The Green Hero (20 page)

There were others there too—a dreadful legion whom no one saw. They had the power of keeping themselves invisible to mortal eye until they chose to appear. These were Vilemurk’s cohorts, summoned there to help Goll, if needed. There were the mist-crones, and the frost demons, the Master of Winds, and Vilemurk himself, of course. He was too important for complete invisibility though; all you could see of him was the edge of his beard, like a fleecy cloud.

The king raised his staff. Trumpets cried. Goll McMorna entered the field, riding a huge black horse. Lances of sunlight shivered on his breastplate of brass and his brass greaves. On his head was an iron hat topped by a peacock feather. He carried a long spear for throwing, a great two-handed sword for closer work, and a battle-axe slung. A mighty shout arose when he appeared. He stood in his stirrups and shook his spear. The shouting doubled and redoubled until the glade rang with the voices of the fighting men of Eire. The Fianna added its keening eagle war cry, and each clan answered with its own battle shout.

Then, Finn came onto the field. There was a great collective sighing gasp of wonder and disappointment. He didn’t seem like he was coming to fight at all. Where Goll was all massive heaviness and brassy strength, Finn—clad in green, unmounted, walking through the grass—seemed to have the lightness of the meadow grass itself, which he barely disturbed as he walked. Light-footed he came. He wore no armor, only his light woolen tunic, dyed green. On his head was a crown of oak leaves. All he carried in the way of arms was a hawthorne stick and a wicker shield. At his belt was a leather bag.

The king raised his staff again. The trumpets sounded a challenge. Finn stood on the grass, facing Goll, and called:

“I, Finn McCool, son of Cuhal, grandson of the Oak, wearer of Amara’s green, accuse you, Goll, son of Morna, of my father’s murder and wrongful claim to the chieftainship of the Fianna. I challenge you to mortal combat.”

Goll sat on his horse like a brass statue. His voice rang like brass as he answered:

“I, Goll McMorna, scourge of the clan Cuhal, chief of the Fianna, wearing tomorrow’s bright metal, give the lie to your accusations. I accuse you of conduct unbecoming a member of the Fianna. I accuse you of salmon-poaching, witch-baiting, and the foul magic of weather-tampering. I accept your challenge, and shall prove your guilt upon your body.”

The king raised his staff again; the trumpets sounded a third time. The fight began.

Goll set his lance, crouched in his saddle, and spurred his horse into a thundering gallop. Finn stood there, waiting. The crowd gasped, seeing the slender youth hold his ground before the huge horse hurtling toward him. At the very last second Finn seemed to sway without moving his feet. Goll’s lance whistled past his shoulder; the great horse rushed past, just grazing his tunic, and hurtled past to the other side of the field before Goll could rein him up, and turn him.

Finn stood there waiting, a smile on his face. He still had not moved his feet. Goll charged again. Again it happened. Finn simply swayed like a river reed touched by a breeze. Again the stallion’s shoulder grazed his tunic as he stormed past. And Finn stood there, unhurt, still smiling.

Now Goll changed his tactics. He made the horse walk slowly, as a cat stalking a bird, over the field toward Finn. Goll poised himself in the saddle, sword held high. Finn left his place then, and circled very slowly, crouching slightly, holding his wicker shield in one hand and hawthorne stick in the other. Goll walked his horse in tightening circles around Finn until he towered over the boy—then raised his sword, and brought it crashing down. The crowd shouted at this terrific blow, expecting to see the heavy blade split Finn vertically, like a cook slicing a celery stalk. Finn held up his wicker shield slantwise so that the sword fell upon it, not full, but glancingly, and was deflected. The blow was so powerful that Goll almost fell from his saddle, but he recovered quickly, raised his sword again, and struck another blow, which, this time, Finn deflected with a whisk of his stick. It was a blow so swift it was almost invisible, slashing Goll across the wrist at the moment of downstroke, so that the huge blade was again deflected, but this time with terrible effect.

