Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Finn Mac Cool (32 page)
She smilingly accepted. He sat fascinated by the lovely, crisp crackle as the implement moved through her hair. “Let me try,” he said.
She gave the comb back to him. Her hair flowed like water across his hands. But the last snarl would not be separated. When he gave a tug too impatient, the comb, brittle from long use, snapped in half.
Finn was stricken. “Did that hurt you?”
Sive laughed up at him. “Not at all. And aren't you cleaver! Where there was one comb, now there are two. Here, give the smaller one to me and I shall keep it near me always.”
“I'll get you a better one.”
“I want this one, this part of one. Just because it was yours,” she assured him. “You keep the other part. Together they make a whole, as we do.”
The peace that Cormac had been enjoying, and claiming credit for among his people, came to an abrupt end. Oisin was only a few nights old when a runner arrived at Almhain to announce, “The king needs you and the FÃanna! A band of foreigners has come from across the sea to pillage and plunder the east coast, and they must be driven away. You are commanded to assemble the FÃanna and march upon them at once.”
Such a clarion call would have made Finn's heart leap with joyâhad that heart not been given to Sive and his new son. He found leaving them physically painful. Other warriors, he observed, seemed able to step from one aspect of their lives into another without hesitation, closing doors behind them and instantly forgetting, but he was made of different cloth.
He was partly Sive, and she him. Any sort of separation was an amputation.
But he was RÃgfénnid FÃanna. He put on his sternest face, had his weapons sharpened, and he and his men prepared to march off to war
on a day of driving rain. Usually, Erin's rains were soft; this one was like hurled lances. Carrying Oisin, Sive followed Finn as far as the gateway, though the rain drenched them both within moments.
on a day of driving rain. Usually, Erin's rains were soft; this one was like hurled lances. Carrying Oisin, Sive followed Finn as far as the gateway, though the rain drenched them both within moments.
“Go back,” Finn told her. “You might make yourself sick.”
Sive merely laughed. “And how could rain hurt me? Water is holy, and sweet. Water on my head will do me no harmânor Oisin either.”
“Go back,” Finn repeated, the words strangely thick in his throat. He was suddenly afraid he could not march away at all, not if she persisted in standing there where he could see her.
She read the pain in his eyes and understood without words. Smiling, she stepped back inside the gateway. But her voice floated out to him. “I wish I were one of your hounds so I could go with you,” she called.
Finn walked blindly through the rain, and all the moisture on his cheeks did not come from the clouds. Bran and Sceolaun were at his heels, but it was not enough.
I am not as hard as other men, he thought, surprised by this discovery. But no one knowsâexcept Sive.
The plunderers had beached their boats along the rim of the great curving bay below Ben Edair, a prominent headland connected to the mainland by an isthmus. Cormac Mac Airt made the journey from Tara to join Finn and his men on the banks of the river Liffey, a short march from the bay itself. “I have a need to observe just how Finn is conducting his battles these days,” he remarked to his attendants.
As Cormac and the royal retinue joined the encamped FÃanna, columns of black smoke were rising into a grey sky all up and down the coast, testifying to plundering and pillage. “I know how a woman must feel when she's raped,” the king said grimly, his eyes on the smoke. “That's my land, my people. Destroy the foreigners, Finn. Destroy them utterly.”
His servitors pitched the royal tents on a height overlooking the bay, from which vantage point the king watched with mounting excitement as Finn organized various companies of the FÃanna, issuing orders to their rÃgfénnidi according to some plan in his own brain. It was obvious he meant to separate the raiders from one another, cut them off from their ships, then drive them like panicked sheep straight into a wall of FÃanna spears.
The raiders from across the sea had not come a very great distanceâonly from as far as Alba. It was a well-travelled route. Men from both sides of the narrow sea frequently crossed the cold and treacherous stretch of water to seize one another's goods and women. Reprisal generally took the form of a raid from the other side next season.
