Finn and the Fianna E-Book

Daniel Allison

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 340

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

The stories of Finn MacCoull and his warriors were once told at every fireside in Scotland and Ireland. After centuries in obscurity, this collection brings the tales soaring to life again. Here you will find Diarmuid, whom no woman can help but fall in love with, and Ossian, a warrior-poet raised in the woods by a wild deer. There is Grainne, ancient ancestor of Iseult and Guinevere, and Finn himself, whose name was once a byword for wisdom, generosity and beauty. Enter a world of feasting and fighting, battles and poetry, riddles and omens; join Finn and the Fianna on their never-ending quest to drink deeper and deeper of the cup of life.

Leseprobe

This book is dedicated to David Campbell, who introduced me to Finn and in whom the spirit of the Fianna lives and shines.

Cover illustrations: © Ouroboros Design

First published 2021

The History Press

97 St George’s Place,

Cheltenham,

Gloucestershire,

GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© Daniel Allison, 2021

The right of Daniel Allison to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 7509 9585 6

Typesetting and origination by Typo•glyphix, Burton-on-Trent

Printed and bound by TJ International Limited, Padstow, Cornwall

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

Foreword

Introduction

Pronunciation Guide

Part I

The Coming of Finn

The Fate of Coull

The Boyhood of Finn

The Salmon of Wisdom

Samhain at Tara

Bran & Sceolan

The Lad of the Skins

The Birth of Diarmuid

The Giant’s Causeway

Black, Brown & Grey

The Birth of Ossian

Part II

The High Days of Finn

Dark, Battle & Eagle

Finn & the Fool

The Daughter of King Under Wave

The Cave of Keshcorran

The Healing of Caoilte

The Red Woman

Finn & the Phantoms

The Hunt of Slieve Cuillin

Part III

Diarmuid & Grainne

The Wedding

The Wood of Two Huts

The Green Champions

The Berry Tree

The Quarrel

The Wanderers

The Boar Hunt

Part IV

The Last Days of the Fianna

The Death of Goll

The Last Battle of the Fianna

Ossian & Niamh

Ossian & Patrick

Author’s Note

Sources

Acknowledgements

FOREWORD

A flowing stream of story and legend unites Scotland and Ireland. Wherever it bubbles up, the name of Ossian is heard – Ossian the bard, storyteller and musician. But Ossian is the mouthpiece, the fount of a huge family of tales revolving round Finn, Diarmuid, Grainne, Caoilte and many others.

Each of these heroes, and sometimes rogues, dazzles in their own right, but collectively they provide the unfolding saga of an age when the earth was young, nature was close, the ancestors ever near, and magic in the very breath of life.

Now a storyteller of the present day has dipped into that magic, and woven his own spell. Daniel Allison provides a fluid, enchanting telling of the saga, with each key tale eloquently placed. He is respectful of tradition but also an entertainer of today reaching new audiences.

Moreover, these stories have an especial poignancy, a radical edge, in a time when humanity threatens planet earth, and ourselves, with extinction. For the Fianna, the free life of nature is the highest experience and value. Without that there is no life worth the name, just grey existence.

Open this book at any point and tune in to the voice of the story-teller. Then begin where all good stories begin: at the beginning. You will not put this down till the last lovely page has been scanned.

Donald SmithDirectorThe Scottish International Storytelling Festival

INTRODUCTION

I earn my living by telling stories. It’s the best job in the world. Whenever I tell a tale of the Fianna in a Scottish school, I first ask the pupils if they have heard of Finn MacCoull. They usually look at me blankly.

It’s a strange thing to ask. There is no need to ask English children if they have heard of King Arthur or Robin Hood. Most Irish people I meet know Finn and at least a few of the tales. But in Scotland, we have forgotten our heroes. Hopefully, this book will help us to remember.

According to the tales, the Fianna were a warrior band who protected Ireland and Scotland from invaders. Numerous individual Fianna are mentioned in the stories, but most prominent are Finn, his son Ossian, his grandson Oscar and his friend Diarmuid, along with his rivals, Goll and Conan. While a good number of stories survive, it is likely that these are only a fraction of those that once existed. The ones that we have are so wonderful that we shouldn’t feel too hard done by.

