Finn Finnegan

by Darby Karchut

  Copyright ©2013 by Darby Karchut

  Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.

  Spencer Hill Press

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Contact: Spencer Hill Press, PO Box 247, Contoocook, NH 03229, USA

  Please visit our website at www.spencerhillpress.com.

  First Edition: March 2013.

  Darby Karchut

  Finn Finnegan: a novel / by Darby Karchut – 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary:

  A modern-day 13-year-old boy battles goblins in his suburban neighborhood with the help of a mythical knight.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this fiction: Wal-Mart, Jeep, Lord of the Rings, The Farmer’s Almanac, Louisville Slugger

  “Fire in the Head” lyrics by Arthur Hinds used with the permission of Arthur Hinds and Emerald Rose.

  Cover design by K. Kaynak

  Interior layout by Marie Romero

  ISBN 978-1-937053-32-1 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-937053-33-8 (e-book)

  Printed in the United States of America

  Finn Finnegan

  Book One of the Aventures of Finn maccullen

  Darby Karchut

  SPENCER HILL PRESS

  Dedicated to the memory of Lloyd Alexander 1924 - 2007

  (Well, well, what do you know? A bard, after all.)

  Also by Darby Karchut

  Gideon’s Spear

  (Spencer Hill Press—February 2014)

  Griffin Rising

  (Twilight Times Books)

  Griffin’s Fire

  (Twilight Times Books)

  Griffin’s Storm

  (Copper Square Studios—December 2012)

  Non-fiction

  Money and Teens: Savvy Money Skills

  (Copper Square Studios)

  The Song of the Tuatha De Danaan

  I am a wind on the sea,

  I am a wave of the ocean,

  I am the roar of the sea,

  I am a bull of seven battles,

  I am a hawk on the cliff,

  I am a teardrop of sunlight,

  I am a gentle herb,

  I am a boar enraged,

  I am a salmon in a pool,

  I am a lake in a plain,

  I am the vigor of man

  I am the meaning of poetry,

  I am a spear on the attack, pouring forth combat,

  I am the god who fires your mind.

  Pronunciation of Words and Phrases

  Tuatha De Danaan (tua day dhanna): An ancient warrior race of mythical beings from Ireland

  Amandán (AH-mon-dan): Goblin-like creatures

  Fáilte (FALL-sha): Welcome

  Céad mile fáilte (kad MEEL-a FALL-sha): A hundred thousand welcomes

  Gle mhaith (glay moth): Very good

  Codladh sumh (CUL-la sovh): Sleep well

  Poc sidhe (poke she): Fey, or fairy, stroke

  Slainte (SLAWN-che): Health

  Faugh a ballagh (FOW-an BALL-ah): Clear the Way!

  One

  “Son of a goat!” The boy swore and jumped back. A second squirt of bird poop landed with a plop, this time on the toe of his shoe. “Oh, real funny,” he said with a grimace. He glared up at the crow swinging back and forth on the power line overhead, sooty wings spread wide for balance. The bird cocked its head and stared back, its eye a red-rimmed marble.

  “Are you trying to warn me?” The boy dragged the tip of his sneaker through the lawn bordering the sidewalk. He wrinkled his nose at the stink of wet bird droppings mingled with the aroma of freshly mowed grass. Not a good combination. “Or are you just yanking me around?” He watched as the crow crouched for a moment as if deciding, then hoisted itself into the air and flew off. The boy snorted. “Yup, just what I thought—yanking.”

  Slipping his arms free from the straps of a half-full backpack, he dropped it to the ground as he fanned his worn tee shirt, trying to dry the patch of sweat between his shoulder blades. Pushing a mop of auburn hair out of his eyes, he frowned, scanning the peaceful neighborhood. Aw, this is crazy, he thought. I’m never going to find him. And even if I do, what if he says no? Then what? I can’t go back home. Not now.

  Picking up his pack, he slung it over one shoulder and continued down the street. He studied every house, each one exhibiting pride of ownership with a well-tended yard. Somehow, I can’t imagine him living in one of those. He slowed, then stopped when he reached the end of the cul-de-sac.