But on this occasion, reprisal was immediate and savage. Commanded by Finn Mac Cool, the FÃanna slaughtered the majority of the
invaders with remarkable efficiency. Cormac, on the height, felt the blood of his warrior ancestors pounding with excitement through his veins, and at last was moved to mount his big brown horse and gallop down to join the battle personally. But just as he took up the rein and prepared to move off, a luminous mist blew in from the sea, obscuring everything.
invaders with remarkable efficiency. Cormac, on the height, felt the blood of his warrior ancestors pounding with excitement through his veins, and at last was moved to mount his big brown horse and gallop down to join the battle personally. But just as he took up the rein and prepared to move off, a luminous mist blew in from the sea, obscuring everything.
Cormac's horse began to sweat. It danced nervously, arching its neck and blowing through its nostrils as if in fear. He patted its muscular crest, but the stallion would not be calmed. At any moment it threatened to bolt. The king of Tara had all he could do to control the animal with his wooden horse-goad and the single leather rein that passed from the bronze bit in the horse's mouth up its face, between its ears, and down to his hand.
An infuriated Cormac was so occupied with the unreasonable horse that he could not have watched the battle even had the mist lifted. He could hear the shouts and screams, however. He could hear the clash of metal on metal, the thud of metal on wood. At last he slid from his horse, swearing, and gave the rein to a horseboy so he could at least concentrate on what was happening invisibly below.
The sounds of battle were fading. Cormac peered through the mist, straining to see. Then it lifted and the curve of blue water lay before him, with small, dark figures floating quietly on its breast and distant ships pulling away with every dip of eager oars.
The battle was over. Finn and the FÃanna had routed the foreigners quite thoroughly.
And Cormac Mac Airt had seen none of the fighting.
During the long journey back to Tara for the celebratory feasting, Cormac tried, discreetly, to question men who had been in a better position to see what happened. He dared not ask any of them if Finn had won his victory through magic, but he wanted to hear each advance and stratagem described.
To his relief, it all seemed straightforward. One of the rÃgfénnidi, a gruff, broad-faced man called Dremen, reported, “Finn had divided the FÃanna into bands that encircled the foreigners and separated them into small groups. Once they were broken up, it was easy to kill them, and those we did not kill ran away to their ships.”
“What about the mist?” the king could not resist asking.
“The mist? Och, that was good fortune! It blew in just as the battle was beginning, when all our men were in place. We knew where we were but the enemy didn't; they became confused, and it was as easy to close on them and kill them as if they'd been birds on the ground.”
Cormac, against his better judgment, enquired, “Where did the mist come from, would you say?”
“Come from? From the sea, of course,” replied the puzzled Dremen. “Mists from the sea are very common, as you know yourself. You see them almost every day.”
The explanation was simple and natural. Sea mists were indeed common; this was the season for them. Cormac should have been pleased.
Yet part of him kept thinking of the magical mist of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and wondering about Finn.
Finn himself was not thinking of magic, however. He was exultant, drunk with the glory of having won a huge victory in the presence of the king. Never before had the army of Tara defeated so many foreigners at one time. The poets would sing of it for centuries. The participants were reliving it now, telling one another their various stories over and over again, punching their comrades on the arms, heating the innocent air with triumphant fists, shouting and laughing and boasting until every last drop of juice and joy was extracted from the event.
“Did you see how they ran?” Cael demanded of Madan. “Did you see how I slaughtered another hundred?”
“Did you see how I threw my spear so hard it went all the way through that thick yellow-haired man?” Madan countered. “No one survives my spear!”
“Nor mine.” growled Conan Maol.
The other two turned toward him. Cael said, “I don't recall seeing you in the thick of the fighting.”
“I was there with my three nines, we were right in the worst of it. There was probably so much blood spewing you couldn't see us through it. I hurled my spears and swung my sword until my arm was tired.”
Fergus laughed. “The mighty arm of Conan the Hairless grows tired more easily than some.”
“That's not true!”
“It is true Would you deny you're the laziest officer in the FÃanna?”
