The Stalking Silence

by Brian O'Sullivan

  Fionn: The Stalking Silence

  Short Story Prequel to the Fionn mac Cumhaill Series

  BRIAN O’SULLIVAN

  IrishImbas Books

  © Copyright Brian O’Sullivan 2014

  Published by Irish Imbas Books

  ISBN: 978-0-9941062-3-0

  Foreword:

  The following short story and its characters are based on ancient narratives from the Fenian Cycle and in particular the Macgnímartha Finn (The Boyhood Deeds of Fionn) - a twelfth century narrative that attempted to collate a number of much earlier oral tales about Fionn mac Cumhaill and the Fianna. In Irish mythology, Muirne Muncháem was the mother of the legendary hero Fionn mac Cumhaill.

  This particular story is a prequel to my own interpretation of the Macgnímartha Finn (the Fionn mac Cumhaill Series) which is actually quite a short document. The original is also quite sparse in terms of character details and background because, of course, these would already have been well known to contemporary audiences of the time. This version of the story forms the prologue for Fionn: Defence of Ráth Bládhma – Book One of the Series.

  Many of the personal and place names used from before the 12th century. For those readers who would like to know the correct pronunciation of these names, an audio glossary has been developed and is available at http://irishimbasbooks.com/ .

  I hope you enjoy the story.

  Fionn: The Stalking Silence

  The animal appeared in the afternoon, when the best of the sunshine had faded. The first indication of its presence was a shudder of movement between the distant trees, then slowly but surely, the shadows congealed to form a grey timber wolf.

  It took some time before the beast emerged into the wide clearing that separated the two sections of darkwood. There it paused, cautiously assessing the surrounding terrain as it sniffed the chilly air.

  Seated on a patch of rock at the opposite side of the clearing, Muirne Muncháem observed the predator’s arrival with a tremor. She had traversed that same space not much earlier and her footprints – two staggered lines of blunt impressions – were still visible against the otherwise virgin surface.

  Although a young woman of less than twenty summers, Muirne was close to the limit of her physical endurance. Two weeks of trekking through the Great Wild, trudging through the snow-stained forest and woodland, had sapped her of vitality. Despite her youth, the journey had been arduous, due in no small part to the weight of the child in her swollen belly.

  She’d stumbled upon the clearing around noon, halting to recover her strength and enjoy the rare sensation of sunshine upon her face. Despite the internal drive to press onwards, she’d been unable to rouse herself and had tarried, reluctant to leave the sunlight for the relentless gloom of the forest that lay before her.

  She bit her lip as she continued to watch the animal. Na mactíre – literally, “the sons of the land” – were not uncommon but few sightings had been reported for a very long time. Prior to her flight from Dún Baoiscne, Muirne had made a point of listening into any discussions concerning wolves, hoping to identify a time for travel that would increase her chances of avoiding such an encounter.

  Muirne Muncháem feared wolves. As a child, she’d spent many evenings on the palisades of Almhu, her father’s stronghold, listening as the creatures circled unseen in the darkness below. The blood curdling howls echoing out from the surrounding gloom had terrified her, despite the solid height of the tall stone walls, the fortifications patrolled by kinsmen with iron-tipped spears.

  Predators by nature, the wolves generally avoided men. Over several generations they had learned the painful lesson of sharpened metal and tended to focus their energies on easier prey: the deer, hare and other wild animals that inhabited the surrounding countryside. On occasion, they were still known to attack humans, however such attacks were mostly restricted to the weak, the isolated, the foolish or the unlucky. Two seasons earlier, a warrior travelling on horseback to Cruach had dismounted to attend to nature's call, carelessly leaving his weapon in the scabbard attached to his saddle. His grisly remains had been discovered later and the tracks indicated that the horse had bolted, leaving the man defenceless against a passing wolf pack.