The edge of the blade hit Goll’s horse full upon the chest. The black stallion whinnied with agony, and threw himself backward, flinging Goll clear, then rolling over the grass in his death throes. But the man was such a superb warrior he did not allow this fall to unbalance him, but twisted in the air, and landed crouching on his feet. Goll rushed toward Finn, slashing with his sword. Finn circled slowly, weaving shield and stick, deflecting the heavy blows. But Goll was enraged by the death of his horse. He was swept by battle fury, fired with a savage strength such as he had never known. He battered at Finn with his heavy sword until, finally, the blade sheared through the wicker shield—which turned it enough so that the flat of the blade fell upon Finn’s shoulder. But it was a paralyzing blow. Finn felt his arm and shoulder go numb. Before he could recover, Goll had cut at him with a vicious back-handed stroke, slashing his right arm, and he could barely hold the hawthorne stick.

He leaped aside to avoid a third blow, but was so weakened by loss of blood he fell to earth. Finn immediately felt a giant sappy strength flowing through him—stanching the blood, filling him with an ecstasy of vigor. An amazed Goll saw the youth, beaten to earth a second before, spring up and face him again, smiling.

Now Finn moved so lightly that to try to strike him was like attacking a butterfly with a club. He floated away from Goll’s blows, then slid in again jabbing with his pointed stick, stinging like a hornet. Again and again he touched Goll on the parts of his body not covered by brass—his arms, his legs above the greaves, his face beneath the helmet.

The crowd, wondering, saw the mighty Goll stop and stand, bewildered, like a man attacked in the glade by a swarm of hornets. They saw him wipe the blood from his face and paw with his sword. But Finn was all about him, slashing, dancing in and out so fast the eye could not follow, and Goll could not touch him with his blade.

Now Vilemurk took a hand. He whistled up a hailstorm—a small one—which fell on the field from a cloudless sky, and spat ice in Finn’s path as he stalked toward the confused Goll. And Finn, stepping across the field, ready for a final attack, full of confidence and cold joy, suddenly felt his feet slipping … slipping … slipping. He shuffled desperately, trying to keep his balance—for Goll had recovered and was coming toward him.

Then, he lost sight of Goll completely. He saw nothing. He was blinded by a moist grayness that pressed upon him, snuffing the sun, and blotting his sight. The crowd lost sight of him, and could not understand. Where he stood was a slender column of fog. What had happened was that a mist-crone, obeying Vilemurk’s command, had flown down invisibly to join the hailstorm, and cast her fog upon Finn, fitting it closely as a garment.

Goll, standing on the sunny field, saw the misty shape of his foe, stumbling and groping, and was able to approach without any danger to himself. He walked up to the column of mist, and began to slash it with his sword, slashing again and again, leaving the mist in tatters.

The men of the Fianna raised their eagle cry as they saw Finn stagger out of the fog, bleeding from a hundred wounds. They saw him sway, bleeding, and sink to earth. But Vilemurk understood now that Finn was renewing himself every time he touched the earth, and he would not let that happen again. He whistled a third time. The Master of Winds shook a small tornado out of his cloak—a black funneling spout of wind. It whirled down on Finn, seized him, whirled him on the grass, bleeding as he was, then lifted him into the air and kept him aloft so that he could not touch the earth.

Finn hung in the air, bleeding, almost dead. Goll had thrown off his helmet. He walked slowly to where Finn floated, shoulder-high, drawing his dagger as he went. Goll’s hair was red as blood. His face was greenish-white, cheese-colored, dewed with sweat, twitching with delight. He wound his left hand into Finn’s black hair, and drew back his head, stretching his neck. Then he raised his knife.

Finn’s thoughts were dim as his life bled away. He felt the hand of his enemy on his head, but in his dimness the heavy hand felt like a caress. A thought floated free:

“Time to cast the seed, for, surely, I’ll never be any closer to death than this.”

His fingers twitched at his belt, but he had lost too much strength. He could not untie the leather pouch and cast the seed. He saw Goll’s knife glittering above his head.

Then, in the hills, Amara laughed.