The tales of the Fianna are one of the four cycles of Irish mythology, which are usually placed in the following order: the Mythological Cycle, the Ulster Cycle, the Fenian (Fianna) Cycle and the Cycle of Kings. The Mythological Cycle tells of the coming to Ireland of the Tuatha De Danaan, the Children of Danu, better known nowadays as the fairy folk or sidhe. They took Ireland and ruled it until the Gaels came, pushing the sidhe over the sea and into their ever-bright underground halls.

The Ulster Cycle is the story of the mighty warrior Cuchulainn and the War for the Brown Bull of Cooley. The sidhe do feature in these tales, but mostly they remain in the background; the emphasis is firmly on men. The Cycle of Kings deals in part with real, historical kings.

The Fianna cycle is placed after the Ulster Cycle, but it might be better placed after the Mythological Cycle. There is a huge emphasis in the Fianna tales on movement between the world of men and the supernatural world of the sidhe. The wild forests, beaches and mountains often act as gateways to the otherworld. As Donald Smith writes, ‘For the Fianna, the free life of nature is the highest experience and value. Without that there is no life worth the name, just grey existence’. The Ulster Knights are more modern; above all, they love gold and battle-won glory.

When entering the otherworld, Finn and his men often have to use their wit as well as their strength to survive, and in turn come back rewarded with new knowledge, abilities and magical items. In this respect, the tales very much resemble those of animistic hunter-gather societies such as those of Siberia. This leads me to wonder if the tales of the Fianna do not go back to the earliest inhabitants of Ireland and Scotland, who settled after the glaciers of the last ice age retreated.

It is a long time since that world passed away; in the time since then the tales have changed. Lady Gregory’s Gods and Fighting Men, published in 1904, has the Fianna as an Iron Age war band that runs a kind of protection racket, demanding so much gold of the kings and lords of Ireland that they eventually rebel and make war upon them. Before that, in the 1760s, James Macpherson helped usher in the Romantic era by publishing The Works of Ossian, which he claimed were his translation of ancient Gaelic tales. The works were wildly popular; Napoleon is said to have slept with a copy under his pillow. Bitter controversy erupted when it emerged that Macpherson may have written the poems himself, or at least wildly embellished the originals.

In recent years, writers such as Marie Heaney, George Macpherson, David Campbell and Eddie Lenihan have written down the tales. I have added my voice with the aim of bringing the principal stories and a number of outliers together in one volume, as a complete cycle from beginning to end. Of course, stories in a pre-literate society were never brought together and made to fit; there would have been many that contradicted one another. I have tried to find a balance between allowing the stories to strike disparate tones while emphasising the threads of continuity that make them a whole.

I don’t claim that this book is the last word on the Fianna. There are elements of dialogue, description, location and character here that are my own envisioning of the tales. If you are curious, I would urge you to seek out other tellers of these stories and build up your own picture of the Fianna. And if you love the stories, don’t just read them; tell them. Between the mouth of the storyteller and the ear of the listener is a doorway to the otherworld; it is where stories truly come alive.

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

Aodh Fada of Eamhuin

Ayd Fada of Eh-wan

Ath-Luain

Ath-Loo-an

Beinn Builen

Ben Bool-ben

Beinn Edair

Ben Edd-ir

Beinn Sgritheall

Ben Shreh-hal

Bodhmall

Bauw-mal

Boinn

Boyn

Cairell

Cairell

Caoilte

Kweel-cha

Cliodhna

Klee-uh-na

Cnuca

Kih-noh-cha

Coull

Coo-hl

Crochnuit

Croch-noot

Cuillin

Coo-lin

Doire-da-Bhoth

Doy-ra da Bhoth

Dubh

Doovh

Duibhne

Doon

Eoghan

Oh-in

Fiachu

Fi-ah-koo

Fianna

Fi-anna

Finn

Fyonn or Fin

Finnachaidh

Fee-na-ha

Fomorians

Fo-mo-rians

Gabhra

Gav-ra

Glen Lyon

Glen Lion

Goibniu

Gov-noo

Grainne

Gronn-ya

Iollan

Ull-an

Leinster

Lenn-ster

Liath Luachra

Lee-ha Lu-chra

Lugaidh

Loo-ah

Muadhan

Moowa-dan

Mannanan

Man-an-awn

Muirne

Myrr-na

Niamh

Neevh

Ossian

O-sheen

Oweynagat

Ohwey-na-ga

Sabha

Sav-ha

Samhain

Sow-in (sow as in cow)

