A Giant's Dream (The Fay Folk Series)

by Alan Fisher

  Fionn nodded and raised his cup. “To a thousand years.”

  Their cups clanged against one another as they drank.

  “Aaaa…That’s a fine ale,” Fionn commented.

  Cormac smiled. “You’ve good taste my friend. It’s made using water taken directly from the streams of Earagail and mixed with the finest grain. This is just a taster. I’ve ordered five hundred barrels of the stuff down from Dun na nGall for the feast on the eve of your wedding. That’s the first night all the leaders will be here. I want to show them what fruits come to bare when our men are busy in the fields doing work and not battle. Only through peace and cooperation can we truly make Ireland stronger.”

  “And they say I’m the wise one,” Fionn replied.

  “I’m sure you’ve had similar thoughts yourself.” They both laughed and toasted again to the future.

  As the evening progressed they talked in more detail about the wedding and their plans to form strategic alliances with the tribe leaders in attendance. Around midnight they finished and Fionn returned to his chamber.

  He sat on his bed stroking the heads of his wolfhounds who lay beside him. Taiko stayed in her cell. Every evening they chatted. It had become increasingly clear that she was indeed a charm, positively affecting his life and he was eager to learn more about where she was from and Zashiki Warashi in general. For the most part, Fionn had been kind to Taiko and didn’t wish her any ill will, however, he did continue to poke and prod with questions to test her story; she was bringing prosperity to both himself and the kingdom, yet he was still not fully convinced she didn’t know Ena.

  “When will you set me free? It’s been over three weeks. I’d like to go home and I’m sure King Brian will be ever so angry.”

  “I’m sorry for keeping you locked away, Taiko. You’ve been true to your word and helped me greatly, even in such a short time. Ena may not have showed himself to the king, but I’ll release you in the Cooley Mountains after the wedding. It is a very important time for Ireland right now. I shall marry the high king’s daughter in two days and tomorrow night we hope to forge strong friendships with some of the most powerful Celt’s in Ireland. These strategic ties will ensure Ireland has a peaceful future, so you see little one, I’ll need every bit of luck I can get. But, rest assured, I shall be true to my word also.” Fionn turned on his side and went to sleep, leaving Taiko alone with her thoughts once more.

  The next morning smoke billowed through the roof of the great hall. Cooks were preparing twenty wild boars and one hundred giant Atlantic salmon for the evening’s feast. Noise rattled around the castle as men rushed to and fro carrying benches, stools and other equipment. Oisin and Diarmuid marshalled proceedings ensuring that everything was just right for the arriving tribes. It was the early evening when the Munster men and women marched through the city. Fifty of their strongest, gathered from the many southern tribes, accompanied their notorious leader, Fiachu Muillethan. Shortly thereafter came another fifty of the western Celts, the Connacht tribes lead by Ruairidh O’Conchuir. Fionn entered a courtyard overflowing with men, women, and horses. An uneasy silence hushed over everyone, all of whom had heard many stories of Fionn Mac Cumhail, but few had ever seen the legend in the flesh. Only whispers and unsettled horses could be heard over his footsteps as he made his way over to greet Fiachu and Ruairidh. Diarmuid and Oisin joined him, standing tall on either side.

  “Fiachu, Ruairidh, you honor us, the high king will be most pleased you've arrived.

  “I see he’s not here to welcome us himself,” Fiachu replied.

  Just as he spoke Ruairidh jumped from his horse and swaggered up to Fionn, staring him dead in the eye. Ruairidh was a stocky, muscular man with great western wolf skins adorning his shoulders. The broad sword, which swung over his back, had earned him quite the reputation.

  “You’re not as big as the stories might suggest, Mac Cumhail. I wonder if the bite from your spear is over exaggerated also.” As the words left his mouth Diarmuid gripped the handle of his sword; he went to draw until Fionn extended his arm, prompting him to stop.

  “You’re here at the high king’s request, O’Conchuir, and I dare not anger the gods by spilling blood the day before my wedding. I’d suggest you grab an ale and shut your mouth or you’ll see exactly how sharp my spear is.” Fionn’s expression didn’t change. He and Ruairidh stared at each other, while every soul in the courtyard waited with bated breath. Ruairidh then smirked and nodded slightly, he turned to his men and shouted.

