Fionn and the Legend of the Blood Emeralds

by Tom O'Neill

  ‘That’s just old Jim Golden,’ said the garda as the old man wobbled slowly onwards, ‘as cracked as the crows.’

  Kevin seemed very glad to eventually step out of the Mary in Bluebell Crescent. His mum opened the front door for him and embarrassed him into turning to say to Connie, ‘Thanks for having me.’

  ‘A very fine young man, Mrs Dowd,’ shouted Connie, embarrassing Dark at least as much as Kevin. ‘Upstanding and true, he’s more than welcome in Kill any time he wants.’

  Dark, Connie and The Red went to the arcade for burgers. They spent some hours bowling and playing air hockey. Dark was relaxed, not having to worry what Kevin would have thought.

  Back at the house, Connie had some private words with The Red. Something about it being safer for them all to keep watch over their own now rather than causing aggravation. The Red went away in a sulk.

  ‘What was that about?’ asked Dark.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Connie. ‘Just that on my rounds this morning I noticed that someone had turned sods in the bog. Oh, and the spike was gone.’

  Dark felt a chill again. There had been someone in the bog last night – probably at the same time as he had been in the rath.

  ‘You alright?’ asked Connie.

  ‘Grand,’ said Dark.

  ‘Good. Anyway, we’ll leave the bog alone now for a while,’ said Connie. He went out to see to some overdue fencing.

  Dark knew Connie would have liked him to come along to hold stakes and keep him company. Even if they worked in silence, it was sometimes better than working alone. But Dark didn’t feel like going back to the usual school break activities just yet. He went back inside to play League of Heroes.

  It was quarter past five when his phone rang. Earlier Connie had reminded him that his mam was finishing work early and that maybe he shouldn’t be on the game when she arrived. So when he saw it was Connie’s number, he cut him off saying, ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. My pupils will go square and I’ll get “jitter fingers”. Don’t worry, I’m off.’

  He was still expecting an earful of loud slagging. Connie wasn’t really bothered about the gaming. It was more about impressing Helen that he was on the case. Last time he said to Dark, ‘Every man has to learn to sometimes pretend to be a normal human for his mother’s sake.’

  But none of the slagging came. Connie said faintly, ‘Maybe you should come out here.’ Nothing more. The call was still connected – Dark could hear the pulse of the milking machine.

  He ran out of the kitchen followed by the dogs, who sensed his panic. Stepping in through a pool of water at the milking parlour door, he saw that the gate of the right chute was open and Niamh, Connie’s favourite old cow, was half way through but not coming further. He looked around the corner and saw why. Connie was stretched out across the concrete apron. Niamh was smelling him, understanding that he was in trouble, and blocking the other cows from trying to step over him. His face was screwed up in pain and he was pointing to his foot.

  Dark assumed he’d broken his ankle, though it would usually have taken more than that to fell Connie. Dark wasn’t weak, but his uncle was too big for him to even think about lifting him. He reversed the cows back down the milking chute with the dogs snapping at them, thinking it a useful thing for them to be busy with.

  As he phoned his mother he realised he was patting Connie’s forehead the same way he usually comforted Georgina.

  She arrived at the same time as the ambulance which she had called. She stepped into the parlour and said, ‘Jesus Christ!’ when she saw Connie. She swore some more when she saw for herself that he wasn’t able to speak. Then she tried to act calm saying, ‘Now Art, it’s really important that you tell us truthfully what happened.’

  As if she always expected lies from him. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘I know you and your uncle have stuff you don’t tell me,’ she continued. ‘But this is not the time for any of that.’

  Dark pushed Georgina away because she was trying to lie on Connie’s legs. Connie tried to say something to him. Just an incoherent mumble. One of the ambulance men had to cut the wellington off his right foot, it had swollen that badly. When they peeled back the sock, Dark was the one who spotted the little purple blotches like a small bite mark on the back of his ankle. He examined the torn wellie and spotted a small hole near the ankle part. Between Dark, his mam, and the ambulance people, they managed to get Connie onto a stretcher and wheel him out of the parlour. The siren went on as they were going up the lane. Dark had no idea how to react. He looked at his mam. She was staring silently after the cloud of dust. She had gone completely pale. Eventually she said in a flat voice, ‘Sorry, Arty. Let’s go inside. You can change into clean clothes and then we’ll follow them.’

