by Tom O'Neill
By now, everyone had noticed how his fingers kept playing in the pouch as he talked in this monotonous way. He continued: ‘What harm is it if I want to set something aside for myself. A fine dwelling in a sunny place for when I tire of all this. Somewhere that the servants are willing and the advisers polite. If you think that is too much for a High King to ask, there are others who do not think it is too much at all. I am told that in other lands, a High King would receive much more without even asking.’
‘Forgive my asking this then,’ said Diarmuid, ‘but maybe if we knew more we might understand, good Cormac. Who is it that you are doing this great deal with and what is it that they want?’
‘It’s a small group of hard-working men who only want a small stretch of ground. Once they settle in, they’ll produce more grain and cattle than anyone here and give more to the local chiefs than our own people do. Once the chiefs get to see that, they’ll come around to my way of thinking. They just need to give these little fellows a chance. That’s all.’
‘And in return, you get a similar stretch of ground in their country, wherever that might be?’ asked Diarmuid.
‘No, I just get some things that are my own business,’ said Cormac, caressing a purse.
‘Enchanted things?’ asked Diarmuid.
‘Not at all. They’re just very interesting, that’s all,’ said the King.
‘Is that the great deal that you are risking a rebellion for?’ asked Dreoilín harshly.
‘Oh, and is the rebellion starting right here in this room?’ said Cormac testily.
‘No, you know that would never be the case,’ soothed Diarmuid. ‘But explain to us the other side of the deal – is it like Dreoilín says?’
‘No, no, no, a much better deal than that. You might think your king a fool, but you’ll realise in time that he was no fool. I am getting more, a bucketful more ... I am getting the means to trade for anything I might want anywhere in this world and, who knows, maybe even the next.’
‘A bucketful of what?’ said Diarmuid.
Mac Cumhaill struck the table and it broke in two. All the food went on the ground. There was shocked silence. Cormac’s hand was pulled out of the purse for a moment. Then he laughed. ‘I wasn’t all that hungry anyway.’
They left there having eaten less than half a meal and with their concern heightened rather than eased.
‘What do you think ails him?’ asked Diarmuid as they headed off to meet the chiefs to see if anything could be done to calm them.
‘He isn’t like himself,’ Dreoilín said, ‘and that’s a fact.’
‘We’ll say it’s a fever. Is there some herb for it, or a poultice our handywomen might be able to make?’ asked Diarmuid.
‘A kick in the arse might cure him if he wasn’t protected by the title,’ said Mac Cumhaill, ‘and he might get it fairly soon as that protection may not be with him for very long.’
‘Now Fionn,’ said the brehon, ‘that’s no way to be talking.’
‘I don’t think there’s any poultice needed,’ said Dreoilín. ‘It’s a fever I’ve seen before. It’s of the mind and not of the chest. His outlook has become clouded most suddenly by some variety of greed. And there’s no fever known to me that can cloud a man’s vision worse than that, nor any poultice that can cure it.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ said Diarmuid. ‘His very selection and his survival this long has everything to do with him not putting his own interests first. There is no king can have a long life in this country if he gets above himself.’
‘I’m only saying what I see and know,’ said Dreoilín, ‘not what I wish were true.’
As they approached Corco Roíde, word went out that Cormac’s boys were on the way. The locals assumed they were coming there to enforce the King’s order. A group of men and women came out on the boreen ahead. They had sticks and stones in their hands and big red angry heads on them. The brehon went out front saying, ‘Good people, we all have to respect the law, I caution you to put down the weapons, and ...’ That was as far as he got. A dog ran out suddenly at him. He yelped and ran into the gorse. And yelped a lot more. That caused a certain amount of amusement on both sides and allowed Dreoilín to explain to the people that they had not come as enforcers of Cormac’s instructions but to see if the visitors could be persuaded that moving in here would not be for the best.
‘It’s a bit late for that,’ they were told.
‘They couldn’t be here yet since the King only made the decree today. We are here to see what we can do to help,’ said Diarmuid.
‘Why is the big man not talking?’
