by C E Dimond
“I’m glad to see you have learned to trust me enough to leave the pendant behind.” He said nodded to my neck.
My hand traveled to where the pendant had once hung. I hadn’t been wearing it since that fateful night. I still had it, but wearing it seemed like tempting fate.
“It’s close by if I need it,” I assured him.
It came down to self-preservation. After everything, I hadn’t wanted to risk that sort of pain again. The last time he had touched me while I’d had it on, it had burned the triquetra into both of us.
He nodded, handing me my bag that he’d initially stashed in the trunk of the car, and I slipped it onto my back.
“Are we going on a hike?” I asked.
It seemed like a ridiculous question but, looked up, I saw nothing around us but hills.
“Just follow me.” He advised, and we walked through the churchyard and beyond. Gradually we began to make our way uphill.
By the time we made it outside the fenced in area that belonged to the churchyard, I knew we had barely made a dent in the trek. We moved past the tall, white stone statue of St. Patrick himself until we were soon fully exposed to the surrounding nature.
I stood in front of the open greenery in complete awe.
“Wow.” The simple word came out on a single breath.
This beautiful image was the sort of thing you imagined when you heard about the Emerald Isle. We were suddenly surrounded by miles and miles of cool, lush greenery.
“This was once a part of our Kingdom,” My father spoke, breaking my concentration. “Once upon a time, but you know how history goes. Mortals can never seem to just accept the territory they’re given, they always feel that they need more.”
I found that almost too amusing. To hear such a statement from a man who was desperate to claim more power than he had been naturally given. If that wasn’t a perfect example of the pot calling the kettle black, I didn’t know what was.
What shocked me more though, was the way spoke of them, it almost sounded like cause for concern.
Mortals.
It wasn’t the first time someone had used the word to describe those that didn’t have magic but, in my mind, we were all Mortal. At the very end of the day, it was life or death for us all. I couldn’t understand why having this power made us any more worthy than another.
“You all say that word.” I was challenging him now, perhaps I was challenging them all. “You call them Mortal as though we’re the ones who are going to live forever.”
I didn’t like the obvious change of expression on his face while I waited for his response.
He didn’t give me one. He looked at me as though he were pained by my challenge. Perhaps I wasn’t the daughter he wanted or the one he’d imagined.
If he wanted one who was going to be blindly following his lead, he had chosen the wrong girl. I was too used to just sitting back and allowing life to happen to me. I wasn’t willing to subject myself to that anymore.
My shyness was long gone. If I wanted something, even something as simple as an answer, I refused to stay quiet about it.
“Come on,” he said simply, gesturing for me to follow.
“What, no response? No witty history lesson on where the term Mortal came from?” To be honest, I had been expecting some sort of lecture.
He shook his head and simply continued to walk forward. He was gaining distance on me and seemed to be leaving the decision to follow in my hands.
I did.
It was no easy trek to make it all the way up the hill.
With luck, it was at least an incredibly scenic walk. The further we climbed, the more unique the sight became. As we grew closer, and I got a good look I realized that It wasn’t simply a hill. This hill had mounds, and dips, and stones.
One of the mouths even had what appeared to be an iron gate, blocking an entrance? A passage? I wasn’t quite sure.
By the time everything was in full view, I realized perhaps not quickly enough, that not only was this not just a hill, it was also a tomb.
“This land was the traditional seat of the High King.” He said. “A place of great power. A place of our power. Of what should have been our legacy.”
Power.
He was beginning to say it so often; I was beginning to wonder if he was truly as power-crazed as his Coven counterparts would have had me believe.
“The High King,” I repeated thinking back to my studies. I knew that the Kings of Ireland had spread among the provinces, but they had one High King over them all. Not unlike the one ring. “Which,” I continued, “was traditionally a McLoughlin role.”
I wanted to show him that he wasn’t teaching me everything. I had done my own research, and I had learned something while at Broadhaven.
He nodded. I knew that it had been a seat they’d lost, and soon after they had lost their Kingdom. He seemed to take it so personally, even though he hadn’t been there to witness it happen. This entitlement he had ran deep. I was witnessing firsthand, just how long hatred and bitterness could last among generations. Generations who had never actually experienced the hardship themselves.
The loss of our ancestors was his loss. In his mind, they had failed us and deprived the future generations of our true legacy.
As he reached the top of the hill, he took his place next to the inappropriately phallic stone. A grave marker I assumed, and it became to settle in that this had been exactly what I had been looking for.
“When Blood of Blood returns to the place where sleeping kings lay, the final awakening will occur, and the power will once more descend upon the land,” I said in a hushed tone.
His dark eyes seemed to glint in approval.
“So you found the prophecy.” The approval was mirrored in his voice and I could do nothing more but nod.
The sun had started to set on the horizon and the sounds of nature were the only things that seemed to surround us.
“We’re not just here for a trip down memory lane are we?” I asked.
Part of me had hoped that he was just picking me up to take me to his country home where we would bond over hot apple cider and old photos. Delusional perhaps but I hadn’t expected to be confronted with the prophecy so soon.