  Dagán, the storyteller at Almhu, had a favourite tale of one particularly harsh winter when a starving pack of wolves had penetrated the ráth – the ringfort – where he’d lived in as a child. The animals’ desperation had driven them through the narrow gateway to attack the tethered livestock and their handlers. Although the pack had eventually been driven off, the settlement had lost two cows and one of the men died of the injuries he’d sustained.

  Muirne, too, had experienced the animals’ deadly nature. As a young girl, she’d been present when a wolf pack had set upon a group of women and children collecting winter flowers in the nearby woods.

  She remembered the attack predominantly for its ferocity. They had been chatting and laughing, passing through a pleasant glade on their way back to the fortress, when a horrific howl had halted them in their tracks. An instant later, the little glen was seething with a mass of grey-coated wolves.

  The bulk of the pack had launched themselves upon her cousin, a happy, ten year old boy who’d been running several paces ahead of the group. Surging like a wave of shadows over the terrified child, they bore him to the ground. The vicious sound of snarling and ripping flesh had, mercifully, drowned out most of his screams.

  The remainder of the wolves had launched themselves at the larger party. Panic-stricken, the women and children had dropped their baskets and scattered. As the group fled, two girls had been knocked to the ground by the pursuing animals. Several women, including her cousin’s mother, managed to escape by climbing onto the branches of the nearest trees. Helpless, a babe clutched in one arm and another younger child hanging desperately from her dress, the woman could only cling to the higher branches and scream her despair as her son was dragged into the forest and, literally, eaten alive.

  The attack would have ended even more tragically had it not been for the timely arrival of Fiacail and Torlach, two youths from another clan who’d been passing by on their way to visit Almhu. Hearing the screams, they’d rushed towards the commotion and, wielding their weapons, charged straight at the wolf-pack.

  The sudden appearance of the boys took the wolves by surprise. Startled, the attack had wavered as the animals withdrew in momentary disarray. Fiacail howled at the top of his voice as he swung his axe in vicious, humming arcs. His companion, meanwhile, took the opportunity to grab the two fallen girls, who were screaming in pain and bleeding profusely from lacerations to their arms and legs.

  The taller boy had hoisted the children up to the women in the safety of the trees then quickly clambered after them, calling to his friend to follow his example. By then, however, the pack had reassessed the situation. Realising that this new threat was not as intimidating as originally supposed, they began to advance once more.

  The majority of the wolves returned to feast on the remains of Muirne’s unfortunate cousin, now little more than an unrecognisable pile of gore and bone between the distant trees. Three of the larger animals, however, converged on Fiacail, hemming him into an open space beside a deep gully that cut him off from the safety of the trees.

  Everyone watched helplessly as the boy was pressed backwards. Whirling the axe to keep the snarling animals at bay, he backtracked slowly, keeping his head as he tested the ground behind with his heel before placing his weight on it. Suddenly, the nearest wolf lunged for him but the boy managed to sidestep the attack, swirling the axe to strike the beast in the ribs with the blunt edge of the blade. It yelped as it landed heavily, stumbling and twisting around to snarl at its opponent.

&
nbsp; The two other wolves growled menacingly, gnashing their teeth as they circled for the next attack. The remainder of the pack, having devoured what remained of their initial victim, also drew close, aligning with their fellows to circle around and test the boy’s exposed side.

  Fiacail was saved only by the arrival of a party of warriors from Almhu. One of the girls, miraculously, had made it to the edge of the forest and encountered a group of men returning from the hunt. The warriors arrived at a run, javelins and clubs in hand. Realizing that they were outnumbered, the wolves had simply disappeared, absorbed back into the shadows of the surrounding trees. Nothing remained of their presence apart from the bloody remains of Muirne’s cousin and the wails of terrified women and children spilling from the trees like the juice of bitter fruit.

  Since that event, Muirne had never lost her dread of the animals and it had only been her desperation that allowed her to overcome her fear and set out on this perilous journey through the Great Wild.