‘He’s thinking of what can be done,’ said Dreoilín. That wasn’t the truth. The others had appealed to Mac Cumhaill to bite his tongue and let them do the talking. They were worried that if he opened his mouth, his anger with the King could not be hidden. Thoughts of rebellion would be fuelled by the idea that even if Mac Cumhaill was not with them, he would not be against them.
‘There’s still time to talk sense here,’ said Diarmuid. ‘The visitors will only be starting to plan today.’
The woman in front of the group said nothing. She grabbed Diarmuid’s tunic sleeve and pulled him to a gap in the hedge. There, on a small hill not two hundred paces away was his answer. It turned out that Cormac in his deluded state had jumped very far ahead of himself. He had told the goblins they could move in on the lands days before he had made his first mannerly ‘request’ that the chiefs vacate them. On the rise of ground in front of them there was a trail of goblins drawing all of their digging tools on the backs of donkeys, mules and their unfortunate wives. Hundreds of goblins were reportedly also making their way up rivers in flat boats, with people keeping well back from them. They were snarling tough men and women. Several fine fields were already undermined by a warren of tunnels.
Mac Cumhaill sent Matha to round up all of the chieftains who had lost land. When he had them all with him, they headed down to the new settlements to take a look at what was going on. It was about midday when they arrived at a thickly interwoven willow fence which the goblins had already put up around the full extent of the perimeter. Their industry had to be admired. Mac Cumhaill leaned over the fence and several goblins suddenly appeared from the mouths of their burrows. Twenty or more of them ran to the place Mac Cumhaill was standing, spears at the ready. The chiefs and the brehon backed off in fright. Mac Cumhaill didn’t stir. Neither did Diarmuid or Dreoilín.
‘Get off that, Celteen, get away from there, giant oaf,’ screeched one of the stout men at Mac Cumhaill.
‘Daghda bless the work,’ said Mac Cumhaill. ‘It’s a grand day isn’t it?’
‘Don’t try your deceitful Celteen manners on us, we know what you people are like. Liars all. Get off this land or you’ll regret it.’
Mac Cumhaill leaned harder on the fence and broke it. He staggered through and they ran back for a minute, disconcerted that their threats were not having the usual effect. From a safer distance back, spears all ready to throw, one of them said, ‘Get out of our ground now or we’ll spike you to your death!’
Mac Cumhaill started walking towards them and their spears started flying. They just bounced off him. Diarmuid was following as hesitant backup. He was calling, ‘Don’t go deeper in, Fionn. We’ll be drowning in thousands of them in a minute.’
In the meantime out of a hole walked a bald lump of a man. His green cloak gave a suggestion of being more senior, though it was brown to half way up from being dragged through the clay. The look of the spears hopping off the intruder had apparently unsettled him. He smiled with curled-up lips and told his people to calm down.
‘What’s all this?’ he said to Mac Cumhaill. ‘An accident with the fence? That’s not a problem, neighbour, we’ll have it fixed in a few minutes and what’s more may I say I hope you didn’t scratch yourself falling through it.’
Mac Cumhaill said nothing.
‘You have no business here,’ shouted Conán, who had just arrived f
rom the mountains.
‘I think you are mistaken about that, friend,’ said the man. ‘You will find that your good King, blessings on him, has graciously allowed us this little bit of land for our poor, hard-working, landless people.’
‘If I was you, I wouldn’t go planting anything that takes more than a week to grow,’ responded Conán, who had an aversion for this type of sweet-talking fellow. ‘Because I can promise you now, you won’t be here to harvest it. You might have tricked our king, but it won’t take long for us to clarify his vision.’
‘Oh now, there’s no need at all for that kind of talk. We only want peace and harmony,’ said the little man.
‘Pay no attention to him at all,’ said Mac Cumhaill, nodding at Conán. ‘He is excitable. I’m sure you and I can do a deal of some kind.’
The little man’s eyes lit up. ‘Come with me and I’m sure I can make you a peace offering.’
