Fionn and the Legend of the Blood Emeralds

by Tom O'Neill

  ‘Only a very tiny sip of this, mind,’ she said. ‘Any more could kill you.’

  Nothing happened at first. Then his body jerked.

  ‘Daghda dhuinn,’ shouted Goll, ‘she’s after killing him altogether.’

  Mac Cumhaill lay still for a while. Then the herb woman said, ‘Here, to hell with us all, I might have been a small bit wrong in the amounts,’ and before anyone could stop her she had chucked a full goblet of the stuff down his throat.

  He went into a horrendous convulsions like a dying man. But then he stopped, opened his eyes, and sat up. ‘Where am I?’ said he. ‘What are ye all doing here? And where is that scoundrel of a man who hit me from behind?’

  A cheer went up from that small gathering. Diarmuid hugged Fionn.

  ‘Get off me, you harmless oleán,’ said Mac Cumhaill.

  When they had reminded Mac Cumhaill of the details, all headed for Tara. They were trying to think of how to get Bolg Magilla to take Coinín’s other potion.

  ‘The best way to get anyone to do something for you is to take their strongest trait and work it against them. In Magilla’s case, I would imagine that’s begrudgery,’ said Mac Cumhaill, looking at Goll.

  They sent Hanrahan, Diarmuid’s most dependable commander, ahead of them to the castle. Hanrahan wouldn’t raise suspicions. He was from Corofin, and Magilla, who had no understanding of what loyalty was made of, assumed that anyone from the west should automatically be loyal to him rather than to the ‘east coast old-timers’ as he called Conán and the Fionn supporters.

  Hanrahan talked to other members of the Fianna guards there and told them the good news about Mac Cumhaill. But he warned them not to let Magilla know yet.

  Then Coinín went knocking on the castle door. One of the guards took her into the great hall. Magilla was now quite a bit plumper and his face was as purple as his gown from eating and drinking too much. He was sitting on the King’s throne eating a side of red deer – he always forced the real King to sit at a smaller side table to witness him.

  ‘What rudeness is this?’ Bolg Magilla roared when Coinín was brought in.

  ‘It’s just a simple young woman with a health drink she wants to offer to the King and to the Fianna,’ said Hanrahan. ‘I found her on the road back from Corofin. She says it will give the men great strength and happiness.’

  ‘May Daghda scald her, and may you die bawling like a jackass, Hanrahan, I already have great strength. Get her out,’ yelled Magilla.

  ‘Oh, I know sir, I know. You don’t need it. But I thought the men could use it so they can serve you better.’ Without waiting, he brought a cup across to one of the guards who pretended to drink it. After putting the cup to his mouth the athletic guard jumped high and shouted that he felt stronger than a giant. Another guard did the same and said he could feel his intelligence growing sharper than that of the wisest person on earth.

  ‘Stop!’ Magilla shouted.

  ‘Alright,’ said Hanrahan. ‘I’ll take her away then.’

  ‘No,’ said Magilla. ‘Bring her stuff here.’

  ‘But the other men need to get some,’ said Hanrahan. ‘Your own son Miley may need quite a few swallows of it. You yourself are strong and wise enough already.’

  ‘Bring it here,’ screamed Bolg, ‘I want it all!’

  Hanrahan brought the bucket of potion to Magilla saying, ‘Whatever you command, your honour.’

  The cat inside Magilla looked at Coinín, grinning straight at her through Magilla’s eyes. Suddenly she realised who it was – the woman from the Black Mountains who was legendary among conjurers and potion makers. She realised that the whole thing was a trick. She screamed inside Magilla’s head: ‘Stop, stop, it’s treachery, they’re going to poison us!’

  But the power of Magilla’s greed was even greater than that of the sea cat inside him. He said, ‘Quiet, Cailleach, you’re only worried that this stuff will make me so strong and smart that I won’t need you anymore.’

  ‘Who are you talking to, your Worthiness?’ said Hanrahan, looking all around with a mocking innocence that the others feared would warn Magilla.

  ‘Shut up and give me that stuff,’ said Magilla, grabbing the bucket.