Goll was taking his time, raising the knife high, admiring how it flashed in the sun, knowing the crowd was hypnotized by the flashing blade too, and that they were watching him, Goll, standing triumphant over his helpless foe. As the knife glittered, Amara laughed. Finn with his last failing sense heard her laugh. And Goll heard Amara laugh. He stood there, arm high, transfixed by the wild music of her laughter. All the vast crowd heard that laughter.

No one knew what it was; no one had heard anything like it. There was something of the hawk’s cry in her laughter, and of lark-thronging dawns. Of the tumbling of waters. Of mare trumpeting, answering stallion on the hill. In her laughter was gaudy summer and the million-voiced murmur of grass … and the hush of a pumpkin moon.

The dimming spark of Finn’s life flickered in the gust of that laughter, and flared briefly. His fingers twitched again at the mouth of the pouch, and worked it open. He plucked an acorn from the bag and let it drop upon the earth—just as Goll recovered from his hesitation and slashed downward at Finn’s throat.

The seed was quicker. An oak sapling sprouted with magic speed, striking Goll’s arm, knocking the dagger aside. A hedge of saplings sprang up between Finn and Goll, shutting Goll off from his prey, forcing them farther and farther apart—one sapling then another springing from the ground, locking their branches, twining their twigs, making a brambly hedge for Goll—a leafy cell. He struggled and plunged but could not free himself. Vines caught his legs and his arms. He was a prisoner of growth.

Vilemurk saw what was happening. He gestured to the Master of Winds who immediately flung a sharp-edged gale to scythe down the hedge. But the downdraft of the gale hit Finn, and pressed him to earth. As soon as he touched earth his wounds closed; his mind cleared. A sappy green strength coursed through him, and he sprang to his feet, bright as morning.

The gale scythed down the saplings. The hedge was falling. Goll was struggling free. Finn picked up his hawthorne stick and let himself be taken by the gale. He went flying across the field like a leaf—going with enormous speed, holding the pointed stick. And when he hit Goll he had all the force of the gale behind him—that force which has been known to drive a splinter of wood through a stone wall. The hawthorne stick went through the brass breastplate like a needle through cloth and came out the other side. Goll fell heavily, gaffed like a trout.

Finn stood over him, hair ruffled by the wind, eyes glowing. He raised his hawthorne stick on high, and lifted his voice in the great victory cry of the Fianna. The Fianna called back, shrieking like eagles. He was their chief now.

Finn looked down at Goll. He was not yet dead. He was saying something. Finn knelt to listen.

“Water,” Goll whispered. “Bring water. …”

Now it will be remembered that when Finn cooked the Loutish Trout he had scorched his hand, and that scorch was magical. His burned thumb gave him the gift of prophecy when he bit it. And the scorched palm had the power of saving life. If he brought water in his cupped hands, and gave it to a dying man to drink—that man would be given life.

“Water …,” moaned Goll. “Please …”

Finn hesitated, then crossed the field to where a spring of pure water gushed from the earth. He took the water in his cupped palms, and crossed back toward Goll. His hands opened as he walked. The water spilled. He came to Goll and looked down at him. The man was still alive, and his whisper came again, even more faintly.

“Water … water. …”

Finn kept looking at him. No one in the crowd had left. They were all watching what was happening without understanding. They saw the green figure of Finn cross the sunny grass to where the spring flashed. Saw him kneel and take water in his hands and bring it back toward Goll. Then, as he came, they saw his hands fall to his side; he wiped his wet palms on his tunic. He came and looked down at Goll. Now the man was dead.

Finn lifted his face toward the sky. He was not smiling. His face was not that of a boy, but of a man—who kills.

But Finn was doubly wrong. Wrong to refuse aid to a dying man, foe or not. Wrong in leaving a great gift unused. At the very moment of his victory, when life should have been blossoming most hotly for him, Finn had twice said No to life … and, at that moment was no better than the man of iron he had defeated.

He realized his mistake later, and went on to become Ireland’s greatest hero. Nevertheless, he was to pay dearly for his treatment of Goll McMorna. But that is part of another story.

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

Copyright © 1975 by Bernard Evslin

cover design by Omar F. Olivera

978-1-4532-6444-7