Within no time, Mac Cumhaill had moved a distance with the peculiar little man, leaving the others standing at the very large gap in the fence. With their backs turned to all observers, the grinning runt retrieved three glittering red crystals from his boot. He showed them to Mac Cumhaill and said, ‘I have a few interesting little bits of stones here. You look like the kind of good man who might appreciate the value of such fine things. Would you have any interest at all in these?’
‘I’d be fierce interested in them as a matter of fact,’ said Mac Cumhaill, taking them from the open hand, ‘and in all of their brothers and sisters.’
Mac Cumhaill could see the beauty of the stones. And he knew it was true that such things could get you great luck in other countries – some peoples set more value on shiny baubles than on anything that you could eat, drink, or play music on. He could feel the magic of their lure running into his hand and he too felt the desire to hold them tight and seek companions for them. Matha was the only one who knew what was going on. He looked with dread as Mac Cumhaill stood there calm as an old bull. He was sure now that Mac Cumhaill was infected with the same greed that had poisoned Cormac.
‘But now I’m sure you are not giving me these interesting things as a reward for my beauty or great conversation,’ said Mac Cumhaill. ‘So tell me now what exactly do you want me to do for them?’
The dwarf looked up at him for a minute trying to see if the magic was fully working. He stared at the beard on Mac Cumhaill’s chin which was about all he could see of Mac Cumhaill’s face, and said, ‘Well, maybe there is a little something you can do for me.’
‘Anything,’ said Mac Cumhaill.
‘There are some stretches of sweet meadow and mature woodlands just beyond our border. I am almost certain the King intended for us to have them too.’
‘Do you not think that this might upset the owners?’ asked Mac Cumhaill.
‘They don’t look like they can get much more upset than they already are, so what better time to take more? Then in time all of our settlement will be regarded as one event. But maybe to smooth the way for us, you can go and convince your people of the justice of our case?’
‘What should I tell them, good sir?’
‘You could inform them – and they’d listen to a big fella like you – that these were once our ancestral lands and that all we are really doing is coming home and looking for a place where we can live in peace with our neighbours.’
‘Oh, is that all I have to do?’ asked Mac Cumhaill. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to fight for more ground for you?’
Like before, Matha seemed to be the only one of the onlookers able to hear this conversation with the goblin. But he had no idea what he could do about what he was hearing.
‘Well now, well now, well now,’ said the goblin, unable to stop from rubbing his hands together in delight, ‘well now, only if it’s not a trouble.’
‘Not at all, if it’s your ancestral lands you are after, I will defend your rights to them.’
‘Very good, be off with you then, my good servant, and be quick about your work,’ said the goblin, slapping Mac Cumhaill on the thigh.
Mac Cumhaill walked back to the others, bidding a polite farewell to the caustic block men. They were nudging each other and grinning at how well their boss had made a fool of the giant.
Mac Cumhaill took his own people a distance away from the fence before he would give any answers to the persistent questions from the chiefs.
‘Why are you looking so happy?’ said one, hopefully. ‘Have they agreed to go?’
‘No,’ said Mac Cumhaill. ‘I’ve agreed that you’ll be giving them a bit more.’
The chiefs fell silent. Matha felt alone. As the only person who understood what was happening, he had to do something. He ran at Mac Cumhaill and grabbed his closed left fist. He thought that with the surprise of this he might for a moment be able to twist the wrist back and make Mac Cumhaill drop the stones. Then he would be back to normal. The chiefs now looked on in even greater disbelief.
Matha was quick but not quick enough. Mac Cumhaill, with reactions the speed of a cat, pulled his hand away. He was grinning at Matha now. Matha was not for giving up. He picked up a stump of fallen branch. He swung it and hit Mac Cumhaill’s hand with great anger, mostly because Mac Cumhaill was laughing at him. Matha shouted at the four bullocks of farmer chiefs to come and help him. But they stood away with their mouths open expecting Matha to be killed before their eyes by the legendary warrior. Matha struck again. This time he missed the fist and the stick hopped off Mac Cumhaill’s back.