  He threw back his head and opened his dark purple lips. He didn’t give his nose or his tongue a chance to express any opinions. He was so eager to ensure nobody else got a drop that he just poured the whole bucketful of potion back down his neck like it was heavenly honey.

  The doors opened and in walked Diarmuid and Conán, followed by Mac Cumhaill.

  Whether it was the shock of seeing Mac Cumhaill, or the power of the potion, Magilla keeled over and the sea cat crawled out of his distended mouth and lay on the floor.

  At first people were horrified at the sight. It was like Magilla was giving birth to an enormous slimy animal many times bigger than himself.

  Soon it became clear that Magilla had returned to his old and useless self. Not realising that his powers were gone, he stood up and tried to swing his sword at Mac Cumhaill but he fell over with the weight of it. The cat too soon discovered that the potion had stripped her of all her powers. Coinín’s legend as a potion maker was clearly well-deserved. Someone at the back of the assembly started singing a cant that hadn’t been heard for a long, long time:

  Praise to Magilla of the noticeable nose,

  Most honourable sprout of Conn!

  Silence descended as the old scraggy man was recognised only by the mad screech of his voice. It was Flann the banished bard. And the older people joined in as he continued the bad verses that had got him banned:

  May Daghda protect Bolg of the dainty bones,

  Rightful heir to the throne.

  Rise, the road, rise to meet the little feet

  That carry round Bolg to lead.

  Brigid preserve the small head,

  Filled with wisdom of all thieving and deceit.

  The kind people of Delbna offered him to cold Meask;

  She considered the gift and then gave him right back.

  Remember too, Brehon Gáire of reason unsound,

  A comfortable man sooner jumped over than walked around.

  Good Gods, may Gáire and his new wisdoms be preserved like a log,

  Submerged in the black water of Caltra bog.

  Magilla and his man Guaire were already scurrying out the side and nobody bothered to stop them.

  Worse humiliation was to come for the cat. Mac Cumhaill banished the Magillas to go back to their hovel in Corofin and he committed her to spend the rest of her life as a servant – to the Magillas. He gave her back the missing section of her tail. The thing she had searched for in the well for seven years. He told her that he had kept it all along in case he should ever hear of her reforming. But now it was no good to her. The last act of magic she would ever perform was to turn back into the peculiar scrap of a creature she had been long ago. As a human she had a yellow face and front teeth that reached the ground. She hadn’t lost her tongue though. She screamed with rage. ‘These are the dirtiest, meanest, stupidest, and laziest family that I have ever had the misfortune to meet.

  Please kill me instead.’

  ‘No, keep her away from us,’ shouted Dinny Magilla, appealing to Cormac. ‘She stinks and drinks and brings gloom and malice wherever she goes. We don’t want her.’

  ‘It’s Fionn’s choice and consider yourselves lucky that you are not all dead now, for your treachery. Besides, I do agree that you’ve earned each other’s company,’ said Cormac; then he swung his sword around clumsily and shouted, ‘Now get out of my sight and if I ever hear the name Magilla again, I’ll come down to Corofin and wipe you all out with my bare hands.’

  Conán escorted his lady back to the mountains where he continued to visit her as often as he felt like. She took an interest in rearing unusual fowl. She would often send multi-coloured eggs back with Conán as a gift of great annoyance for Goll. Of course she never aged and may well still be living there in those dark brown
hills to this day.

  The Magillas never caused further trouble in those times, though it is thought that like many things of little value, they survived. The strange message that was passed from father to son in the Magilla line was not understood by later generations: ‘A woman servant is a curse worse than the loss of a throne.’

  Matha was rewarded with a cabin of his own in the Mac Cumhaill enclosure.

  ‘You may as well leave off your wandering for a while and rest your hooves,’ said Fionn. ‘Or at least if you do have to keep travelling, you now know you have a place of your own to lay your head down whenever you tire of depending on the hospitality of others.’ This was a privilege only the closest friends enjoyed, and Goll was very aggrieved.