  He hesitated. ‘The last of the cows have to be milked. You go.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, without objection. ‘I’ll phone you to let you know once they have it sorted out.’

  ‘Mam?’ Dark said.

  ‘What?’ she said shortly.

  ‘Do you think it’s serious?’

  ‘Probably nothing.’

  ‘Then why did they say they are taking him to the city hospital, rather than to Mullet General?’

  ‘Probably just a precaution,’ she said. ‘You’ll be able to get your own tea and head to bed early?’

  She left, still trying to be calm. She didn’t notice that the bottom of her coat was sticking out through the car door and her hazard lights were still on as she drove back out along the lane. Like he could talk: he suddenly realised why his feet were warm. He had rushed out in his slippers and stepped in liquid fresh cow dung as he’d run the girls back down the chute.

  He concentrated on completing the milking without getting kicked by the young heifers. Then he concentrated on setting the milk tank to the right temperature and washing out the system. Then he concentrated on getting the cows back up to the rocky field across the road with no help from any of the dogs, who continued sitting around the place looking at him for reassurance.

  When that was all done and the calves were fed, he had nothing left to concentrate on. He sat at the Formica-topped table in the kitchen with nothing to distract him from wishing he wasn’t so afraid of hospitals. He should have gone with his mam. Any of the neighbours could have finished the milking.

  Just because Seán McLean had come out of hospital dead, didn’t mean everyone would. After all, his dad was already dead when they took him to hospital, so there was no other way for him to have come out. Dark had never understood that. They pulled his motorbike off for forensic examination and his body off to hospital when neither of them needed any further examining. Both were obviously beyond repair. Anyway, Connie was very much alive getting into that ambulance and it was time for Dark to force himself to disconnect the words morgue and ward. He would go there at the next chance. He phoned his mam, convinced now that she’d be chipper. She would tell him that everything was fine.

  She didn’t. She said, ‘I’m sure everything is going to be fine.’ Which was a bit different. And she sounded confused. She said, ‘They’re not quite on top of it yet though, Art. Various specialists have come to take a look. They’re running tests. I expect they’ll have it figured out by tomorrow. I’m going to stay down tonight.’

  He took off the slippers and threw them to soak in a bucket of water. He showered and put on the warm tracksuit that his mam had left out by the Aga for him that morning. He got himself a bowl of crispy nut flakes for supper. His crunching was the only noise in the house. He saw Georgina looking at him. She still had not resumed her normal circling of the yard.

  The thing that sat like lead in the back of Dark’s mind was the mumbling. Connie had made a swollen-mouthed sound when Dark was patting his head, and he had repeated it when the stretcher was sliding into the ambulance. Dark said it again to himself now – aloud, to take the edge off the silence: ‘Tallta lonmaree nobladee.’

  It was weighing heavily. He was supposed to know wha
t this meant. Probably had to do with something that Connie had said when he had not been listening.

  As he scraped his brain for ideas, he ended up with two uncomfortable ones. The first related to the ‘lonmaree’ part. Entirely illogical. But he was going back to the rath tonight to ask about this. Why shouldn’t he? There was nothing better for him to be doing here. He certainly wasn’t planning on tucking himself into bed and pretending nothing was wrong.

  The thought of texting Ciara came to him for some reason. But he didn’t have the courage. How did that work anyway? He had enough courage to walk out into the dead of night, headfirst into a world of unexplainable things that he was never certain of returning from. Yet he couldn’t touch a few spots on his screen to say ‘Hi’ to a friend and ask her what she was up to right now? They’d be back at school on Tuesday. He’d see her then.

