Finn Finnegan

by Darby Karchut

  Gideon stepped closer and plucked the blade from the tall grasses fringing the wall. “Milk before meat.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means we best begin with something a bit easier.” Tucking the weapon away, he led the way over to the middle of the yard. They stopped in front of the burlap bag Finn had seen his first day here. “Arm yerself.”

  Finn reached behind and slid his knife free. “Now, what?”

  “Lock yer hand tightly against the tang.” Gideon re-positioned Finn’s grip closer to the crosspiece separating the blade from the handle. “That way ye won’t break a thumb if the beastie jerks suddenly. That being the beastie.” He pointed to the bag cram-packed with balls of newspaper. Bare dirt surrounded the dummy in a wide circle. “When ye thrust, extend yer arm fully. Bury yer blade, but remember to hold tight.” He took hold of a long rope attached to the overhead cable and stepped to one side.

  Finn nodded. Taking a stance in front of the bag, he licked his lips. Here goes nothing. “‘I am the roar of the sea,’” he whispered.

  At first, nothing. Then pressure, like a mounting wave, surged through his back and shoulders. He bounced on his toes a few times; darting forward, he stabbed at the bag. The target twirled about, dodging his attack. It swung up in a looping arch when Gideon yanked on the guy rope.

  Still chanting, he slashed again. The tip of his knife sliced a few strands before the bag spun out of range. Gritting his teeth, he lunged over and over, chasing it in a circle as it danced about. Dust puffed up around his ankles. For ten minutes, he stabbed and lunged and missed. Sweat began to trickle down his face, stinging his eyes.

  “Are ye planning on waltzing with the Amandán?” Gideon teased.

  “Stop moving it,” he rasped, stumbling to a halt, his chest heaving. He forced frustration down a dry throat.

  “Then quit mucking about and stick the bleedin’ thing.”

  Maybe I’ll just stick you instead, he thought, blood humming in his ears. He blew his hair out of his eyes as he stalked the target. The Knight jiggled the bag enticingly. With a sudden charge, he plunged the weapon into the sack. “Gotcha,” he gasped, still holding the knife.

  With a powerful tug, Gideon sent the bag flying; the movement ripped the blade out of the boy’s hand. The knife flashed in the sunlight as it spun end over end across the yard and sailed over the stone wall. It vanished into a stand of scrub oak on the other side.

  Finn whirled around. “You did that on purpose!”

  “Why, ‘tis certain. Do ye think an Amandán is going to meekly stand there, eager to take a blade in the chest?” Gideon let go of the rope and flexed his hands. “Go fetch yer weapon.”

  “Screw this crap,” Finn muttered under his breath. He stomped over to the picnic table near the back door and sank down on the bench. Bending forward, he stretched out his shirt and wiped his sweaty face. He jumped when a shadow fell across him. Without warning, a hand grabbed his arm and yanked him back on his feet.

  Dragging Finn by the back of his tee shirt, Gideon stalked across the yard to the fence, the boy’s feet scarcely touching the ground. “Ye’ve a choice, Finnegan MacCullen. Climb over that wall and retrieve yer weapon. Or else.”

  “Or else what?” Finn struggled to free himself from Gideon’s iron grip.

  “Or else I pitch ye over. Head over arse.”

  Finn froze and stared up at his master’s face.

  Gideon narrowed his eyes.

  “I-I think I’ll go get that knife now.”

  “Ye’ve a strong sense of self-preservation.” Gideon let go and nodded toward the wall.

  Finn turned and jogged away, bypassing the wooden gate off to one side. He hoisted himself up, swung his legs over, and hopped down. Beyond the wall, the ground sloped away. It dropped into a wide ravine filled with thick underbrush and the occasional pine. He half-walked, half-slid down to the bottom.

  Working his way through thick patches of scrub oak, he searched back and forth across the ravine. Where’s the stupid knife? he thought as he pawed through last year’s leaves, wondering if Gideon really would have thrown him over the wall. Yup, he would have, he finally decided. Crunching his way toward the other side of the gully, he began climbing the far side. He passed a lichen-covered boulder halfway up the slope.

  The boulder twitched.

  Lifting its head and unfolding from a crouch, the Amandán grinned. “Poc sidhe” it hissed, lunging at Finn, black-tipped fingers scrabbling for his face.