  Matha was grateful for all this kindness. But he wasn’t too happy about what it meant for his quest. Plainly Mac Cumhaill expected he would be travelling for some time to come. There was no immediate end to his quest in sight.

  Chapter 6

  CROOKED CHIMNEYS

  Deserted again in the rath, Dark wondered if the only thing he was ever going to finally learn here was that he was on his own for eternity. Like Matha, he was going to receive no help in his quest.

  The people who could have helped stood by watching silently as he went in every wrong direction trying to discover what they already knew. He didn’t care for it. He didn’t care for contrived tests of character or puzzles or whatever this was. They didn’t seem bothered that time was fast running out. Or maybe that was what they wanted. That he like Matha would have nothing to go back to and so would have to stay with them. To wander eternally with them through desolate places.

  Back in the house he tiptoed in his socks towards Connie’s room. He was halted by a noise. It was like the sound of a cow grinding her teeth in pain. It stopped when he opened the door. He went over to the bed and said, ‘Okay, Connie, the noble lady. She’s a weasel ... I mean, a stoat. Right?’

  Connie just grunted.

  Later, when his mother got up, Dark said, ‘What about a drip? They can use drips to get nourishment in to someone like Connie, can’t they? And more serious painkillers? Any normal human being would be roaring by now.’

  His mam looked at him, puzzled at such a turn of phrase.

  ‘We just need more time,’ said Dark. The lack of sleep was making him absent-minded. ‘He’s going downhill too fast.’

  ‘More time for what?’ said his mother, deep anxiety invading her voice. ‘Arthur? What are you talking about? What are you up to?’

  ‘I mean ... I mean, they need to try something because he’s not getting better.’

  ‘Tell me you’re not up to something, Arthur? I can’t handle more trouble right now.’

  ‘Couldn’t the local doctor come out and put a drip in him even if he doesn’t want to go back to hospital?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, giving up on the questioning. She always let him off the hook too easily. ‘You know, that’s a really good idea.’

  Geography was first lesson. Ciara was at her usual desk near the back. She seemed pale and didn’t look up when he came in. A few minutes into the lesson, Magill’s nasal whine crackled over the p.a.: ‘Ciara Clancy, proceed to the principal’s office forthwith.’

  Everyone else was shocked. She didn’t look at anyone as she went. Magill’s office was a nasty place. Nobody wanted to spend time in the stuffy room with his smelly breath and eyes bulging with insinuations. The whispering started, ‘What did she do?’ ‘Your Miss Perfect, not so great after all,’ said Laura, sitting across from Dark. She nudged him in case he hadn’t known she was talking to him. All Dark heard was, ‘Your’.

  ‘Quiet!’ Everyone was even more amazed. Buzzcock was loud – angry, in fact – for the first time ever. ‘That’s very ugly. That glee at someone else’s tumble from grace. That’s not a nice thing. You must root that out of your hearts.’

  They were all silently contrite. Dark knew they hadn’t meant anything by it. No one had anything against Ciara. It was just boredom made them pick on each other and on the teachers whenever they could. Like Saltee’s hens pecking each other apart in their little cages.

  There was only one reason Magill could have called Ciara. Not coming back for Sullivan’s class the other day. It was his fault. And he knew it would hit her hard. She wasn’t used to being in trouble. He put up his hand and asked, ‘Sir, can I be excused for a minute?’

  He would go to the office and tell the principal it was his fault; he had asked her to get him something in the bookshop and delayed her and then he’d persuaded her she’d get in more trouble if she came back late. It wouldn’t get her off but at least it would save her from being alone in the office with Magill.

  But Buzzcock again was not himself. He refused.

  ‘But sir, I need to use the bathroom.’ Even Dark himself heard how untrue he sounded.

  ‘Do not agitate me, Mr McLean,’ Buzzcock said, looking straight at Dark with black eyes. ‘I know what you are thinking. Just sit where you are. We all have enough trouble already. Don’t you think?’

  What did he mean by that? How did he imagine he knew how much trouble Dark already had? Or that he had planned to go straight into Magill’s office to be there with Ciara? He couldn’t have known Ciara meant anything to Dark. Even Dark didn’t know that for sure himself.

