Then she was sold to a hunter. She turned herself into a dainty little red fox and led his hounds on an exhausting chase—and when they came near, called to them in her own voice. They were confused, so was the hunter. In the confusion, she slipped away.
A sailor bought her next. When he tried to come close, she leaped overboard, turned into a seal, and swam away more swiftly than he could follow.
Finn kept selling her and she kept changing into other shapes, and returning to him to be sold again. And he was able to keep himself in food, but his hunger grew and grew. Finally, it was necessary for him to sell her everyday; it took that much gold to buy the food he needed.
One day she was late returning. He grew ravenous, and went striding out of the hovel, axe poised, looking for something to kill. A cat crossed his path. He swooped and caught it. It was an orange cat, sleek with good eating, because it used to meet the fishing boats coming in, and was thrown scraps by the fishermen as they gutted the fish. She didn’t bite or scratch, but settled herself in Finn’s hands, almost purring. She was used to men. Finn gloated upon her fatness, and was ready to devour her—fur, claws, whiskers, and all. His fingers tightened about her neck. She looked him full in the eye. A shaft of green fire pierced the man, making him cry out in puzzled grief. He forgot his hunger for a moment, and almost remembered something else. He heard a voice being wrenched from him, a different voice from the one he’d been using, a younger voice. He heard it calling,
Creature pair of earth and air,
Here and there, and everywhere
Come, I pray, and serve me fair.
He heard wings beating and the wild cry of a hawk screaming its joy. He saw a black shape hurtling toward him along the beach, and heard the pleasured yowl of a tomcat. And the hawk, Finn’s own falcon, landed on his shoulder. And the huge black tomcat he had taken from the Fish-hag rubbed against his leg, purring hoarsely.
“Oh, master,” cried the hawk, “we’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Yes-s-s,” said the cat. “And now we’ve found you, and shan’t lose you again.”
Unhesitatingly they had recognized their master, Finn, within the gross uniform of Hanratty’s flesh. For when animals love you they can see beyond appearances. And in their knowledge of him Finn began to remember things. Slowly, painfully, he began to untangle his mind from its sleep of greed.
“Who are you?” he cried. “Who am I?”
“You are Finn McCo-o-o-l, son of Cuhal, chieftain-to-be of the Fianna,” said the cat. “Stolen from us by enchantment laid upon you by my old mistress, the Fish-hag, and her sister, Drabne of Dole. Made to change forms with a mad king of Ulster, Hanratty by name, who offended Amara, Goddess of Groves, and was punished by her with Famine. … Except she punished you instead, thinking you the wicked king.”
“Oh, what a mixed-up tale,” cried Finn. “So many puzzles, so many enchantments, so many crimes and mistakes. My head reels!”
“Easy. …” said the hawk. “Easy, young master. Puss there never did know how to tell a story. Blurts it all out in one big undigested lump. Let me tell you one thing at a time, so that we can begin to undo the evil. You are under enchantment. We must disenchant you in some way. Then we can begin to think about vengeance, and so forth.”
“Hanratty has my body, you say? And this is his?”
“Right,” said the hawk.
“That girl—she’s Hanratty’s daughter?”
“She is, poor lass.”
“Poor lass, indeed,” said Finn. “Well, my friends, let us counsel together. I want to be me again—and soon.”
“We have already given some thought to this matter,” said the cat. “And even have made a bit of a plan. But I’ll let the hawk tell you; she puts things so much better.”
“Thank you,” said the hawk. “Our plan is simple. To capture the Fish-hag, and force her to concoct a reverse spell that will put Hanratty back into his body here, with all its awful cravings, and you back into yours. While I have been given the honor of telling you the plan, our friend, the tomcat, has reserved for himself the glory of its execution. Since he knows the witch’s habit and has some experience in magic, it is he who will hunt her down and do what must be done. As for me, I will stay here and find you food, which seems to be an assignment large enough for anyone.”
“I am so happy to see you two again that I can hardly speak,” said Finn. “I want to weep. But I won’t do that, either. Just take my thanks, good friends.”