  ‘Malach,’ she muttered quietly to herself, then paused to wonder at why she’d drawn on the name of her deceased cousin.

  An unconscious prayer perhaps.

  Or a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  She released a long breath and tightened her grip on the ash staff she’d used as support during her journey. Just beyond the distant tree line, the wolf paused, nuzzling the ground as it sniffed the earth.

  It follows my spoor.

  She stiffened, her hand automatically dropping to her stomach, as though to reassure the swollen belly. It was an unconscious reaction, an instinctive maternal response.

  The wolf halted abruptly, somehow sensing it was under scrutiny. Raising its head, it stared directly across the flat in Muirne’s direction and, even at that distance, she could sense its pitiless evaluation. An icy bead of fear trickled down her spine as her eyes scanned the distant trees for other signs of movement. If the animal was part of a pack, she would have little chance of surviving the encounter. The thought provoked a tremor of despair that she fought to overcome.

  Fight. Fight for your child.

  If the animal was a lone wolf, ejected from a pack, it would be more cautious without the support of the others and, therefore, less likely to attack. If she kept her head she and her baby could avoid a confrontation and come out alive.

  Across the snow, the creature had not moved but continued its cold assessment. Muirne stood and raised her staff, brandishing its full length above her head. Apart from a small iron dagger, it was her only weapon and a poor one at that. From a distance, however, the slender pole would have the appearance of a spear. If she was able to maintain the illusion of an armed and capable opponent, the wolf would likely keep its distance. If it saw through the deception, identified her for what she truly was: a lone, terrified girl – it would not hesitate to come for her.

  Turning her back on the animal, she gathered several handfuls of snow and coated the exposed patch of rock she’d been sitting on. When the rock was completely covered, she pulled on a fur hat and mittens and strapped a bulging leather satchel across her back. A moment later, she started on the rough trail up the incline leading to the trees high on the hill above her.

  Moving slowly, she forced herself to maintain a steady pace, to disguise any indication of the fear bubbling up inside her. Burdened by the weight of her stomach, however, she was distressed to find how heavily she was breathing by the time she’d reached the tree line. Over the past weeks, she’d grown accustomed to the increasing weight of her belly but it was a dangerous restriction at a time when she could afford no such vulnerability.

  Halting at the tree line, she turned to look back at the clearing and a queasy sensation curdled in her stomach. Much smaller from this height, the figure of the wolf was still clearly visible as it traversed the clearing. Slowly, cautiously, but advancing nevertheless.

  Alarmed, she plunged forward into the forest, the high, closely packed trunks immediately filtering the sunlight and swathing her in shadow. After the brilliance of the sun on the expanse of white snow, the sombre environment of the forest was claustrophobic, the eerie silence sinister and unnerving. As she shuffled through the brittle scrub and briars, she imagined evil faces in the twisted bark and branches but comforted herself with the fact that, at least, the ground beneath the canopy was free of snow and relatively easy to traverse.

  She maintained an uphill path through the trees, in the direction of a gap in the crest that she’d spotted from the clearing. As she climbed, an occasional easing or thinning of the trees permitted her to see the undulating forest spread out around her as far as the eye could see, the smooth green mantle broken in places by individual clearings and waterways. Off to the west, the mass of the Sliabh Bládhma mountains was tantalisingly closer than the last time she’d seen it. Working her way around them she would reach the serpentine weaving of a broad river. One of the tributaries feeding this waterway, she’d been informed, originated from the valley where Ráth Bládhma was located. Another day’s walk at least.

  Shivering, she bowed her head and trudged onwards, a solitary figure engulfed by the immensity of the forest.

  ***

  After a time, fatigue crept up on her and she could hear the sound of her heart pounding from the effort of climbing. Her awareness of time and place began to fade, her step faltered and her fortitude was eroded by the ongoing exertion. The cold temperature under the trees did little to revive her. When she inhaled, the frigid air burned her throat. Each breath she released stuttered out like the vaporous gasps of a damaged bellows.