“No, we’re not here to discuss our heritage.” He said which no longer served to surprise me. “At least, not entirely.”
I nodded with understanding.
“I figured.”
He certainly had my attention now.
“There’s so much to tell you. Things you should have known from birth.”
He wasn’t the first to remind me how much had I missed; I suspected he wouldn’t be the last.
“I don’t know how I am supposed to prepare you for all of this responsibility in such a short time.”
I shrugged. If I’d had the answer to that, I might have already known everything he felt that he needed to tell me.
He let out a sigh, running a hand through his thick dark hair, the same dark hair he shared with my sister. These were lessons she undoubtedly already knew, things she could have told me in our time living together. Instead, she was going to let him tell me, on top of a hill in the setting sun.
How poetic.
“Let’s talk about the legend of your namesake, shall we?”
This was news to me, I hadn’t even been aware of the fact that I had a namesake.
“He was one of the greatest legends of this land” he started “There is a stone, in Northern Ireland, called Cloughmore. It was said to have been thrown from the Cooley Mountains by the great Fionn mac Cumhaill to its very spot. Some say it now marks his final resting place. Others say he rests in Sweden.”
I had never heard of Fionn mac Cumhaill, but I knew that the old worlds were filled with their great myths and legends.
Myths were vast across their different cultures and some, more than others, were well known. I wondered now if perhaps I should have learned more of the Celtic folklore. After all, I had studied a lot of My
thology in school. Most of it had been surrounding the Greek Gods of Olympus, and some of it Anglo-Saxon, Beowulf, Le Morte d’Arthur.
Along the way, I had somehow never managed to pick up a single Irish myth. Still, I wondered if this story was simply for the sake of telling a story, or if there was a point coming.
“I think it’s a little late in life for bedtime stories,” I managed in a sarcastic snip. To my surprise, one quick glance from him and I found that I wanted to hold my tongue. So I decided, for once, to listen. If nothing else, I knew that the story would give me more time to think my way through the situation at hand.
“He was a great warrior of this country, the greatest some say. His legends outline him as King, the strongest, and the one with the most magic. Another said he was to have tasted the Salmon of Knowledge and that it meant that he knew all the wisdom of the world. Though, like the rest of us, he was eventually the victim of mortality.”
I tilted my head as those words settled into place and the final piece of the story seemed to find its place.
“So, he died,” I added, an effort to show that I was actually listening. I hadn’t meant to state the obvious, but it was not exactly what I would call a big deal, we all died, eventually.
“Yes. Although, there are some people who believe that isn’t true.” Instincts, and perhaps my limited experience with him, told me somehow that my father might have been one of those people. “The most popular of his legends claim that instead of death, he was met with eternal sleep. Many people believe that he lies in a deep sleep, hidden a cave somewhere beneath the Island. He is supposedly resting there, surrounded by his army, just waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” The moment the question was in the air, I almost regretted asking. Because somehow, I knew the answer had to do with me.
“It has been said they will awaken when the Dord Fiann is sounded three times.” he finished.
“And when Blood of Blood returns to the place where sleeping kings lay.” I offered.
So he was our ancestor, this great Fionn was the sleeping King we were meant to awaken. This meant he was our ancestor.
“What is the Dord Fiann?” I asked next.
“Their war-horn. They always sounded it before they went into battle.”
Their war-horn? I hadn’t come across anything about that in my research. That wasn’t going to be something we could track down. It wasn’t like someone was going to just have that lying around somewhere.
Even if it was real, which I still doubted, it was likely in a museum somewhere. All these thoughts led to the very real question, the one I had been asking myself since the very night. Since the night I’d first realized my mother was missing.
“What does that have to do with me?” I asked. So we shared a name, I couldn’t help but feel like I clearly was missing the point.
“Strange thing is, or perhaps strange is not the correct term. What it comes down to is quite simple. I’m not his direct descendant. You darling daughter, most certainly are.”
17
It had taken a while for it all to come together. It was clear now that this had nothing, or at least very little to do with my power at all. Instead, it had everything to do with the blood running through my veins.
This was all about the part of my blood we didn’t share, which I could only conclude meant that we, my sister and I were descendants of the great King Fionn, but on the Cavanaugh side.
It was pretty clear this had been part of a long plan, constantly evolving and changing as the years had ticked by. It made more sense to me now, why my mother had sent me away, why she had tried to hide Iseult. She had been protecting us from this, whatever this was. His grand plan.
The prophecy itself still wasn’t clear. However, in my eagerness for answers, I felt like I had walked right into his trap. By trying to stop him, I’d actually given him exactly what he needed.
“The Cavanaugh family carries his bloodline. You are all descendants of his son Oísín and the fairy woman Níamh Chinn Óir, Niamh of the Golden hair.” I had known before he decided to explain it to me, “Your mother’s namesake.”
It was then that he wistfully picked up the ends of my own golden hair and for a moment simply held it between his fingertips.