  “An ale it is then.” Everyone erupted in cheer and dismounted from their horses. Diarmuid and Oisin ushered everyone into the hall where the barrels were already opened and flowing.

  Fiachu walked over and embraced Fionn slapping him on both shoulders. “It’s good to see you. I guess the high king is still a little hurt we’ve not paid our taxes.”

  “Everything is good Fiachu. He is delighted to welcome you and your men. Cormac will speak with you directly later this evening,” Fionn replied.

  “And will the Ulaids make an appearance?” Fiachu asked.

  “Stubborn as ever unfortunately, but not to worry, they’ll come to the table eventually. Anyway, there'll be plenty of time for the serious talk later, for now, let’s get a bloody drink. We’ve prepared the finest ale, music, and food for our esteemed guests.” Fionn slapped Fiachu on the shoulder as they walked inside to join the rest of the men and women.

  Shortly after the first few barrels were emptied Cormac entered the hall; Grainne followed with several handmaidens while Fionn stood to announce their arrival.

  “All rise for the High King of Ireland.”

  Cormac walked over to Fionn, who stood with Oisin, Diarmuid and an elderly Tadg Mac Cein, whom despite his frailty, struggled to his feet to welcome the high king.

  “Tadg, you old fool...” Cormac said, stopping him from getting up. “No need, no need my friend.” Yet Tadg insisted and rose like everyone else. The high king stood proud and strong with his loyal generals at the head of a U-shaped table to the back of the hall. The senior men from the Munster and Connacht contingents were on either side. Munster to the left and Connacht on the right, while the remaining men sat on benches set in straight lines from the fire in the center through to the opposite side of the room, all facing towards their leaders.

  Fionn filled a large cup with ale and placed it in Cormac's hand, who in turn ushered Grainne to stand beside her future husband. He then turned to face everyone and began his toast.

  “You've travelled far and wide to be here with us this evening. For that I am very grateful to you all. Tonight, is a celebration.” With cup in hand he paused and tilted his head to both Fiachu and Ruairidh.

  “We may have had our differences but we all share the same love for this great country and our unity has brought peace and prosperity. The great food, ale, and music you enjoy here today is testament to that friendship. So, I welcome you to Tara, come the end of the evening, I expect each of your bellies to burst. To friendship.” He raised his hand and drank down a full cup, everyone else quickly followed. Cups were refilled and Cormac waited for the crowd to settle before continuing.

  “I'm honored to welcome Fionn Mac Cumhail into my family. I’ve foreseen that Fionn and my beloved, Grainne, will bare many offspring, whom will help a great deal in furthering Ireland's growth and prosperity. I’d now like to drink another toast to them. To Fionn and Grainne! May their union help strengthen our country and future.” Once again, he emptied his glass.

  “Now, let the fun begin.” Cormac clapped and several musicians marched into the center of the U-shaped seating area and started playing. The ale continued flowing and a glorious feast of boar and salmon was served with a variety of fresh vegetables and potatoes. The slurps and chomps from so many rowdy Celts was drowned by the fantastic jigs and reels coming from the musicians. This merriment continued into the later hours as men and women began dancing and singing around the fire.

  Ruairidh rose from his sea
t, belly stuffed, and pulled one of Grainne’s handmaidens to dance while everyone remained eating. As he left, Cormac looked over to Fiachu and raised his cup.

  “What has happened in the past belongs there, thank you for making the journey.”

  Fiachu tilted his head in acknowledgement and replied, “We’re glad to have received the invitation. You sure know how to throw a celebration.”

  Fionn joined in also. “Wait until you see what he has been planned for tomorrow.”

  “I look forward to it,” Fiachu replied.