Sceolan

Shkee-o-lan

Slieve Luachra

Sleeve Loo-chra

Sidhe

Shee

Suchet

Soo-shay

Teig

Tayg

Tir Nan Nog

Tier Na-Noag

Tuatha De Danaan

Too-a Day Dan-an

Tuiren

Tirr-en

Uchtdealb

Ucht-djalv

PART I

THE COMING OF FINN

THE FATE OF COULL

Long ago, in a time when the veils between the worlds were thinner than they are now, there lived in the wilds of Ireland and Scotland a band of warriors called the Fianna. It was their job to guard those lands against the men and monsters who would invade them. When the shores of their beloved homelands were safe, the Fianna would feast, fight and make their own trouble.

Coull was the leader of the Fianna. He was tall, fair, open-hearted and open-handed. His heart belonged to a maiden named Muirne, who loved him as he loved her.

Muirne was the daughter of Teig, Chief Druid to the High King of Ireland. You might have expected Teig to see Coull, the renowned Captain of the Fianna, as a fine match for his daughter. But it was not so. For the Fianna, admired as they were, were wild men. They lived their lives and made their beds beneath the boughs of trees, at the ocean’s edge, in the high hill’s shadow. They had dealings with the sidhe, whom some call the fairy folk; their trade was in battle, in blood and iron. In short, they did not always make good husbands.

Coull came to Teig’s dwelling, a shining white fort on the Hill of Allen, and offered his suit. Teig refused him. Coull left and when Teig was next gone, he returned, climbing over the wall as the fort glistened in the moonlight. He found Muirne, kissed her and led her away into the wild woods.

Deep into the forest they went. By a waterfall pool they bound their hands together and exchanged vows of love. In beech-dappled light and to the blackbird’s song they loved and laughed and fell into one another, knowing their time would be over soon.

Teig discovered his daughter had been taken. Storms shook Ireland as the druid raged. He went to Tara, seat of the High King, and demanded that the sword of justice strike Coull. The High King was reluctant.

‘Coull is my friend,’ he said, ‘and the Fianna are a force to be feared.’

‘If you do not move against Coull,’ said Teig, ‘I will speak druid-words against your name.’

The King quivered at that. Even he was not immune to a druid’s curse. He called a meeting of his most trusted men, and set his power against the power of Coull.

War drums resounded at Tara. Battle-horns blew from east to west. Messengers crossed the country as fighting men took the road to Tara, where a great camp soon spread across the plain.

Among the King’s forces were a group of Fianna disloyal to Coull. These were the Sons of Morna. Chief amongst them was Suchet, a tall, fierce and cunning warrior whom his brothers both loved and feared. His chief henchmen were bald-headed Conan and quick-tongued Black Gary. The High King promised Suchet that if he brought down Coull, he would be made Captain of the Fianna.

Coull and Muirne emerged from the forest. Around Coull the Fianna rallied and soon their army was ready to march. On the Plain of Cnuca, where the City of Dublin now sits, the two armies met.

For the first time, men of the Fianna faced one another across the battlefield.

It would not be the last time.

The sword-hour came. Spears were rattled, shields were beaten by grim-faced warriors ready for slaughter. Though the sun shone upon them, they knew this day was a dark one.

Ravens gathered in the air, hungry for the feast.

Coull took from his belt the Dord Fiann, the horn of the Fianna. He blew upon it, Suchet’s horn answered and the battle began. Soon the grass was red and littered with corpses as the Fianna fought their brothers.

