Finn Mac Cool
Page 52
We … my people … could do all those things! How thrilling!
The adults were walking with the sedate, gliding gait that characterised our race but I began to skip uncontrollably. Prompted by something the Dagda recently said to me – “Live your life in the expectation of sudden joy, Joss” – I turned handsprings, I laughed aloud. No butterfly dancing on the air could be more giddy.
My people cherished childhood and usually made no effort to curtail it. Why should they, when we lived so long? A Danann childhood could last for more than twenty sunseasons, followed by the responsibilities of adulthood for another eighty sunseasons. Only then could one become an elder; a person whose acquired wisdom was counted as part of the tribe’s treasure.
Unfortunately my childish behaviour on the morning of the Being Together brought a stern rebuke from my father. “Calm yourself, Joss! When we reach the Gathering Place you must be sedate and well-behaved. Listen instead of talking. Be mindful that you have nothing to contribute yet; it is enough for you to be there.”
I promised; I would have promised anything on that bright morning. The future was a splendid Unknown and I was eager for it.
I would approach it differently now.
At high sun we came to a pathway beaten by the passage of countless feet over countless seasons. The grass on either side of the path was so thick it tempted my bare feet to stray. The air was a heady perfume. We were immersed in life; leafy woodlands and lush grasslands and fern-fringed pools where predator and prey drank together.
Before us lay a meadow thickly starred with flowers. At home my mother could fashion almost anything from stems and leaves and blossoms. A flick of her fingers could create a wreath for the brow or a platter to hold bread.
I was stooping to pluck an armful of colour and fragrance when she stayed my hand. “You must take nothing away from this place, Joss. Not ever.” Her rebuke was gentler than my father’s but it went deeper.
The Dagda added, “Do no damage here, young man. Anyone who does is destined to die roaring in pain.”
I swallowed hard and kept my hands at my sides.
The green land rolled before us in waves like the sea that embraced our island. I had not yet been taken to the coast to see the white-crested waves which were the manes of Manannan Mac Lir’s horses, but someday I would. I would see and do many, many wonderful things. It was part of my heritage.
I was Danann.
The path we were following began to slope toward a distant hill. Our small group soon was enlarged by a trickle, then a stream, then a river of people dressed, as we were, in their brightest clothes, with more flowers in their hair. Cheerful strangers surrounded and enfolded us. Kinfolk I had never met called out my names, my many impressive names, and told me theirs.
My parents were congratulated on the simple fact of my being.
I thought myself a very fine fellow indeed.
When we reached the hill it did not appear very high; it was a long, grassy ridge crowned with timber columns, outlining halls. The halls were roofed with thatch but open on all sides to light and air. Instead of climbing up to them the Dagda led us around to the sunrise slope, where we sat down on springy grass and warm earth. A vast crowd – or what looked like a crowd to me, who had never seen one before – was spreading out along the flank of the ridge.
All were careful to sit down without crushing the flowers.
So was I.
While we waited for the ceremony to begin the Dananns sang. Mindful of my father’s admonition, I stayed quiet and listened. It was just as well; I did not recognize any of the words. Rippling, floating words like a trill of birdsong or a stream burbling over pebbles. My mother leaned over to murmur in my ear, “We are singing in the old language, Joss. This is a song of welcome.”
I didn’t even know we had an old language. Yet when I listened closely I observed that every unfamiliar word found its allotted place in the music. One could not be separated from the other.
Like the Dananns from their land.
Was that an adult thought? I must ask my father.
The singing ended abruptly, rising into one pure note of aching sweetness that took me by surprise.
How did they all know to stop at the same time? I must ask him about that too.
Before I could voice my questions, several splendidly attired men and women stood up in front of the crowd and began to make speeches of welcome. My father whispered their names to me, identifying them as members of the ruling family – who were related to our own clan. The audience warmly applauded each one in turn. “They are much loved,” my mother said proudly.
At that moment I began to love them too. My kinship to these radiant beings did not have to be explained, I could feel it welling up in me. As if responding to a silent command, the assembled Dananns broke into song again. The music celebrated what we were all feeling; even me who didn’t know the words. I wanted to stay there and feel that way forever.
The joyous atmosphere was short-lived. It faded when one of the princes – a man whom my mother identified as her uncle Aengus – made a sobering announcement. “I regret to say that the tribes which our ancestors subdued are no longer content with the peace imposed upon them.”