I wouldn’t have expected a man who had supposedly taken her life, to act so solemn whenever she was mentioned. Each memory he recalled, every mention of her always seemed to sadden him.
He claimed that he hadn’t killed her; he had sworn that to me, and yet I had recalled the memory myself, Patrick’s memories, Eamon’s too. I had witnessed my birth mother’s demise with my own eyes; he had taken her life, and the life of Eamon’s mother.
Acting on instinct, I flinched my head away from him. I hadn’t done it maliciously or anything, I just didn’t necessarily like being looked over like a china doll. He sighed in more sadness as if that action had reminded him of something, someone.
“If your mother hadn’t been so stubborn, we could have done this all together. I just hope you don’t make the same mistakes she did.” I couldn’t tell by his tone if that was supposed to be a threat or not. “They poisoned her mind, turned her against me. In the end, I couldn’t protect her any longer. It was never supposed to be this way.”
“What? We were supposed to be one big happy family?” I asked the bitterness obvious in my tone. Delusional wasn’t even going to begin to cover his state of mind now.
Still, there was a detail sticking out in my head that could confirm everything I thought I knew. I cursed under my breath, hoping his ears had missed it. I should have taken the opportunity to look when his hand had been so close to my face.
I needed to look for the scar. I remembered it from Eamon’s dream, his memories of the night he believed Cormac had killed his mother.
The attacker, the warlock who had drained the life from her had a scar. It had been quite noticeable, deep, and traveled right along his wrist, and up his forearm. If I could get a good look at his arm, and it was there, it would confirm what he’d done. If it wasn’t, well, then I was going to have to reevaluate things. I would have to cross that bridge when I came to it.
“That was always the intention yes.”
His earnest delivery was killing me. Despite my sarcasm and surliness, I could see now how Iseult had fallen for it all. At that moment, I wanted so badly to believe that he was being honest, for everything my sister had idolized in him to be true. It was fair, only normal even, for any girl to want to believe her father wasn’t really the enemy. Was this such a crazy desire?
“So, you needed my blood.” That had become clear in his explanation. “What do you believe is going to happen?” I asked. “You think that you’re going to wake him up with some war horn we don’t have, and he’ll be so grateful he’ll bestow the ancient powers to you?”
It seemed clear to me that there was something missing from this story. It couldn’t be as easy as that.
“The Fianna will let their guard down and finally allow him to be woken from the spell.”
I didn’t buy it.
If the Fianna, these ancient warriors of the great King, were meant to protect Ireland, it only made sense to me that they would have to know his intentions were dark. Unless they weren’t the heroes that legends would have the people believe. That wasn’t a theory I wanted to spend too much time considering.
Having one enemy to deal with was more than enough. I didn’t want to consider facing an army of undead warriors.
There was a part of me now that wished I had spent a little less time at the archives and a bit more time at the library or bookstore. It was clear now, that these myths, were far more than just bedtime stories. They were part of my history.
“They will bring the proper order back to this world. We will finally have our full magic restored and we will be back in control where we belong and the rest of cowards in the Coven will have to admit that we were right all along. We will have the power to discover the truth.”
I was just wanting to make sure I had a clear picture of his expectations, ridiculous as they seemed. He claimed to be on a quest for the truth more than power. I so badly wanted to be confident that everything I’d been fed about him was true, but was it? The claims of the Coven played through my mind; he was insane, extreme, delusional, all consumed with legends.
Still, after everything I’d already been through, it was hard to put my entire faith in the fact that these legends were just legends. After all, magic wasn’t supposed to be real either and yet, here we were.
“This seems like a pretty risky bet to me,” I told him.
“But that’s just it Finn, it is not a risk at all. Our myths are just an elaborate universal truth. If you look hard enough, they show you exactly how to find what you’re looking for”
Then it hit me, that familiar knowing feeling.
It was that same feeling that I had come to accept as my own intuition. So somehow, I knew, before he’d even shown me, that the mythological horn was not so much of a myth anymore.
As he opened his hand, a beautiful light appeared, bright in the growing darkness. At the moment, I knew my intuition had been right. My own fears were confirmed as the mysterious object appeared in his hand.
The horn looked ancient, formed of some sort of bone. The bone itself had been carved intricately into the shape of a wolf, the horn’s opening ready to engulf the world in its vicious jaws.
It could have been anything, a prop, a replica, but the feeling, the energy it radiated told me that it was, exactly what he claimed it was. I was looking at the Dórd Fiann.
Against my own better judgment, I was drawn to it. In opposition, I also had that voice, screaming in the back of my mind. I knew that I couldn’t let it tempt me.
“It’s a simple spell Finn, we can all do it together. I needed your blood, yes, but in reality, I needed our blood. Our blood combined will open the rock. The spill will open the earth beneath us and the prophecy will be fulfilled. Once you use the horn to call him, our power source will be released. All the people will have to believe again, in the magic they have banished from their lives. Our strength will return. We can save ourselves, save the world.” he told me this with no sliver of irony at all.