  Gideon frowned as he watched Finn disappear over the wall. Ye gods, he thought, I hope we don’t butt heads his entire apprenticeship. The boy certainly has a short fuse. He listened to the sounds of Finn searching for the knife. Just like another fiery apprentice I could name—Gideon chose to ignore the voice of his old master.

  I must find a way to help Finnegan deal with that temper of his. Help him channel that energy into something more—

  He stiffened at the sudden harsh caw and looked up.

  The crow blasted past the Knight’s head. Its yellow claws skimmed the wall before it dipped out of sight into the trees beyond.

  “Finnegan!” Gideon bolted toward the wall. Chanting under his breath, he vaulted over the top stones, clearing them by a foot.

  With a yelp, Finn flung himself backwards as the Amandán attacked. He found himself tumbling back down the slope, arms flailing as he tried to control his fall. Branches clawed at him, leaving burning scratches along his back and stomach where his tee shirt pulled up. The ground and sky exchanged places in slow motion.

  Finn crashed to a halt at the bottom of the ravine, cracking his skull on a fallen log. For a moment, he lay breathless, the ground spinning as white-hot pain tore through his head. Stars flickered at the edge of his sight.

  Feeling the vibration of massive feet thundering toward him, he rolled over with a groan, his eyes watering with pain. Struggling to rise, his fingers brushed against something cool and smooth and hard under a layer of leaves.

  The knife.

  Finn fumbled for the weapon. Lurching to his feet, he swayed, then braced himself for the assault. Bile burned his throat. He swallowed as the Amandán charged down the hill toward him. Branches snapped beneath its feet like broken bones. It ran skewed to one side, ape-like, on all fours. Finn locked his trembling knees and tightened his grip. For a moment, the goblin seemed to fill his vision. Every detail was enlarged, from the threads of slobber dangling from its yellow teeth to the twigs matted in its dirty green pelt. A rank stench filled the air—like someone’s breath just after they’ve vomited. Into dirty socks.

  “Drop, Finn!”

  Even before he hit the ground, Gideon’s blade flashed end over end past his head. With a moist thwack it buried itself hilt-deep in the creature.

  Curled on his side, Finn squinted as ash blew everywhere, coating him and the surrounding vegetation. After a few moments, he opened his eyes, grimacing at the sour taste of leftover goblin on his lips. He flopped over. A warm trickle ran down the side of his face. Staring up at the branches overhead, the world darkened around him. Vaguely, he wondered at the sound of footsteps crashing through the underbrush. His eyelids fluttered closed for a moment.

  A hand touched his shoulder. He blinked. Gideon was kneeling beside him, concern tightening his features. A second knife was ready in one fist. “Finn? Are ye with me, lad?”

  “D-did we get it?” Finn whispered back. His eyes slid shut before his master could answer.

  Eight

  Standing at Finn’s bedroom window, Gideon gazed into the forest beyond the wall. The familiar anger tightened the muscles in his back and shoulders. It whispered in his head, urging him to strike out at anything. At anyone. He took a deep breath and relaxed the hands fisted by his sides. Glancing over a shoulder at the figure lying motionless on the bed, he frowned in surprise at the unexpected protectiveness that swept through him. He turned back to the window. “Come near mine again, beasties,” he spoke to the empty wood
s, “be it me home or apprentice, and I’ll—”

  “G-eon?”

  The Knight spun around at the slurred voice behind him. Hurrying over to the bed, he pulled the chair closer and took a seat. “And the hero awakes.”

  “My head hurts,” Finn complained.

  “Aye, no doubt. Since ye attacked a tree with it. The tree won, surprisingly, considering that thick noggin of yers.”

  “Ha, ha. Funny.” Finn blinked as he looked around the bedroom. “How did I get here?”

  “I carried ye.” Gideon leaned over and pushed Finn’s hair off his forehead. He examined the wound for a moment, then reached for the rag soaking in a bowl on the nightstand. A spicy, earthy aroma, like coffee mixed with peppermint, wafted up from the warm potion. Wringing the cloth out, he folded it into a small square and pressed it against Finn’s injury.

  Finn winced. “I like the way the slainte nettle smells, but man, that stuff stings like crazy!”