  The second thought that was making him nervous was about the other thing. The ‘nobladee’ thing. Going against his own more sensible voice, he phoned The Red. He expected a barrage of questions, everything from what angle Connie’s head was at to which kind of diesel engine was in the ambulance. Instead, The Red said cryptically, ‘Indeed, indeed, fell in the parlour, the great unfortunate gobshite.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Dark, preparing to be ridiculed for not knowing, ‘I have to admit that I didn’t always listen when he talked about ... you know, stuff. So, could you tell me what he means when he’s trying to say something that sounds like “nobladee”?’

  ‘What!’ shouted the Red. ‘How dare you suggest that I ever listen to him!’

  ‘I was wondering if it might be “noble” something. And it’s just that the only “noble” anything I know about is the Noble Weed – you know, Trevor Saltee’s herbal shop in town. Do you think it could be that?’

  ‘It could be, it could be,’ said the Red. ‘Good thinking there, buddy. It could be the very thing.’

  ‘But what,’ said Dark, talking to himself now, ‘am I supposed to do about that?’

  ‘What any normal person would do, of course,’ said The Red. ‘Go break in there tonight.’

  ‘Yeah right,’ said Dark. ‘That’s what I’ll do.’

  ‘Good,’ said The Red, who never got sarcasm. ‘And once you’re inside you’ll realise what you are to take.’

  ‘It won’t help much if I land in jail,’ said Dark.

  ‘Don’t bother about that at all,’ said The Red. ‘You’re too young for that.’

  Dark wasn’t very reassured.

  ‘Besides,’ added The Red, ‘every man has to go to jail at some time in his life.’

  Dark should have thought it all through better. But he didn’t have many other ideas to choose from. After assuring The Red that he would call him again if he needed anything at all, he phoned Kevin. He asked if he’d meet him at the Shell garage in Mullet tomorrow evening. It was across the road from the Noble Weed. He didn’t mention the relevance of that fact to Kevin.

  After milking and feeding he watched bands on Vimeo till dark. There was no point in trying to go to sleep. He put on his parka and went back, looking all around him in heightened alertness as he stepped through the bog. He had no idea what he was going to do if there was someone there turning more sods, but luckily the moon was high and he did not even see a shadow.

  He did not have long to wait in the rath before the quietness was displaced by the assorted assembly and the blackness by the blazing fire that would leave no trace. Again the Old Man asked him how he was.

  ‘I suppose I’m alright,’ he responded, as casual as he was able to sound. ‘But ... by the way, where do you think I could meet Maire Fada?’

  ‘Oh ho?’ The Fear Dearg stuck his jeery head out from behind a stump. ‘The lanky gobdaw thinks he can talk like someone from our world now. Mawrawada, oh where oh where is Mawrawada,’ he mimicked, bringing a chorus of sniggers from the trees. ‘Hardly a wet week travelling in our world. She’s “An Bean Maire Ní Corghrian” to you, sonny.’

  ‘Shut your gob,’ shouted Conán, throwing a burning stump in surprising anger at his little friend. He looked across the flames at Dark. ‘Don’t mind that mouldy cur. The fleas are at him. Why do you want to talk to her, lad?’

  Dark was not going to risk further ridicule by explaining that he had been thinking maybe ‘lonmaree’ could have been Connie trying to say Long Mary, the one who flew over Matha’s valley. He merely said, ‘I have a ... friend ... who is sick in some way. Something bit him. A little purple bite. And he’s not able to talk or anything. And I wondered if she could help. That’s all.’

  Dark looked up from his feet and saw they were all looking at him now. Conán, the Old Man, the silent woman with the long red hair, and many little people. Nobody said anything. For once, all present were paying close attention to what he was saying. It frightened him. He’d have much preferred them not to be interested; to dismiss him as a fool for not knowing that a leaf of some bog weed would cure such a bite instantly. But light was not made of it. There was no more of the usual banter. And there was no instant wisdom offered.

  ‘Well, I came for help. That’s all,’ said Dark quietly again.