  Exhausted, she came to a halt and braced herself against a tree, sucking in deep, greedy breaths, until her heartbeat slowed and her blurred vision began to clear. Peering uphill, she found that she was unable to perceive either the ridgeline or the cutting through the densely packed trees and scrub. For one horrible moment, she was convinced that she’d lost her way. Overwhelmed by despair and exhaustion, she was tempted to give up, to collapse onto the frozen ground and sleep until the frost, that lulling thief of life, came to pluck her final breath away. In the end, it was only the insistent presence of the child in her belly that kept her on her feet.

  She’d regained her breath and was on the point of pushing onwards when a sudden instinct prompted her to twist her head, just in time to catch a flicker of movement from a distant thicket. She held her breath, stared then released a muted whimper as the wolf slowly, brazenly, emerged from the trees.

  From somewhere inside her, a great fury erupted. Wielding the staff with renewed vigour, she shouted at the creature and advanced, stamping her feet. The wolf, unmoved by this display of aggression, simply stood its ground and regarded her almost sullenly. Slowly, its lips curled back, exposing a set of vicious-looking fangs coated with strings of mucous-like saliva. A threatening growl echoed in the empty air.

  Bending down, she grabbed a nearby stone and flung it but, unfortunately, the recent changes to her body weight affected her aim. The missile landed on a sliver of snow several paces in front of the animal. The beast glanced at it contemptuously before returning its attention to her, a wide snarl drawn along its muzzle.

  Grasping another stone, she threw again and this time her aim was true. The missile struck the animal in the side of the head, drawing an immediate yelp. Startled, and momentarily unnerved, it turned tail and fled back into the cover of the vegetation.

  Muirne exhaled in relief but knew it was a short reprieve.

  It will attack soon.

  She forced herself to start walking again, controlling her breathing and maintaining a slow, measured pace while scanning the forest for any further sign of her pursuer. There was now no doubt in her mind that the wolf was actively stalking her. Unless she was able to find a secure refuge, it was only a matter of time before it attacked. In desperation, she halted to look up at the surrounding trees and wondered if she could climb the higher branches. Immediately, she discounted the idea. Scaling those brittle, lower branches would have b
een a challenge at the height of her physical ability, impossible in her present condition. In truth, such a course of action would have done little more than stave off the inevitable. The wolf had her scent. He would merely wait her out until sleep or the cold took her and she fell from the tree.

  She struggled onwards, so consumed by the sheer effort of walking that it took a moment to realise she was no longer moving uphill. Raising her eyes she stared around to discover that she’d actually entered the pass she’d been seeking, the cutting spotted earlier from her resting place in the sun. A wide, barren gorge bordered by low granite cliffs on either side, it carved its way through the upper section of the ridge for several hundred paces before dipping gradually, veering downhill in the westerly direction she needed to follow.

  Elated, she advanced with renewed buoyancy, slowing her pace for the downhill section where the thawing ice made the surface dangerously slick.

  It was in this gorge that she finally discovered a potential refuge, a cave at the base of a particularly steep crag to the northern section of the gorge. In fact, it was more of an alcove than an actual cave, a tight hollow beneath the overhanging cliff face, enclosed from behind by the curving rock and, at the front, by a contorted wall of tangled tree trunks. Sometime in the distant past, a cluster of ancient pine trees had tumbled from the summit of the cliff above. Now they lay twisted, interwoven branches wedged tightly together to present a substantial barrier that reduced access to the hollow to a narrow gap between the logs and a bulky rock that protruded from the cliff.

  Approaching this restricted opening, Muirne Muncháem threw a quick glance inside, surprised to find that the interior was larger than she’d expected and the floor comprised not of rock but compacted earth. Further investigation revealed that much of that space was cluttered, strewn with broken slabs of rock, the ancient droppings of previous animal occupants, and a substantial mat of dried vegetative matter blown in over the years by the prevailing wind.