  Ciara came back a little while later. Nobody slagged her or anything. She walked past his desk.

  When the bell went he decided he would ask her about what Magill had said, on the way to maths. But she walked past him quickly. And then, irritatingly, Buzzcock called him back.

  ‘Yes sir?’ said Dark.

  ‘I was talking to Mammy Úna ... I mean to Miss Moriarity,’ he said.

  Dark said nothing.

  ‘She told me you’re one of the McLeans from Killane?’

  ‘Kill we call it sir, yes.’

  ‘Full original name, Choill an Fleadh, or the woods of the festival.’

  Dark was impatient. He didn’t care about this.

  ‘Listen here, buck,’ said Buzzcock, dropping the faraway tone and suddenly sounding like a person from the heart of the country. ‘You are boundsing that boyo that goes by the name of Saltee, aren’t you?’

  Dark was very taken aback. He had never heard a teacher talk like that. Buzzcock now had his full attention.

  ‘Yes, our ground, I mean my uncle’s ground...’ Dark responded. ‘The Brown River is the boundary between us.’

  ‘Your uncle? Not just your uncle. That’s McLean land going way back. Your father and many good people before him were brought up there.’

  Dark had no idea where this was going.

  ‘I’ve heard tell ...’ said the teacher, hushing his tone and coming closer to Dark. ‘A little bird told me, we might say, that you’re getting into a bit of a tangle with this same gent.’

  Dark was getting very confused now. How many people were silently watching his life unravel?

  ‘You need to be fair wide,’ continued Buzzcock, still talking the way the old people in the hills behind Kill talked. ‘Fair wide indeed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Let me tell you something, McLean. I have not always been a very good man in my life,’ said Buzzcock, staring as though he expected Dark to be shocked. ‘It’s true! I’ve been driven wrong at times by pride and selfishness. I’ve been on both sides of the barrier. So when I tell you that someone is a purely bad person, I’m qualified to say it.’

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything, sir,’ said Dark.

  ‘I was born in the Kill valley,’ he said. ‘My people were from there going way back. When that ... that person first arrived in Kill, he told my late uncle that he was from around Ardfert. But the postmaster up there is an old friend of mine and he says no people of that name were ever heard of in all of Kerry.’

  Dark was silent. He really did not care where Saltee came from. He didn’t want to hear what else this old man knew. But he could not get away as Buzz
cock was standing too near the door.

  ‘Take a look around you in Kill,’ he said. ‘You have not had great luck in your household, I believe?’

  Dark did not respond.

  ‘Do you think you are the only ones?’ Buzzcock continued urgently. ‘There was a lot of good fortune in that townland when I was young. We had too much, some outsiders claimed. It was said there’s a huge colony of the little people somewhere in those parts. The raths up there are not just clumps of scrub you know.’

  ‘I know,’ Dark had said, before he realised he was saying it.

  ‘And it was said that the people of Kill, yours, mine and others, were a bit too neighbourly with those good people. As if there was something wrong with two civilised peoples helping each other out now and then. When I came back from foreign parts, that had all changed. There’s only a single house in Kill that has even a day’s worth of good luck since that person arrived claiming to be a nephew of old Jack Curtis. From the day that Jack was got floating on his face a curse fell on that sad valley. Every chimney in it turned crooked with hatred. So now ... Just be careful.’

  Dark didn’t know what to say.

  ‘If you ever need advice or anything,’ said Buzzcock, gone back to his teacherly face and voice as though a pain had passed from him, ‘here’s my number.’ He ripped a page from his unused geography textbook and wrote across the information on ‘Precipitation’ with a felt pen.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Dark, sure it was one number he would never be phoning for advice of any kind.

  At break he decided to stay in school for a change. He sat near Ciara in the cafeteria and when he nodded to her she looked away. He sent her a text, saying, ‘How did that go with Magill?’

  She didn’t reply. He left. He didn’t care that his mam and Connie would be at home. He would not bother to delay and would not even bother with an excuse.