  Eventually the Old Man looked back at the fire. ‘Come and sit down, take the weight off your feet,’ he repeated. ‘Let us travel.’

  Etain was touching Dark’s leg. She came from nowhere with her smile and her syrup and soon Dark was gone without further questions, watching a half-starved lad in rags heading along a path towards the edge of a forest with a menacing shadow flapping slowly away over his head.

  Chapter 2a

  THE SPOTTY WOMAN

  Matha moved towards Sliabh na mBan, not because he fully believed Maire Fada but because he had no other ideas. Dread weighed down his every step.

  As he pushed himself to go faster out of fear of what might be stalking him, hunger burnt his insides like never before. He had become used to hunger again since the pony got sick. But when he was hungry at home he could light a fire and lie down next to it. The smoke or the drowsiness would take his mind off the thoughts of food. Or sometimes he would lie in the bushes near the open door of the chief’s cabin where he would get strange dreams from the smell of meat being stewed. But crossing hill, marsh and stream at this pace made the pain unbearable. Eventually he didn’t even care any more about the wolves that the harsh old bird had warned him of. He had to stop.

  He sat on a rock and noticed that the light of a wick was flickering through the trees. He knew he now had to do something that in all the years of hardship he had been too proud to do – admit that he needed help. He walked through the enclosure to the open doorway of a small straw cabin. As he stepped in, he bid a blessing on the old people he found in there. When they got over the surprise of seeing a stray boy so wet and pale, they sat him by the fire and put a sack over his shoulders. He still couldn’t ask for food but they didn’t need to be asked. He couldn’t help himself when a piece of griddle cake was offered. He forgot all manners and swallowed it down his throat in lumps. He followed it with gulps of very good buttermilk.

  Those old people made Matha feel more welcome than he had ever felt in any neighbour’s house in his own valley. They would not hear of him leaving that night. They made up the settle bed for him and insisted that he sleep by the embers so that he could get some warmth and strength back in his bones.

  Matha was a little less worried as he resumed his journey the next morning. And a little less hurried. He soon discovered that many people along the lanes and pathways were of the same outlook as the kind old couple. Most were more than happy to take him in, share their last bit of bread with him and give him a warm place to rest in. It was the first time he had realised that there were other ways to live besides accepting a cruel accident of fate and toiling in the one cold windy valley for the rest of your days. Going the roads was not the worst possible life in a country where people opened everything they had to a traveller. And if they liked him, if he was considerate towards them and entert
ained them or helped them with their work, he could stay as long as he wanted.

  It was probably as well that Matha had found some comforts in tramping the paths and tracks because there was a lot of it in front of him in his life.

  At the southern foot of Sliabh na mBan, unfortunately, he was in for disappointment. He had no difficulty getting directed to the woodcutter’s house. Everyone knew where it was. Shea was the well-known family’s name. Shea and his sons were very strong people and skilled with an axe. They had cleared ground and made dressers, settle beds, house frames and firing for every family in the North Mumhan area at one time or another.

  As Matha approached, he thought that the Shea fort looked prosperous. Inside the great ring of sceachs and paling that encircled it, there was one large home, the main house and several smaller huts. Needless to say, all were sustained by the finest oak poles, and thatched down with golden oaten straw over fine beds of furze.

  Matha had no idea how he was going to ask such well-off people for a precious bowl with magical properties. Why would they give it to him when he had nothing at all to offer them in return? But he approached anyway.

  Matha got the same warm reception as he had received in other homes along the way. ‘Come in son and leave your burdens at the door,’ said the fine lady of the main cabin, ‘you unfortunate garsún, out traipsing the countryside on a black winter night.’

  When he came inside the main cabin he tried to hide his surprise at what he saw. The place was as bare as the poorest cabins. There was one table and a few benches and a wick burning in fish oil. The pot on the hearth had no smell of meat. The woman set him by the fire on a bench next to a much older woman, Shea’s ancient grandmother. Shea was called from the lower camp where he and the sons had been out sharpening their hatchets and blades as they did every evening in the secret skilled way the Sheas had done for generations.