“Farewell,” said the cat. “I go hag-hunting.”
“And I,” said the hawk, rising in the air, “will just go hunting …”
Now the cat had kept very close watch on the Fish-hag since the hour he had learned that it was she and her sister who had done a mischief to Finn. He had gone to the Salmon Pool, prowled the hazel copse, blending into the shadows of the trees as only a black cat can—and then, at night, prowled outside her windows, peering in, leaping on the roof, listening to all that went on. At first he could find no way to surprise her. Then she gave him his chance.
She took to entertaining an extremely important Demon of Darkness, who came a-wooing in his favorite form—a rat. But a very handsome rat. A huge pearl-gray one, larger than a rabbit, with black ears, and black tail, and silky jet-black whiskers. Now the cat had seen her receive many swain in the years he had spent with her, but never had he seen her so frantically in love. At first she welcomed him in her own form, but found that a bit awkward, and of late had changed herself into a she-rat for his visits, which they both found more convenient. She was a suave brown rat with dainty paws and hot golden eyes. The cat thought she looked much better this way. And he kept watching, kept planning … so that when he and the hawk were overjoyed one afternoon to hear Finn’s voice dimly calling over hundreds of miles, over sea and plain and forest, speaking the old magic rune—when they had heard the beloved voice of their vanished master and had answered its call, why by that time the cat’s plan was ready for action. And now he was on his way back to the hazel copse.
What he did is soon told. He waited until night came, and blended into the shadows—ghosted through the window, and the Hag never knew he was there. He waited in the corner and watched her weave a small spell, and turn herself into a pretty brown rat. She hopped on a cushion and folded her paws demurely, waiting for her demon lover.
But it was the cat who came. He pounced.
“Good evening, mistress,” he said, holding her fast, fixing her with his blazing green eyes, grinning at her with his successful teeth. “It is long since we met, you and I. But you haven’t been idle all that time, have you? Oh, no. You’ve been busy, busy, busy … doing jobs for Goll McMorna, have you not? And one special job … which involved the disappearance of my master, Finn.”
“I can tell you where he is,” gasped the Fish-hag.
“Oh, I know where he is. And I know what you must do to escape being very thoroughly chewed and eaten.” He sank his claws deeper into her hide, and shook her gently, and murmured, “Do you know?”
“Yes … yes …,” said the Hag. “At least I can guess. Please don’t eat me. I’ll do anything … anything …”
“Well, you must do exactly as I say, and not try any of your tricks.” And he bit off her tail to show he meant business. She screamed and struggled but he held her in his claws: “Be quiet,” he said. “Or I’ll lose my patience entirely, and gobble you up in a one-two-three. … And wait here and do the same for your friend, the gray rat, when he shows up. You can hold a touching reunion in my stomach.”
“No … no …,” moaned the Hag. “Don’t eat me, please don’t—just tell me what you want me to do. Above all, don’t kill him, the darling.”
“I want you to undo the spell whereby you made Finn and Hanratty swap bodies. I want them both restored to their own forms, and I want that to happen in the next three minutes.”
“It will, it will, I swear. Just lift your paw a bit, that’s a sweet dear puss. I’m suffo
cating.”
Back on the beach of that northern county of Eire called Ulster, Finn, still lodged in Hanratty’s body, had just eaten a meal of mutto—for the hawk had caught him a sheep. The meat lay heavily upon his stomach, and his mouth felt greasy. He was weary, weary, weary of inhabiting Hanratty’s flesh. Now that he knew who he was again he longed for his own lithe form.
Then, suddenly, he found himself changing. He was standing on the shore. Small waves were hissing in the moonlight. He felt himself growing lighter, lighter. The terrible heavy bestial stupor lifted from his brain too, and from his heart. The gnawing hunger was gone from his belly—in fact, his huge belly had gone.
He laughed with joy. He was himself again. Finn McCool. With a glad shout he dashed into the ocean and clove the ice-cold waves, welcoming the icy shock, feeling himself being scrubbed of lardy Hanrattiness—feeling all the filth and sweat of his brutish greed washing away. He came out of the water and danced on the beach. The hawk circled low and flapped her wings in time to Finn’s singing. A thicker shadow fledged out of the blackness and joined them—the tomcat. He stood on his hind legs and danced in the moonlight too.