  “Ah, ye whine like a wee babe. Here—hold this on for a bit longer.” Gideon let go as Finn took over. After a few minutes, he took the cloth away. “Can ye sit up?” He waited until Finn pushed back against the headboard, then stuffed a pillow behind him.

  Gideon picked up a steaming mug sitting next to the bowl and held it out. “Sip it slowly. T’will speed up the healing of both yer head wound and any bruises or scratches.”

  Cradling the cup in both hands, Finn sipped cautiously. He smacked his lips. “Tastes like you put honey in it.”

  “Aye—a bit of sweet. Some De Danaan do not enjoy its flavor.”

  “Not me! I could drink this stuff all day.”

  Gideon frowned when his apprentice took another gulp. “I wouldn’t become too enamored with the brew. Too much slainte nettle tea can came, problems for our kind.”

  “Like what?”

  “An excess of slainte nettle makes us inebriated.”

  “Inebriated?”

  “Drunk.”

  Finn stared down into his mug. “Like how much excess?”

  “Six or seven gallons, depending on the individual.”

  “Six or seven gallons! I’d be like a water balloon after drinking all that.”

  “Or ye’d be spending a great deal of time seeing a man about a horse.”

  Finn laughed at the old expression, one hand holding his bruised side. The corner of Gideon’s mouth twitched as he took the mug before it spilled and set it back on the nightstand. Still chuckling, Finn leaned back against the pillow

  “So we got it, right? The Amandán?”

  “Aye, we did. However…” He paused. Should I tell him?

  “What’s wrong? Did I lose the knife again?”

  “No. All weapons are cleaned and accounted for. But I am concerned about—”

  “Gideon, I’m sorry,” Finn said in a rush. “Sorry I was acting like a jack-butt earlier. I know you want me to get better at controlling my temper.”

  The Knight raised a hand. “‘Tis not that. Well, not exactly. Certainly, we will work on that temper of yers. What I want to discuss are these repeated attacks by the Amandán.”

  Finn’s eyes widened. “You mean, this…this isn’t normal?”

  “Not at this magnitude.” Gideon leaned back. “So, tell me. How much do ye know about the very beginnings of our race?”

  “Just that the Tuatha De Danaan all started in Ireland. That we got kicked out by humans. And that the Amandán hate our guts. And vice versa.” He glanced at Gideon. “I bet there’s a lot more to it than that.”

  “Aye, there is. And if ye’ll indulge me, I shall tell ye the tale in full.” Stretching out his legs, Gideon settled himself more comfortably and began.

  “Since the beginning of time, the non-human beings of Ireland, the Tuatha De Danaan and the Amandán, have battled for control of our beloved land. For both have a claim to it, as our ancestral home. In fact, the Amandán believe they first emerged from the peat bogs of Eire—the Bog-born. In a sense, they and the land are one.”

  “What about us?”

  “Why, we are descendents of Danu, one of the Celtic goddesses of war. Hence our flair for battle. She bestowed upon us the Emerald Isle as our own as long as we could hold it from the Amandán, and our struggle with the beasties would have been contained to Ireland if it wasn’t for the invaders.”

  “The Bronze Age humans?”

  “Aye. And at first, we welcomed the mortals. Their bronze weapons were more lethal than our flint ones. Allied with them, we were able to drive out most of the Amandán. Because of that, the Amandán have even more reason to hate the De Danaan with a deep and lasting fury. But, once the threat from the goblins was no more, the mortals, who by that time outnumbered us by the thousands, turned on us.”

  “But we’re so much like humans. Why did they want to get rid of us?”

  “Fear. Fear of creatures that were different. So, they decided to rid Ireland of all such beings. Our ancestors, along with the Amandán, were scattered to the four corners of the world. But the war between us and the beasties continues. Just more clandestinely.”

  “Clandestinely? What does that mean?”

  “Secretly,” Gideon explained. “Can ye imagine what would happen if humans really knew about us? Why, we would turn from being hunters to being hunted! Fortunately, the Amandán still fear them. Somewhat.”

  “How did so many of them end up here?” Finn picked up the mug and took another sip as he listened.

  “The beasties are earth-dwellers—they gain strength from it. They migrated to lands with abandoned mines.”