  At that moment, Grainne suddenly shouted. “Father! Father! Are you okay? Someone help him.” Cormac heaved forward grabbing his throat with both hands. All the leaders still sitting looked over at the high king, who’d been eating a large piece of fish. Fionn quickly jumped from his seat and ran over. He clubbed him in the back with the palm of his hand. One, two, three times and still nothing came out. Cormac’s face was now turning blue and his eyes bloodshot from heaving so hard. The musicians noticed the commotion and stopped playing which brought what was happening to the attention of everyone in the room. Ruairidh stopped dancing and squinted over trying to make sense of what was happening.

  Fionn now wrapped his arms around Cormac’s chest, interlocking his hands just under his rib cage. With all his might, he squeezed, lifting the high king off the ground with each thrust. Again, one, two, three times and still nothing. Cormac was starting to look lifeless dangling from Fionn’s grip, who jerked his body one more time. A large fishbone flew across the table and landed on the ground. Diarmuid swiped his arms across the table clearing room for Fionn to place Cormac down on his back. Tadg leaned over and checked on the high king. He placed the palm of his hand over Cormac’s chest, feeling for his heartbeat and lowered his ear down to his mouth checking for air. As he did so he looked over to Fionn and spoke.

  “He’s gone.”

  At which point Ruairidh marched over to the table. “What do you mean he’s gone?”

  Tadg was unable to speak, he still stared at Fionn.

  Ruairidh shook him by the shoulders. “Tell me, old man, what do you mean?”

  “I’m mean he’s dead, the high king is dead. He choked on the fishbone.”

  “Well if the high king is dead, we’re done here,” Ruairidh proclaimed. “He has no heir, no son to carry on his name. Ireland has no high king.” He turned waving to his men to leave when Oisin spoke.

  “You heard him yourself, Cormac welcomed Fionn into his family. He should be the high king, he is next in succession.”

  Ruairidh stopped and turned to Oisin, pointing over at Fionn. “I saw nothing. The men of Connacht have a stronger claim to be high king then Fionn Mac Cumhail.”

  Fiachu then spoke also. “Not in my lifetime. While I’m alive I’ll not have Munster bow to a high king from the west.”

  Ruairidh then clenched his fists and turned to Fiachu. “Well that can be arranged.”

  Just as he spoke Fionn lunged forward and slapped the palm of his hand down on top of Ruairidh’s head. Holding him in place, he grabbed a metal spoon from a nearby table and stabbed the narrow point up through his chin, into his brain. Fionn then let go and Ruairidh flopped to the ground, dead.

  The room was quiet. Everyone stood still, looking at Fionn. Even Ruairidh’s men stood in awe of what they’d witnessed.

  Fionn looked upon the corps by his feet, then he pointed over to that of his friend and high king, before addressing the room.

  “He disrespected his high king. For that he deserved to pay the ultimate price. Not a few hours ago, you sat in this room and heard Cormac Mac Art welcome me into his family. That is not something that happens by chance or is said lightly. For many years, he has been my closest friend and I will respect his wishes. We shall mourn the death of Cormac Mac Art, and celebrate his forty years as high king. Then I will marry Grainne and ensure his bloodline continues to sit on the throne here in Tara.”

  Tadg, who still stood with his hand down on Cormac’s chest, then spoke. “Fionn Mac Cumhail, High King of Ireland.”

  Fiachu followed. “Fionn Mac Cumhail, High King of Ireland.”

  With that the entire room joined in proclaiming, “Fionn Mac Cumhail, High King of Ireland.”

  ACT 3

  The Timpan – Part II

  E very main street in Tara led to the castle, so the intersection into which they all converged was chosen as the location for the city market. It bustled with activity seven days a week as farmers, traders, musicians, and tricksters gathered to make a living.

  On this day, a young lad sat cross legged and barefoot on the ground in one of the narrow streets next to the market. He was dressed in rags but carried a shiny new Timpan. A crowd of four or five people had stopped and gathered around him as he played a few tunes. His music enthralled the group and they listened ever so intently, smiling at the young lad whose melodies evoked happy memories and nostalgia. At the end of each song the boy would bow and smile back at the adoring crowd who placed silver coins and food down before him.