  A small house sat by itself next to an empty lot. Old-fashioned in a cottage-y way, it was painted the same shade of rusty green as the pine trees flanking either end of its broad porch. Wooded foothills rose behind it, while proud mountains strutted away further west. A massive stone wall, as high as his chin, bordered the yard.

  Shifting from foot to foot, he peered at the wrought-iron gate bisecting the wall. His heart sped up when he noticed a Celtic knot gracing the center of the gate. Beyond, a flagstone walkway snaked through the shaggy lawn. Stretching the length of the northern wall, a thick hedge bristled with broad, saw-toothed leaves and spiny stalks. A few spots along the hedge were plucked bald. On the other side of the hedged wall, a battered pickup truck, gray with age, rested in the graveled driveway.

  Relief flooded the boy at the sight of the deadnettle hedge. This has gotta be the right house. He was reaching for the latch when the screen door creaked opened. He froze.

  “Now, just where would ye be going?” asked a deep voice. A man stepped out and sauntered to the edge of the porch. A head above average height with a whipcord build, he wore a faded denim shirt, open over a white tee shirt. Hooking his thumbs into his jeans pockets, he rested a shoulder against one of the wooden columns, curiosity on his lean face.

  “I’m-I’m looking for someone. I know he lives on this street, but I can’t remember his address.”

  Before he could say more, a shadow ghosted across the yard. Man and boy stiffened and looked up. A crow soared overhead, a black X wheeling in a tight circle against the sun. It cawed sharply, just once, and glided away.

  The boy whirled to face the street, his heart slamming against his ribs and the pack slipping from his shoulder. His eyes darted from shadow to shadow, looking for any sign of movement. A sharp whistle pulled his head around.

  The man stood at the bottom of the steps, a knife the length of his forearm in one hand. The blade was a bronze flame. “Come, boyo,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Get behind me on the porch. Quickly, now, before they attack.”

  The boy hesitated, glancing at the knife, and then shoved the gate open with a clang. He winced when it bounced off the wall, swung back, and smacked his elbow. Cursing under his breath, he ran across the yard and darted around the man, taking the steps two at a time. Grabbing a broom propped next to the door, he tucked the bristled end under one arm, gripping his makeshift weapon like a jousting lance. Armed, he licked his lips and took a position behind the man on the edge of the porch.

  “Have ye a blade?” the man asked over his shoulder as he scanned the neighborhood.

  “Does it look like I have one?”

  “A bit cheeky.” The man glanced back. “For someone wielding a broom.”

  “I’d have taken a pitchfork, but, hey, this was all you had.”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Make that very cheeky.” He continued
to survey the area. The rumble of a garbage truck echoed from the next block over. An automatic sprinkler squirted on in the yard across the street.

  After a few more minutes of vigilance, the man relaxed and turned around. Flipping the knife into the air with a practiced move, he caught it by the handle and tucked it into a sheath hanging from his belt under the tail of his denim shirt.

  “Well, boyo, the manky bird may be playing us for fools. They do that from time to time instead of warning us about the Amandán,” he said, his voice colored green with an Irish lilt. “Lesson number one. When I tell ye to move, I mean run like the very devil is behind ye. Those goblins are almost impossible to spot when camouflaged. And they’re bleedin’ fast. Very fast.”

  “Got it.” The boy leaned the broom against the side of the house and wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. A look of recognition spread across his face when he noticed the thick ring of twisted gold loosely encircling the man’s neck. “Hey, you’re him!”

  “And just who might I be?”

  “You’re the Knight, Gideon Lir. I was looking for you. I’m …” he began.

  “…Finnegan MacCullen,” Gideon finished for him. “Me new apprentice. Who, for some unknown reason, has unexpectedly arrived on me doorstep a day early.”

  Two

  “I go by Finn, not Finnegan.” He inched closer to the edge of the porch.

