief was greater than his pain had been. She must be somewhere on his other side, then. During the final assault he had placed himself between his wife and the enemy. When he twisted around to look for her something tore inside him but he ignored it. He must hurry to find her; they had a long way to go.

  He tried to call her name but his voice failed. His throat locked on the syllables his heart had sung for years.

  Rolling onto his belly, he used his elbows like oars to row across the earth, dragging his wounded body after him. Moving hurt, even breathing hurt. No matter. His agonised efforts were forcing the circulation back into his limbs. His arms and legs tingled as if a thousand bees were stinging them, but he had learned his lesson: pain was good. He scrabbled his way across the broken and bloody ground until he had enough strength to get to his feet. He stood swaying, assessing his condition. Back, shoulders, arms … Yes! He would be able to carry her if she was injured.

  But she was not injured, she was waiting for him. Just a few more steps. He would find her soon. Her spirit was calling to his, guiding him. She was at the core of his being; he had never doubted they would grow old together.

  Until he found her.

  His throat opened then.

  The cry he gave was enough to shatter the cancelled stars.

  CHAPTER TWO

  You can call me Elgolai na Starbird. That is not the name I was given when I was born; it is who I am now.

  It is what I have become.

  On the day of my birth I received a lengthy title that referenced past generations of the Túatha Dé Danann, identifying the nobility, the heroes and the scholars and the artists among my ancestors. Every member of our tribe inherited a similar record of lineage to be a source of pride and a guidepost for character. The infant’s personal name was added to the end of the long list.

  An invisible chain connected the newest Danann to those who had gone before; thus another of the Children of Light was secured in history.

  My personal name, chosen by my parents before I was born, was Joss. Joss had the strong yet jaunty quality Mongan and Lerys wanted for their son.

  Naming is an act of creation.

  I was born in the season of leaf-fall. To balance their long lifespans my people had a low birth rate; the arrival of an infant was a great event. Because my father was a prince of the Túatha Dé Danann my birth was celebrated for seven days and nights. During that time all debts were cancelled and misunderstandings forgiven. Gifts in my name were given to every member of our clan; my extended family.

  My early life was a happy dream. As an only child I had the full attention of my parents. The sun always shone, or so I think now, and when the sun was not shining the moon and stars were. Rain, if any fell, was soft and warm.

  The clothing I wore was fashioned by my mother from the shimmering fibres of many colourful plants. My fitted tunic was soft and comfortable, cool in sunseason. My hooded cloak was as light as thistledown, yet kept me warm in darkseason.

  Our house was almost indistinguishable from the forest around it. Branches more slender than the arm of a Danann were inserted in the soil and bent like basketwork to form the walls and roof. The outside was covered with thin strips of grassy sod. Ferns and leaves were woven into elaborate patterns and fastened to the interior walls with stems. They could be changed according to the seasons – or my mother’s mood. A family might live in one place for three generations, then decide they wanted to be closer to the music of a waterfall and move the entire structure in a single day.

  As the seasons passed I became aware that there was more to life than childhood. I asked my parents when I would become an adult. My mother laughed but my father said, “You will become an adult when you begin having adult thoughts, Joss.”

  “What is an adult thought?”

  Still laughing, my mother told me, “An adult thought is one which is not about yourself.”

  But everything was about myself. In the dawn of life children assume they are the center of the world and happiness is the normal condition – until they see its other face.

  The Great War, when it came, was an awakening. Reminders of better times grew too painful. Titles extolling past glories fell into disuse. By the end of the war I was simply Joss.

  The name I bear now is an oddity. As am I.

  The event which would change everything was not recognized as a war, not at first. Like a tiny crack in a stone it needed time to widen into malevolence.

  The annual Being Together of the Túatha Dé Danann was held at the Gathering Place. The locale had been sacred to our tribe ever since we came to this island, and it was sacred long before we arrived; sacred even Before the Before. Place does not need people.

  Before the Before stretched into an unimaginable past, as incapable of limits as the stars in the sky.

  There were limits on our tribe, however, determined by the size of the land we occupied. The sacred island must always be able to feed us. We could not take more than we gave back. Our festivals were ceremonies of thanksgiving and promises of future generosity on our part.