Then Matha felt a stinging peck on his ear. It was Dreoilín. The little wren was on his shoulder, telling him what Mac Cumhaill was too amused to tell him. ‘What are you at boy? Did you not see he had the thumb of knowledge in his mouth all the time he was talking to the goblins? Did you think he was just biting his nails?’
‘You’ve been hiding that anger well, boy,’ said Mac Cumhaill, winking at him and still laughing. ‘You’ll need to train it better though, or it will get you killed very early.’
Matha felt foolish. Diarmuid and Dreoilín had clearly known all along. But at least he was ahead of the farmer chiefs. They looked at Matha like he was plain mad. And they still didn’t trust Mac Cumhaill when he told them he had a plan. Keefe, the scrawny one, did more squawking than the goblins.
But the chiefs did not have anything better than Mac Cumhaill’s plan, even though they mistrusted it. And they needed something with which to pacify their people.
By nightfall, all was agreed. Mac Cumhaill was back to the elder runt saying, ‘Well now big master, you can tell your hardy men to go and move out the fence to take in the iron wells, the upper infields, the river, the mill on its bank, the orchards and the ash plantation to the west, just as you requested.’
‘Well indeed,’ said the runt, truly surprised and temporarily satisfied. ‘This is good work. Very good work.’
Of course Mac Cumhaill knew that satisfaction with this wouldn’t last long. Soon the runt would start thinking that these gains were so easy made that he should have asked for more. Soon he would be thinking that the meadows to the south should rightfully also belong to his people. And the barley fields to the east.
Sure enough after an hour or two, the burly little man started saying, ‘You know we should move out a bit into the meadows while we are moving the fence at all. What do you think they might have to say about that?’
‘I cannot say they’d like it very much,’ said Mac Cumhaill.
‘Well, what if we were to start with tunnels? They might own the surface for now, but they have never had any claim on the underground. That terrain is the rightful property of ourselves, being the first people to open it up.’
‘I cannot say they would like it very much,’ repeated Mac Cumhaill, ‘you having never lived in this land at any time in history.’
‘And you as my servant, you know my people’s true need for more and more lands. One day we will take over all. You did well today. You understand these buffoons. What trick do you sa
y I should use to get them off our land with the smallest risk of them rebelling and maybe injuring some of my men before we quell them?’
‘I do understand your need. But is this the way you want to do it, taking it inch by inch and never knowing when the day will arrive that you have pushed them too far, the day when they tire of your ugly mugs and attack, undoing all your fine work?’ said Mac Cuhmaill, amused with himself. He knew of course that a goblin takes great pride in his looks.
Five or six goblins ran at Mac Cumhaill with their droopy lips blistering at the insult.
‘Easy there boys,’ said Mac Cumhaill, pushing them back with a sweep of his foot. ‘I meant no insult. Listen here now, let’s talk straight. If the reward was right for me, I might be able to find a far better plan for you.’
‘Ah, I see, now you are talking sense,’ said the runt, delighted to find a human that fully understood the idea that everything could be traded. ‘What would you like for such information? Another couple of emeralds?’
‘A bucket of them,’ said Mac Cumhaill.
The runt got stern. That was more serious bargaining than he’d hoped for. He thought for a minute and then said, ‘Tell me what I would get in return.’
‘You would get ten times the land you have today.’
‘Ah now, I know you two-tongued people – we’ve come on that kind of trick before. It would be barren mountain or sea shore? Or... what is the catch?’
‘The finest of land with the purest of rivers and the sweetest of honey,’ said Mac Cumhaill.
The same glaze that had affected Cormac began to spread its sheen across the runt’s eyes, a cloud of greed blinding his judgement. ‘And fishing? Would there be good fishing?’
‘The finest salmon and trout in the world. You’d have to make bigger pans for cooking them. And there’s a wonderful waterfall with a deep pool beneath it all surrounded by trees, a place where you might encourage your women and children to take an occasional wash.’
There was another uneasy moment but they were all too preoccupied with talk of this paradise. The runt continued, ‘And what class of grazing? Is the ground structure good for tunnels? Ah, but maybe there wouldn’t be enough timber for struts?’