  “Céad mile fáilte” Gideon said with a nod. He raked strong fingers through his black hair, then pointed toward the gate. “Well, ‘Finn not Finnegan’. Don’t just stand there—fetch yer kit.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Finn trotted down the steps and across the yard, aware of Gideon’s gaze on him. He hurried to his pack. Taking advantage of having his back to the Knight, Finn pulled up his shirt and gave his face a swipe. Reaching with one hand for the pack, he tried to smooth his hair with the other hand.

  “Close the gate behind ye,” Gideon ordered and headed toward the house.

  Finn jogged back, his pack swinging from one shoulder. He followed the Knight inside, swallowing. So far, so good. At least he didn’t tell me to come back tomorrow.

  “Leave yer bag for now.” Gideon gestured toward a wooden crate next to the door. The box contained a pair of mud-caked work boots, several dirty rags, and a tin pail. A row of coat hooks above it held a canvas hunting jacket. As Finn dropped his pack, Gideon closed the door behind him. “Join me in the kitchen. We’ll speak over an early lunch.”

  Finn looked around as he trailed the Knight across the main room, the last touch of the late morning sun skimming through a wide pair of windows. He eyed the shabby furniture cluttering the small room. A stone fireplace took up most of one wall. His face lit up at the assortment of knives, daggers, and a few hatchets, all of bronze, resting horizontally on pegs above the mantel. Books filled the shelves on the opposite side of the room, next to a battered but tidy desk tucked under the stairs leading up to the second floor.

  Stepping into the kitchen in the rear of the house, Finn’s stomach growled at the rich aroma of lamb and herbs and potatoes rising from the steaming pot on the stove. “That smells good.” He sniffed. “What is it?”

  “Why, Irish stew, of course.” Gideon walked over to the stove, giving the pan a stir. “Hand me a couple of bowls. They’re in the cupboard next to the sink.”

  Gideon ladled a generous portion in each one, passed them to Finn, then followed him over to the table in the corner of the room, carrying a still-warm loaf of brown bread wrapped in a clean cloth. Pulling out his chair, he motioned for Finn to take a seat across from him. Uncovering the loaf, he cut several thick slabs and handed one to Finn.

  “Did you bake this?” Finn asked.

  “I did.”

  “But-but you’re a Knight.”

  “Aye, ‘tis true. I am also a Knight who likes to eat.” He raised his eyebrows in surprise when Finn began wolfing down stew between bites of bread. “And apparently, so do ye.” He tasted a spoonful. “And how are yer aunt and uncle?”

  “They’re fine,” Finn mumbled around a mouthful of food, both elbows propped on the table. He spat a chunk of turnip back into his bowl with a plunk.

  Gideon grimaced, but said nothing. He gazed at the boy, his eyes the same uncanny shade of sky blue as Finn’s. ‘“Tis odd that they would deliver ye a day early, without any warning or a by-yer-leave to me.”

  Finn shifted in his chair. “Um … I … Well, Uncle was driving down from Denver today, so I figured I’d save him an extra trip tomorrow.” He hunched over the bowl and shoveled another spoonful into his mouth, eyes fixed on the table as he ate.

  “Curious. I was reading in the front room with the windows open for the last hour and never heard a car pull up.”

  “He dropped me off at the corner. He was kind of in a hurry.” Finn took another bite and swallowed it down half-chewed.

  “In a hurry.”

  “Yeah.”

  Finn peeked up through his bangs as the Knight pushed his bowl aside and rested his elbows on the table, fingers steepled together. The tick-ticking of the cooling stove filled the kitchen as he waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Finn broke.

  “Okay, he didn’t actually bring me.” He wiped his mouth on his arm. “I walked.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I walked.”

  “From Denver? To High Springs?” Gideon dropped his hands, his mouth sagging open. “That’s over sixty miles!”

  “I got a ride most of the way. With some college students going home for the summer.”

  “Ye hitchhiked?”

  “Yeah, I do it all the time. It’s no big deal. They dropped me off downtown and I walked from there.” He looked down and poked at the stew. “I didn’t want to bother anyone, so—”

  “Stop.” Gideon held up a hand. “Ye gods,” he muttered under his breath, then shoved his chair back with a screech and headed to the counter. “Their number?” he asked, snatching the phone from its cradle.