I had only the vaguest idea what he meant. I knew that great battles had been won by our race long ago, led by a hero called Nuada of the Silver Hand, but I had never paid much attention when the Dagda was relating the details of history. The stories were not about me.
“Men of the Iverni recently tried to assault a child on the brink of adulthood,” Aengus continued, “the girl who is called Shinann.” This provoked expressions of shock from some of his listeners and angry muttering from others. Shinann herself was not present but many of her kin were. Aengus raised a hand for silence. “She is unharmed, I assure you, but it was not the only such incident. One of our craftsmen seeking copper ore in the mountains was threatened by a party of the Velabri. He tells us they were carrying weapons that were not shaped for hunting animals. To make matters worse, the dark-spirited Fír Bolga are now openly skirmishing with our shepherds in the borderlands.”
When he finished speaking the elders took turns addressing the issue, then invited comments. Most people agreed that while none of these incidents posed a serious threat by itself, taken as a whole they were disquieting.
The Dagda pointed out that any unusual disturbance, such as a vortex in a normally quiet pool or a sudden leaping of birds into windless air, could be a dark portent. “This behaviour among the formerly pacified tribes might signal the first twitch of rebellion,” he warned. “Their numbers are greatly diminished but their primitive instincts remain.”
A rebellion! In a vague way I knew what that meant: a chance for real excitement. I had been quiet for long enough this morning. Youth and sun and strength were coursing through me. I was eager for action.
Sitting cross-legged beside me, my father placed his hand on top of my head as if to hold me down. “Stop fidgeting, Joss, we are not playing games now.”
But my mother gave me a tiny wink. Lerys was younger than my father; she and I often were confederates in small acts of naughtiness.
I winked back at her.
The discussion was becoming heated. One of the younger men jumped to his feet and shouted, “Unbury the Earthkillers!” Another promptly cried, “We need the Sword of Light and the Invincible Spear! They will remind the savage Fír Bolga where the real power lies!” A third added, “We must strike before they attack us and try to seize our treasures.”
Earthkillers? Sword of Light? What were those? I had never heard of them before, but the very names made my heart race.
My father lifted his hand from my head and stood up. “You all know me,” he announced in a ringing voice unlike any he used at home. “I am Mongan na Manannan Mac Lir, heir to the wisdom of my forebears. Their experience as leaders – and yes, as warriors too – is part of me. Therefore I warn you: the treasures we possess were not acquired through war,
but war could destroy them.”
“Impossible!” shouted a voice from the crowd.
Others hotly contradicted him. The argument grew more passionate. Every person present seemed to have an opinion about the Earthkillers – whatever they were – and was determined to express it without listening to anyone else. Tempers flared. Men and women who had been laughing and singing together only moments before shouted furiously at each other.
I sat small between my parents, hardly daring to breathe. An event which had begun as a celebration had turned into … what?
Something dangerous had been set loose in the Gathering Place.
By Morgan Llywelyn from Tom Doherty Associates
Bard
Brian Boru
The Elementals
Finn Mac Cool
Lion of Ireland
Pride of Lions
1916
The Horse Goddess
1921
“Llywelyn’s work is known for its skillful blend of historical fact with interesting characters.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
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—The Charleston Post & Courier
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—The New York Times Book Review on Red Branch
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF PRINCIPAL SOURCES
Adamson, Ian, THE CRUTHIN, A HISTORY OF THE ULSTER LAND AND PEOPLE, Pretani Press, Belfast, Northern Ireland, 1974
Byrne, Francis John, IRISH KINGS AND HIGH-KINGS, St. Martin’s Press, N.Y., 1973
Comyn, David, THE YOUTHFUL EXPLOITS OF FINN (from the Saltair of Cashel), Gaelic League Series, Dublin, 1904
D‘Alton, E. A., Rev., HISTORY OF IRELAND, The Gresham Publishing Co. Ltd., Dublin & Belfast, n.d.