Amid the chaos of the battle, Suchet spied Coull. He called to Black Gary and the two of them fought their way through the melee until no man stood between Suchet and Coull.

Coull attacked. Suchet answered his strike and the two greatest warriors of the Fianna fought. For all Suchet’s size, strength and cunning, he was not a match for Coull. The quick-armed Captain slipped like a ghost through Suchet’s attacks and lunged forward. Suchet pulled back but was not quick enough. Coull’s sword pierced his eye. Suchet was thereafter known as Goll, or ‘Blind’, Mac Morna.

Coull would have won then, but for Black Gary. As Suchet roared in pain, Black Gary threw himself against Coull from behind. Coull stumbled and it was all Suchet needed. He swung his sword and cut Coull’s head from his body.

‘Coull is dead!’ went up the cry. It carried across the plain, and soon Coull’s forces were in rout, running for the forest that bordered the plain.

The King’s forces cheered. Dark liquid streaming from his eye, Suchet laughed. The battle was won.

But what of Muirne?

Watching from the woods that bordered the battlefield, Muirne saw her lover slain. She retreated, heart-riven, into the forest. In a sunlit glade she fell to her knees and keened for Coull. Days and nights passed as she sang the death-song of the golden-haired, gentle-hearted warrior. Coull would never know his own child; the child growing within her.

When the first agonies of her grief had passed, Muirne made her way home to the Hill of Allen. Teig would not open his gates to her. He came to the rampart and called her shameful names until she turned and walked away.

Muirne took another road. Travelling by night lest the Sons of Morna were after her, she made her way to the house of two druid-women, Liath Luachra and Bodhmall. These women were friends of hers, and they kept her hidden in their home until her son was born.

She named the boy Finn. Muirne was full of joy at her son’s birth, but she was fearful too. Coull’s son was a threat to Goll, and if Goll learnt of Finn’s existence, he would surely kill him.

All night the three women talked as Muirne held her son to her chest. At last they came to an agreement. Muirne would leave her son with them and seek out a new life over the waves. Meanwhile, Liath Luachra and Bodhmall would take the boy into the wilds and raise him, keeping him hidden from those who would destroy him.

So it was that Muirne said goodbye to her son and left Ireland, a gown of grief heavy upon her shoulders. Finn’s foster mothers left their house and made for the deep, deep woods.

THE BOYHOOD OF FINN

Among the hills and woods of Slieve Bloom, Finn’s foster mothers made a new home. Finn grew up not among warriors and weapons but among oak and beech, hazel and ash, deer and squirrels and winding streams. His world was peaceful and he knew that Liath Luachra and Bodhmall loved him. His mother was a fleeting shadow in his thoughts; he did not know what a father was.

Finn grew older.

He wandered the woods around their hut until he knew every tree, every stone and every bend in the stream. He went further, finding and extending the boundaries of his world. Finn gazed in wonder at his discoveries: dragonflies and newts, tadpoles and corncrakes, a snuffling badger emerging from her set.

He learnt the songs of the birds, climbing into the treetops to join the dawn chorus. He stared up at the stars, giving them names and stories as he traced their slow voyage through the night.

Finn grew older.

As Finn grew older he asked more and more questions. He wanted to know why the seasons changed, what came after death and where the stars landed when they fell from the sky. By the fire at night, nestled among furs beneath their rough roof, Liath Luachra and Bodhmall told him of the world.

‘This land is called Ireland,’ said Liath Luachra, the huntress. ‘It is surrounded by the sea, a great plain made of water that cannot be drunk. Ireland is divided into four provinces: Leinster, Connacht, Munster and Ulster. Each province has its King, and the High King of Ireland rules over them all.’

‘Over the sea, to the west, are islands where the Fomorians dwell,’ said Bodhmall, the druid. ‘Some of them have the shape of men. Others have the heads of men and the bodies of beasts, or the heads of beasts and the bodies of men. There are even those that dwell beneath the sea.’

‘Many lands lie to the east,’ said Liath Luachra. ‘The place that the folk of Ireland love best is Alba, the land of storms where legions of mountains pierce the sky.’