  “They’re not home.”

  “I dinna ask ye where they were. I asked ye for their bleedin’ phone number.” He punched it in as Finn grudgingly recited it.

  “Hullo, Owen. This is Gideon Lir. Fine, thank ye. Listen, the reason I’m calling is that Finnegan is here. In High Springs.” He frowned. “Finnegan MacCullen.” His frown deepened. “Yer nephew Red hair, blue eyes, atrocious table manners.” His eyes flicked once toward the boy scraping his bowl clean. “Aye, I’m still taking him. But ye might wish to know the stunt he pulled. I thought ye’d be worried about him, so I …” He paused and listened for several long minutes, his black brows pinching together. “And ye dinna think to inform me about his mother until now?” He turned his back and lowered his voice. “‘Tis a bit under the table.” Gideon pinched the bridge of his nose as he continued to listen. “Aye, well, it appears we’re both ankle-deep in the situation,” he said, clipping the words. “Right. I’ll tell him.” He hung up the phone.

  Silence filled the kitchen. After a moment, Gideon spoke over his shoulder. “They weren’t even aware ye had left this morning.”

  Finn shrugged. “Figures. I’m not exactly the favorite in the family.”

  “Because of yer mother’s people?”

  “I guess.”

  “They wished ye luck, if that helps.”

  “They try to be nice to me, but they’re really busy. They’ve got nine kids. And my cousin, Liam, is starting his apprenticeship next month, so they’re doing a bunch of stuff for his ceremony. That’s why I decided to just get out of their way.” He paused for a moment. “So-so I guess they told you about me.”

  “Aye, they did.” Gideon turned around and leaned against the counter.

  Raising his chin, Finn steeled himself. “Are you going to send me back?”

  Gideon ran his knuckles along his jaw. He hesitated before speaking. “I’ll give ye the truth of it. I wasn’t expecting …” His voice trailed off.

  Finn glanced
away. “Someone like me.” The stew congealed in his stomach as his fists clenched under the table. He looked up when Gideon cleared his throat.

  “So, tell me, Finnegan MacCullen. Yer mother—was she half or whole?”

  “Half. My mom was half human.”

  Gideon sighed, then shook his head, his face unreadable. “Although I do not hold yer bloodline against ye, I should show ye the door this minute. The agreement with yer family to train ye was made under a false pretense.”

  Finn’s heart twisted. He nodded numbly, trying to ignore the lump in his throat. He’s going to kick me out without even giving me a chance, he thought. Now what do I do? He kept his eyes fixed in front of him as the Knight continued.

  “And just why should I take ye on as my apprentice, eh?” He held up a hand and began ticking off on his fingers. “Ye’re cheeky. Ye’re woefully lacking in manners, except bad ones. And ye’re part mortal. Ye’ve not much in yer favor, boyo. Can ye give me one good reason I should let ye stay?”

  “No,” Finn whispered.

  “No? Well, I can.” Gideon fingered the tore around his throat. “And so, ye shall stay.”

  Finn snapped his head around. Astonished, he opened and closed his mouth several times before he could speak. “W-why?”

  “Because, me lad, ye were willing to go into battle by me side today. Armed with only a broom.” The corner of the Knight’s mouth quirked into a half smile. “Ye are, Finnegan MacCullen, no coward.”

  For a long minute, they gazed at one another. Outside the open kitchen window, a chickadee whistled its three-note song, calling its mate home.

  Then, Gideon straightened. “Now, go fetch yer things. Then, I’ll show ye yer room.” He waited until the boy left the room before shaking his head. Ye gods, he thought. I did not see thiy coming. Staring blankly at Finn’s place at the table, he ran a hand down his face. And just how am I to train an apprentice who’s part: mortal? Deep in thought, he began carrying the empty bowls to the sink. Halfway across the kitchen, a wicked smile spread across his face. Of course, I’m forgetting one of the advantages of having an apprentice. He dropped the dishes into the sink with a clatter, cast a contemptuous eye on the rest of the mess, and wiped his hands on his shirt.