Dames, Michael, MYTHIC IRELAND, Thames & Hudson, London, 1992
Goode, William J., THE CELEBRATION OF HEROES: PRESTIGE AS A CONTROL SYSTEM, Univ. of Calif. Press, Berkeley, 1978
Gregory, Isabella Augusta Persse (Lady), GODS AND FIGHTING MEN, Colin Smythe, Buckinghamshire, England, 1976
Hickin, Norman, IRISH NATURE, O‘Brien Press, Dublin, 1980
Hogan, F. Edmund, THE IRISH PEOPLE, THEIR HEIGHT, FORM, AND STRENGTH, Sealy, Bryers & Walker, Dublin, 1899
Jackson, Kenneth Hurlstone, THE OLDEST IRISH TRADITION: A WINDOW ON THE IRON AGE, Cambridge Univ. Press, Cambridge, 1964
Joyce, Patrick Weston, HISTORY OF GAELIC IRELAND, Educational Company of Ireland, Dublin, 1924
——, SOCIAL HISTORY OF ANCIENT IRELAND, Vols. I and 11, Arno Press, N.Y., 1980
——, STORY OF ANCIENT IRISH CIVILIZATION, THE, Longmans, Green & Co., London, 1907
Macalister, R.A.S., Ed. and Translator, LEBOR GABALA ERENN, PART V, Irish Texts Society, Dublin, 1956
——, ARCHAEOLOGY OF IRELAND, THE, Arno Press, N.Y., 1977
——, TARA, Charles Scribners’ Sons, N.Y., 1931
MacKillop, James, FIONN MAC CUMHAILL, Syracuse University Press, N.Y., 1986
MacKenzie, Donald A., DIARMAID AND GRAINNE, The Celtic Review, 1909-10 , FINN AND HIS WARRIOR BAND, Blackie, London. 1910
Mac Neill, Eoin, CELTIC IRELAND, Martin Lester Ltd , Dublin, 1921
——Translator, DUANNAIRE FINN, THE BOOK OF THE LAYS OF FIONN Irish Texts Society, London, 1908
Mac Niocaill, Gearoid, IRELAND BEFORE THE VIKINGS, Gill & Mac Millan, Dublin, 1972
Matthews, John, and Stewart, Robert, CELTIC BATTLE HEROES, Firebind Books, Dorset, England, 1988
Nagy, Joseph Falaky, THE WISDOM OF THE OUTLAW: THE BOYHOOD DEEDS OF FINN IN GAELIC NARRATIVE TRADITION, University of Calif., Berkeley & London, 1984
Neeson, Eoin, A HISTORY OF IRISH FORESTRY, Lilliput Press, Dublin, 1991
O‘Cathasaigh, Tomas, THE HEROIC BIOGRAPHY OF COMIC MAC AIRT, Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, Dublin, 1977
O’Curry, Eugene, MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF THE ANCIENT IRISH, Williams & Norgate, London, 1873
O’Donovan, John, ANNALS OF THE FOUR MASTERS, THE, Vol. I, De Burca Rare Books, Dubbin, 1990 reprint
——, LEABHAR NA G-CEART, or, THE BOOK OF RIGHTS, The Celtic Society, Dublin, 1847
O’Geady, Standish, FINN AND HIS COMPANIONS, T. Fisher Unwin, London, n.d.
——, SILVA GADELICA, Williams & Norgate, London, 1892
Ó hÓgáin, Dáithí, THE HERO IN IRISH FOLK HISTORY, Gill & Macmillan, Dublin, 1985
O’Rahilly, Thomas F., EARLY IRISH HISTORY AND MYTHOLOGY, Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, Dublin, 1946
Redlich, Anna, THE DOGS OF IRELAND, Dundalgan Press, Dundalk, Ireland, 1981
Rees, Alwyn, and Rees, Brinley, CELTIC HERITAGE, Thames & Hudson, London, 1961
Rolleston, T.W., THE HIGH DEEDS OF FINN, George C. Harrap & Co., London, 1910
Scott, Michael, Ed, IRISH HERBAL, AN, Aquarian Press, Northamptonshire, England, 1986
——RIVER GODS, THE, Real Ireland Design, Ltd., Bray, Co. Wicklow, Ireland, 1991
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
FINN MAC COOL
Copyright (C) 1994 by Morgan Llywelyn
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
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eISBN 9781429913140
First eBook Edition : February 2011
ISBN 0-312-85476-5 (he)
ISBN 0-312-87737-4 (pbk)
First Hardcover Edition: March 1994
First Trade Paperback Edition: May 2002