‘What is beneath the earth?’ asked Finn.

Bodhmall smiled. ‘The Tuatha De Danaan,’ she answered.

So Finn learnt of the Tuatha De Danaan, the Children of Danu, who had taken Ireland from a people called the Firbolgs and ruled her until the day his own people came.

On that day, the Tuatha De Danaan had their druids call a storm from the sky, so that the Gaels, Finn’s ancestors, could not land their ships. But the Gaels had a mighty druid called Amergin, who spoke a poem that silenced the storm. The Gaels landed and took Ireland for their own. The Tuatha De Danaan, sometimes called the fairies or sidhe, made new homes in underground halls or went over the sea to Tir Nan Nog, Land of the Ever-Young.

Night after night Finn learnt of the world. That which he learnt, he never forgot. He loved best the tales of the Children of Danu, who lived long lives beneath the earth and could be beautiful or monstrous, kind or cruel. Finn fashioned his own tales of Goibniu the Smith and dreamed of the Morrigan, the Mother of Battles whose crows fed on the slain. He pretended he was Manannan, riding his white horse over the waves, or that he was Angus Og, brandishing twin swords and twin spears.

Of Coull, and the Fianna, Finn never heard a word.

Finn grew older. He hunted with Liath Luachra by day. After Liath Luachra had fallen asleep each night, Finn lay awake, watching Bodhmall as she gazed into the fire, seeing things unseen by Finn and singing her druid-songs.

Day by day Finn grew taller and stronger. He thought always of the world beyond the forest and yearned to explore it. His foster mothers would not let him, and when he asked them why not, they fell silent.

A rift grew between them and Finn as he sensed knowledge being withheld from him. Rebelliousness took root and he wandered farther from home than was allowed. Thus Finn arrived one day at the edge of a field.

He had never seen such a thing. Nor had he seen such a thing as the grassy common, or the village beyond, or the boys out playing a game on the common. He approached them, and asked what game they were playing, and could he join in?

The boys weren’t keen. They didn’t know who this wild-eyed stranger was. There was something about him that marked him as different to them, and that made them uneasy. But they explained that the game was called hurley and showed him how to play. He was given a stick and was soon running beside them as they hit the ball and, more often, each other.

Finn was good at the game. In fact, he was so good that he was soon demanding that they all play together against him, as otherwise it was too easy and boring.

They accepted. Finn beat them single-handedly. The boys lost their tempers, abandoned the ball and beat Finn with their sticks. He broke free and ran away, disappearing into the forest.

Finn decided not to tell Liath Luachra and Bodhmall about the encounter. Yet as the days went by he found that he couldn’t stop thinking about those boys. They had made it clear that they didn’t want to be friends with him, but he wanted so much to learn their games, their names and their ways. So he made up his mind to seek them out.

He found them playing in a river pool, leaping and diving from the surrounding rocks. Emerging from the woods, Finn asked if could play.

‘Oh yes,’ said the biggest of the boys. ‘You can play with us.’

Finn grinned, took off his shirt and boots and dived into the water. The moment he broke the water’s surface, he heard shouting and felt hands pressing on his head and shoulders. The boys swarmed over him, holding him under.

Rage took Finn. He broke free, leapt upon the biggest boy’s back and pushed him under. Another boy came at him and he leapt onto the shoulders of that boy. Soon Finn was leaping back and forth, stamping on the backs of the boys as he held them all underwater at once.

After enough of his rage was spent, Finn leapt to the bank. He grabbed his shirt and boots and ran away again.

This time he told his foster mothers what had happened. They were worried.

‘Finn,’ said Liath Luachra, ‘you mustn’t do such things. Stories will be told about you.’

‘So what if they are?’ asked Finn.

A look passed between the two women.

‘Because of who you are, Finn MacCoull,’ said Bodhmall.

Finn found his answers that night. He wept with pride and sorrow as he heard of his mother’s beauty and kindness, and as he learnt of his father, Coull, the Captain of the Fianna. His sadness turned to anger as he was told of the Battle of Cnuca and the day his father died.