“Rather I would say I have the least to do because my fÃans are the best fighters. I need only lead them to the enemy,” Conan boasted.
Cael laughed. “Are you saying your men are too blind to find the enemy for themselves?”
Conan glowered at him.
The army rumbled on toward Tara. Soon the singing began. Long before they reached the tall palisade and the shining white buildings within, their triumphant voices announced to all of MÃd that Cormar Mac Airt had won a great victory over the foreigners.
The king ordered a huge feast prepared and served in the Banquet ting Hall. Whole oxen were roasted over deep pits where the fires burned as hot and sullen as the desire for revenge.
While they waited for the feast, Finn ordered his men to compete in
spear-throwing competitions and footraces to keep themselves sharp as well as to impress the populace of Tara. Even in victory, he would not let them relax.
spear-throwing competitions and footraces to keep themselves sharp as well as to impress the populace of Tara. Even in victory, he would not let them relax.
They had to be special.
They had to be, and remain, the best.
The woman called Cruina of the Questions stood silently. at the edge of the racecourse, watching the runners, but Finn did not notice her. He was present too, physically. His mind was elsewhere, however. Even before the feasting he had begun talking to Sive again, telling her about the battle, assuring her of how proud he was of their new son.
Sive, Sive, the elemental Sive.
Once he would have taken inordinate pride in sitting, as he did that night, on a bench at the king's sword hand, a place normally reserved for the chief bard but on this occasion given to the RÃgfénnid FÃanna in honour of his victory.
Now he accepted the honour gracefully, but with barely concealed impatience. He sat trying to assess how long the celebrating would last, and how soon he could leave for Almhain.
To his disgust, everyone seemed happy to go on eating and drinking and boasting for days.
Cormac was in an expansive mood. “I'm going to reward you and your officers with an unprecedented gift for rÃgfénnidi,” he told Finn. “When I can acquire them, I'll furnish you with horses to ride. Make everyone look up to you as they look up to chieftains!”
Finn drew his thoughts back from Sive. “Fir Bolg have no experience of riding horses,” he said.
“You,” Cormac replied with confidence, “can do anything. You needn't start building stables right away, of course. It may take some time, good riding horses are in short supply.”
Finn nodded. His thoughts were already racing to Almhain, Building stables ⦠seeing Sive. Oisin. Sive.
Toward dawn, when the singing and boasting was at its loudest, he rose from his bench and went to Cailte. “I'm leaving here at sunup,” he told the thin man in a low voice. “While I'm away, you're my second in command.”
Cailte looked astonished. “I am? What about Goll?”
“You are. With you in command at Tara, I won't have to guard my back. Get some sleep, I suggestâif you can. As for me, I'm going home.”
Without sleeping, Finn departed in the dawn light, accompanied by three fÃans, the minimum complement for a commander. They were outstanding warriors every one, but he did not have the same feeling for them he still retained for his very first band of nine. As they marched toward Almhain, he realized he was not only eager to see Sive and Oisin
again, but also Donn and Red Ridge, whom he had left in charge of guarding his fort with their own fÃans.
again, but also Donn and Red Ridge, whom he had left in charge of guarding his fort with their own fÃans.
As they entered the bogland, Finn picked up the pace. His men pounded along behind him, splashing through sodden turf. For much of the year the Bog of Almhain was tapestried with colour. Spring brought bluebells and primroses and violets; summer was heralded by the fragrant orchid with its scent of cloves, and by the waxy white blossoms of Grass of Parnassus; autumn found yellow flags like flecks of sunlight reflected in the bog pools.
Almhain was as treacherous as it was beautiful, however. One careless fénnid put a foot wrong and was nearly swallowed by bog before his companions caught him under the arms and dragged him to safe footing. Finn paused only long enough to warn them all to be more careful, then he ran on again. Toward hill and home.
Rising from its hilltop, the gleaming white walls of his fort made his heart leap at first sight. He had covered all exterior walls with limewash, emulating Tara, so they dazzled in the sun. “Almhain of the White Walls,” people called it.
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