“Welcome home!” screamed the hawk. “You did a noble job.”
“She kept her promise, the Hag,” said the cat. “But it took a wee bit of persuasion.”
“Thank you, cat! Thank you, hawk,” cried Finn.
Suddenly fatigue hit him. He fell dead asleep right there on the beach. The hawk folded her wings and slept. The cat curled up close to Finn and slept.
In the morning Finn swam again, and studied himself in a trapped bit of high tide that made a pool.
“Oh, my,” he said. “Hanratty had the loan of my body only a few months but he’s left it in terrible shape. I’m in no condition at all to fight Goll. Yet fight him I must. It’s time and high time. I must go into training immediately. Where is Hanratty, by the way?”
“Somewhere near,” said the hawk. “Prowling the beach, looking for food. Selling his daughter. When he resumed his body he took on its hungers. Famine is in him—even more pitiless now.”
“Well, I guess I’d better settle with him first. I’ve formed a violent dislike for the fellow. I’ll settle with his daughter too, the lovely one. Perhaps, if I serve her well, I may finish off the father too.”
Whistling happily, he went looking for the princess. A bit later Hanratty’s daughter found herself speaking to a strange young man. She was puzzled by his eyes. She couldn’t tell if they were blue or gray; they kept changing.
“How can I pay for you?” said the young man who was Finn. “You are beyond price.”
“Thank you. But a price will fetch me just the same.”
“I have no money, my dear.”
“But you look rich.”
“Just habit. Means nothing. I have no money, and never mean to make any. Nor should I expect anyone to give me any. Because I do nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Oh, well, I have done certain things. I have fought an enemy or two, broken a horse, killed a boar, made a song. … But I cannot return to these things except as a pastime. For I have sworn an oath never to make money out of what I enjoy. So I shall never be able to afford you, and must bid you farewell.”
“Seems a pity,” she said.
“A great pity. In fact, I don’t quite know how I’m going to bear the pity of it because the more I look at you the more beautiful you are, and the harder it is for me to say farewell. Nevertheless, I have no more money now than when I began that sentence. All I can suggest is that you offer yourself to me free, then I’m sure we could come to some arrangement.”
“I cannot.”
“Why not?”
“I need the money.”
“What for? Why do you need it more than I do? Can either of us buy anything more than we are offering each other?”
“I need it for my father, that man over there.”
“He allows you to sell yourself?”
“He encourages it.”
“Beautiful daughter like you—I don’t see how he can bear to part with you for love or money. Is he really your father?”
“Yes.”
“What a wild desperate look he has, to be sure. I have no money to give him, but I have promises. I think he should believe them. Desperation feeds on promises.”
“They’ll never feed him. He needs more solid fare than that.”
“Well—no harm in trying.”
Finn strolled over to Hanratty, and said:
“Good day, sir. Your charming daughter and I have been trying to strike a bargain. I would gladly give all I have for her—which would be easy because I have nothing.”
“I don’t do business with paupers,” growled Hanratty. “Get out!”
“Ah, you won’t want to be sending me away before hearing what I have to say. For I do have prospects, you know. My parents are very rich, and both are on the point of death. Tomorrow should see them safely—I mean unfortunately—on their funeral pyres. Let me have the girl tonight, and tomorrow you shall have your money. Plus a bonus for prompt delivery.”
Hanratty stared at the young man. Then he called his daughter aside and spoke to her in whispers—insofar as he could squeeze his great raw voice into a whisper. He told her what Finn had said.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know, Father.”
“Would you believe him, if you were I?”
“If I were you, I should not have to believe him. I should not be selling my daughter.”
“Never mind that. Don’t start that now. Do you think he’ll come up with the money?”
“I know nothing about him.”
“He promises a big extra fee if I trust him.”
“No doubt.”
“You don’t think he’s to be trusted?”