  The Túatha Dé Danann comprised a number of clans, each one an extended family tracing its origins from a common ancestor. Every clan had unique physical characteristics and patterns of thought. This made the connection between them vitally important. We were more than a tribe, we were a community: people and place wedded together. As long as the community survived the Túatha Dé Danann would be immortal.

  Looking into each other’s eyes, my people saw themselves reflected.

  From the blue mountains and the whispering forests, from the silver shores and the fragrant bogs and the hidden places of the heart the Dananns flocked to the Gathering Place in response to the yearly summons for Being Together. Kings and queens and all the nobility, the elders of the tribe, the makers and builders and artisans, those who worked with the land and those who worked with the sea. None were excluded. The Children of Light were a single entity.

  The youngest children did not attend the Being Together, however.

  When my parents invited me to accompany them it was a tacit recognition of my approaching maturity. The ceremony was an important rite of passage, the initial step into the mysterious world of the adults.

  I was more interested in the opportunity to meet people of my own age.

  Although the Dananns inhabited the entire island their numbers were relatively small. Their emphasis on family and kinship, their peaceful nature and strongly pastoral but self-sufficient society had produced a scattered pattern of settlement. Their dwellings reflected their surroundings, whether forest or mountain or seaside. If you did not know what to look for you might never see them.

  Several families of our clan lived within half a morning’s walk of our home. Their children were younger than I was. On the occasions when I met these cousins, such as harvest time, we had little in common. I thought of them as babies. I do not know what they thought of me, it did not matter. Then.

  For the Being Together an elderly couple joined my family on our journey to the Gathering Place. The Dagda and his wife Melitt lived at the other end of our valley. Originally he was simply Dagda, but over time his name had become a title of respect. The Dagda was the oldest member of our clan – and also the oldest of the Túatha Dé Danann; a man of such experience and wisdom that generations had called him king. When the task of tribal leadership finally became too arduous for a person his age he had passed the kingship on to three brothers of royal birth. One man by himself could not have equalled the service the Dagda had rendered the tribe.

  Relieved of the burden of authority, the Dagda had turned to teaching.

  During darkseason I went to him to study or he came to me; more often the latter. Refusing to acknowledge his age, he would come striding down the valley with the energy of a younger man.

  I must have been quite young when the pattern was set because I do not recall its beginnings, but I know
I resented the time it took away from my play. The Dagda always had a lot to say and seemed to take forever to say it, droning on while I pretended to pay attention to wax tablets inscribed with numbers, or maps that he drew on the earth with a pointed stick.

  The Dagda was inclined to say important things, lessons I obviously was meant to learn, when I least expected them. For example he might suddenly announce, “At birth we receive a gift of days, Joss. No person can say how many are allotted to him, but even if they number in the thousands not a single one should be squandered. Our days are the greatest gift we are given.”

  Why did he tell me that when I was happily engaged in daydreaming?

  Occasionally I did listen – if he was answering one of my many questions. Such as: “What is time?”

  The Dagda’s reply did not enlighten me. “Time is an illusion with a purpose.”

  Much, much later, when I realised the question I should have asked next, it was too late.

  While I respected the Dagda’s age and immense knowledge I was genuinely fond of his plump, rosy-cheeked wife. Melitt was a merry little woman who baked delicious bread with summer fruits inside, like clusters of jewels.

  As the five of us walked across the countryside my mother chatted with Melitt and the Dagda, discussing old friends in common and days gone by; topics in which I had no interest. Fortunately I was not expected to take part in their conversation. My father was busy preparing me for the event to come.

  “The Being Together is the perfect occasion for making and renewing friendships,” Mongan explained, “giving us the opportunity to exchange ideas, tell of our joys and share our sorrows. With singing and dancing we express our pleasure in living, and we reward the generous earth for supporting us with gifts of thanksgiving. But there is another purpose for the great gathering. An annual meeting of the clans is essential because we are so few in number.

  “As you will see demonstrated if the need arises, Joss, when the Túatha Dé Danann unite in common purpose we can achieve more than any single individual can do alone. Within our combined power is the summoning of wind, the distribution of clouds, the taming of storms, the redirection of rivers, the enrichment of soil, the raising of hills, the opening or sealing of caves, the purifying of pools, the ritual of healing, and more besides. Almost any deed you can imagine can be accomplished by our acting together.”