  “Like Colorado.”

  “And other places. For example, Pennsylvania is densely populated with the beasties. The old coal mines back East have some of the most vicious tribes of Amandán.”

  “And bronze only weakens the Amandán, it doesn’t kill them. But we can die from any weapon, right?”

  The Knight nodded. “Whatever kills a mortal can kill us. Except our powers and our training make us just a wee bit more difficult to destroy. Always remember this, Finn.” He tapped his tore for emphasis. “In spite of being part human, ye come from an ancient line of warriors.”

  Finn studied the Knight’s gold collar. “How old were you when you fought your first Amandán one-on-one?”

  “Oh, ‘tis certain I was much, much older than ye before I earned this. No need to rush, boyo. There are more than enough goblins. I’ll be sure to save one for ye.”

  “Okay.” Finn smiled, and then asked, “So, is there anything that can actually kill an Amandán?”

  “I only know of one weapon. A mythical one at that. The Spear of the Tuatha De Danaan.”

  “Who has it? Where is it?”

  “Oh, it’s been lost for centuries upon centuries. If it ever really existed. Supposedly, it can only be wielded by a De Danaan, and its touch is deadly to the Amandán. The beasties have always feared it might found again. Ironically, it is also called—” Gideon paused at the sound of his apprentice’s stomach growling.

  “I think I’m feeling better now.” Finn swung his legs off the bed. He started to rise when Gideon put out a hand.

  “Oh, no, ye don’t, boyo. Ye’re to take it easy for the rest of the afternoon. I’ll bring ye a tray. And then we’ll finish our chat.”

  Settling back, Finn clasped his hands behind his head. “You know, I could get used to this. How about breakfast in bed tomorrow?”

  “Not bleedin’ likely,” the Knight murmured as he stood and left the room.

  Nine

  Humming under his breath, Gideon selected a pear from the basket on the counter and added it to the luncheon tray before heading out of the kitchen and across the living room. As he reached the foot of the stairs, a heavy blow rattled the front door, followed by a second one.

  “Ye gods, he’s going to knock me house down one day,” Gideon muttered good-humoredly. He walked over and rested the tray across the wooden crate. He smiled as he opened the door.

  “Mac Roth,” he
said to the bearded man standing on the porch. “Fáilte” Gideon clasped the man’s forearm in greeting, then ushered him inside.

  “A fine day to ye, Lit” The man ducked as he entered, his wild mane of red hair a scant inch from the ceiling. A head taller than Gideon, his bulk filled the small space as he glanced down at the tray. “Am I interrupting yer lunch, now?” He shrugged out of his leather jacket and tossed it over one of the coat hooks. A thick chest and shoulders strained the seams of a faded sweatshirt emblazoned with the slogan “Fighting Irish Is Redundant”.

  “No, not at all. I’ve a battered apprentice upstairs.”

  “Apparently.” Mac Roth nodded toward the dried bloodstain on the sleeve of Gideon’s denim shirt. “And how is young Finnegan?”

  “Come, and I’ll introduce ye.” Gideon picked up the tray and led the way upstairs. “The lad’s been with me for scarcely a week, and he’s already had two engagements with the Amandán.”

  “Why, then it’s true.” Mac Roth followed, the steps protesting at his bulk.

  “What’s true?”

  “The rising number of attacks along the eastern side of the Rockies, especially here in High Springs.”

  “Does anyone know why?”

  “Iona has a theory—”

  “That sorceress,” Gideon scoffed over a shoulder.

  “Sorceress she may be, but she knows as much about the Amandán as any of us.”

  “All she’ll do is confound us with vague prophecies from those ancient texts of hers, and then step aside as we De Danaan battle for our lives.”

  “Still bitter, eh, Lir? Why, I thought ye would have let go of yer anger and grief after all these years.”

  “Would ye?” He nudged Finn’s door open with his knee and stepped inside, Mac Roth at his heels. They stopped talking when they noticed Finn sitting cross-legged on the bed.

  “Mac Roth, meet Finnegan MacCullen,” Gideon said. He walked around the bed and handed the tray to the boy. “Finn, this is me oldest and finest friend, Knight Mac Roth. We’ve known each other since we were both apprentices back in Ireland.”