“What do we have to risk, after all? Under the circumstances your merchandise remains intact. I shall return to you whether he pays or not.”
“Yes—but we may waste a whole day. And food is getting very low. I can’t waste a day. If you don’t trust him we’ll find another buyer.”
“Perhaps I’d better go with him. It’s the only way to find out. If he seems unable to pay, or unwilling, why then I will change my shape straightaway, and come home to you. And only a few hours will be lost. It’s worth the risk.”
“I suppose so. All right, young fellow!” Hanratty shouted. “She’s yours. But I expect to see the color of your gold tomorrow or you’ll wish we had never met. I am no man to fool with.”
“Indeed not, sir. By tomorrow you shall have all that’s coming to you.”
Finn took her to a hut in the hills. She looked around swiftly, seeing what windows there were, how big the chimney was—for the exits determined the shape of her transformations. But her appraisal was not cool this time. He was standing too close. Moving very swiftly and softly he took her into his arms. She immediately turned herself into a cat, a large white one. But she was still in his arms. Calmly he sat down on the bench in front of the fire and held her on his lap—too tightly for escape, not enough for pain—held her, and tickled her under the chin, and stroked her fur the right way from nose to tail, muttering softly: “What a lovely little animal you are.” And to her horror, she felt her eyes closing, heard herself beginning to purr.
And even as he was stroking her, she turned herself into a porcupine. She heard him gasp with pain, felt his grip loosen, and she began to slip away.
“Pretty sharp,” he said. He flipped her over, and seized her where there were no quills. And held her, speaking softly.
“Let’s see what else you can do,” he whispered.
She turned into a crow, but he held her by the wing and admired her feathers. She turned into a snake. He held her about the middle and told her how beautiful her eyes were, how gracefully she entered a room. Through all her changes he kept holding her and would not let her go. And she realized she would have to become something that could kill him
, and changed herself into a she-bear.
He bowed to her, smiling, and said: “Shall we dance?”
She grunted and took him into her fatal hug. She crushed him against her, feeling the glad bestial strength surge, wanting to break him and forage among his bloody bones; and suddenly she understood her father, understood the wild greed, and how you need to take into yourself what you desire.
She hugged Finn closer, and saw her arms growing pale. Felt all her decisions slipping away inside, all her changes dissolving. And now it was he who was crushing her. She was clinging to him—in her own form—a bearskin swinging from her wet shoulders. She looked up at him.
“Where did I get this fur coat?” she murmured.
“I gave it to you,” he said. “It belonged to a bear I killed. It looks better on you.”
“Do you think I’m beautiful?”
“Well, I think, all told, this is your best disguise.”
“Do you love me?”
“I’ve always liked variety. Have we finished our charades for this evening?”
“Yes. …”
The next morning Hanratty waited and waited, but his daughter did not come. He went to the beach. A gull dipped, and he thought it must be she—but it screamed and flew away. A fish leaped and he thought it must be she, but it didn’t come up again. All day he waited, and she did not come. He spent his last coins on food, and raged with hunger all night thinking she must surely come the next day. But she did not.
He was mad with hunger. He felt that unless he had a huge meal immediately he would seize a child off the road and eat it. He had no money left, and nothing to sell except his battle-axe. So he traded it to a farmer for a thin cow—and killed her with a blow of his fist in the next field, and ate her raw—horns, hoofs, and all. He went back to the beach. His daughter did not come.
Hanratty waded out and tried to catch a fish with his hands. He almost caught a large one, but it slipped through. He roared with disappointment and shook his fist at it. He saw the balled meaty hand moving in front of his face—and his other hand moved by itself, lashed out, caught the fist, and pulled it to his mouth as it struggled like a little animal. But he held it still, and bit off his thumb. It was tough and gristly, but he ate it with great relish, gaining strength from the food, and greed from the strength—and before he knew it he had snapped off all the fingers of one hand. Then he ate the fingers off his other hand. He looked at the bleeding stumps and thought dully: “Now I won’t be able to hold my food properly.” And, still ravenous, he ate his left arm up to the elbow.
The Green Hero Page 14