  As the clapping and cheers became louder, more and more passers-by joined until fifteen or so people formed a half circle around the lad. The young boy looked around, he was taken back by the large crowd standing before him, all well dressed and wealthy. Eager to impress, he pushed himself, improvising even tougher techniques into these Celtic melodies. The ease at which he did so surprised the lad, fueling him to play even faster, incorporating more difficult notes and scales. As he continued the world seemed to go dark and only he remained, obsessed with the music inside and a burning desire to set it free. He played and played until he felt all the energy within disappear and then he stopped. Opening his eyes, he looked at the crowd. The people that had just moments before stood in awe of him all now lay on the ground, strewn across one another, asleep.

  The boy had no idea how exactly he'd done this, but he knew it was time to leave. Packing away his Timpan and the few donations, he looked back over the crowd, everyone still dead to the world.

  “Had they not fallen asleep, surely they would've offered a few more coins or a donation. They did seem to enjoy it,” he thought swinging the Timpan case around his shoulder. Stepping softly, he began to rummage through their pockets and satchels. Even a few off-balanced missteps went unnoticed as everyone snoozed away on the ground. He had plenty of time to safely strip them of a few extra coins, and make his way home unnoticed. A short time later when everyone woke, there was a great deal of confusion. Some stayed on the ground until they regained their composure, while others stood scratching their heads or checking their pockets. Aside from one or two extra pieces of silver missing, everything was where it should be, except the young lad with the Timpan was gone. There was nothing for them to do now but carry on with their day.

  Hidden away in his ditch the boy counted his takings. He couldn't believe it: for the first time in his life he had the means to buy food and clothes. Looking down at the Timpan case he felt a tear fall from his cheek and watched as it got swallowed up by the dusty ground onto which it fell. Fearful someone might be looking for him, the lad waited. He wanted so much to rush around the city and buy some food but he thought it best to stay hidden, at least for now.

  A few days went by and the market was as busy as ever. This time making his way to a different side street, the boy once again took out his Timpan and played a few tunes. Onlookers slowly gathered and when the group was big enough and everyone was focused on the music, he let loose. As the melodies flowed he opened his eyes and watched patches of onlookers drop to the ground. Others then fell in quick succession, falling into a deep sleep before even realizing what was going on around them. He shook his head as he played, wondering what in the heavens was causing this to happen. Before long everyone was asleep. Distracted by his music there was no time for anyone to make donations, so the lad quickly packed away his Timpan and helped himself to a few pieces of silver from anyone that had some to spare.

  This continued for
a few weeks, each time on a different street and taking a few more coins than the last. Rumors began to spread around the city and the boy felt it was getting a little dangerous. Using what he’d saved, the lad bought some tattered clothes and paid for passage with a traveling merchant out of Tara, heading to the nearby town of Kells. Here he managed to secure lodgings at a local tavern in exchange for a few regular performances. Finally, the boy had a place to call home, where people treated him with kindness. For a time, he was content and didn't succumb to the music, that burning desire to play, instead he only ever struck out a few traditional tunes, which still greatly impressed the tavern owner. Yet, he struggled to resist the urge, and every so often he’d go back to Tara, it was not the lure of riches or renown which brought him back, rather the music, like an addiction that needed to be quenched. Although his mesmerizing performances grew much less frequent, eventually, stories of this mysterious busker made their way to the high king as victims complained.

  One afternoon, a group of thirty market traders waited patiently for an audience with Art Mac Cuinn. Eventually they were shown inside and given an opportunity to speak.

  “High King, it was as if a demon possessed the market and all who stood there fell into its trance,” the first speaker explained.

  “Aye, I wasn’t even fully paying attention to the music, I was working at my fish stall and suddenly I was on the ground. I woke lying on the floor and all my takings were gone,” said another.

  Art listened intently to each of the thirty complaints, all of which described a busker who mysteriously sent them into a hypnotic trance before stealing their money. Having heard so many stories about a demon musician, Art was eager to see for himself. So, the next day he sent messengers off to every corner of Ireland inviting all musicians to come and showcase their skills before the high king. The winning performers would receive the honor of playing in the high king’s court, renowned as Ireland’s most talented musicians.