‘I know you will want vengeance, Finn,’ said Liath Luachra. ‘But we promised your mother we would keep you hidden. For her sake, stay with us.’

Finn did not want to stay. The world was calling to him; his beloved forest had become a prison. Yet he promised he would he stay.

Perhaps Finn would have honoured his promise and stayed in Slieve Bloom. He might have broken it and gone out in search of Goll. In the end, the choice was not his. For a story was spreading across Ireland, about a mysterious golden-haired child who lived in the forests of Slieve Bloom.

Goll MacMorna heard the tale. He knew at once who this must be: the Son of Coull.

Goll would suffer no threat to his rule. The boy had to die.

Days later, a hand-picked force of Goll’s men made their way into Slieve Bloom. They found the little hut where Finn, Liath Luachra and Bodhmall lived.

But Finn and his foster mothers had already left.

THE SALMON OF WISDOM

They parted ways. Those women were wise enough to know that Finn had stepped on to the path of destiny. So they sent him on his way, with their blessing and with two pieces of advice. One: never to go by the name of Finn, Son of Coull. Two: to seek out Finegas, the poet, who dwelt on the banks of the Boyne.

Finn made his way across the country. He hunted for his supper, slept upon leaves and avoided places where people dwelt. He went south, north, east and west, and when his heart grew lonely he would stop at a campfire, taking his fill of news and good cheer before slipping away into the night. Always he asked which way lay the River Boyne. One day, he reached its banks.

He had been told that Finegas dwelt by a pool, far upriver; so upriver Finn went. On and on, by sun and moon, shivers of anticipation rattling him as open fields gave way to thick forest and the river grew narrower, faster, fiercer.

One night, as the moon poured its light upon the silvery forest, Finn reached a pool. He was tired and hungry, for since reaching the river he had neither eaten nor slept; but his tiredness and hunger were forgotten as he gazed at the scene before him.

The pool was still. So still that the stars shone, mirrored, upon its silent surface. Rushes crowded around its edges, leaning in as if to catch some hidden murmur. Nine hazelnut trees surrounded the pool, their branches in a tangled embrace.

At first, Finn didn’t see him.

He sat as still as a being of stone. His gnarled, weather-beaten hands rested on his lap, among the folks of his mossy cloak; his white beard snaked down to dangle over the edge of the water.

‘Finegas,’ said Finn.

The old poet did not move. He simply went on staring into the pool. So Finn looked too, but saw nothing except black water and stars.

A hazelnut fell into the pool.

‘Do you know what these tree are, boy?’ asked Finegas.

‘They’re hazel trees,’ answered Finn.

‘They are hazel trees. And from them grow the nuts of wisdom. Those nuts fall into the pool, as you have seen.’

‘What happens to them?’

‘They are eaten,’ said Finegas, ‘by the salmon of wisdom. For more years than you have lived I have sat here, awaiting the day when I will catch that fish, cook him, eat him and finally possess all knowledge.’

‘I am Demne. I will help you,’ said Finn.

Finegas looked the lad over. He must have liked the look of Finn, for he said, ‘Very well. Go and make a fire. Cook something for our supper, and make a bed for yourself.’

Finn did as he was bidden. He made a fire, he made something for their supper, and when that was done he made a bed of leaves and lay down.

There at the salmon’s pool, he remained.

Autumn came, and still Finn remained. Winter came, and spring and summer, and Finn had not left Finegas. Finn took care of the hunting, the cooking, the mending of clothes and all the others things that needed done. Finegas was pleased, for this left him free to get on with his fishing.

Finegas would fish all day, and sometimes all night. On some moonlit evenings, he would go to the pool without his fishing rod. Finn followed him one time. He saw the salmon’s head rise from the pool as Finegas approached the water. Finegas waded into the shallows and the two adversaries circled one another, their heads moving in slow, artful patterns. It seemed to Finn to be a dance of war and a dance of friendship.

When he wasn’t fishing, Finegas would talk with Finn. Finn asked Finegas why he wanted all knowledge, and Finegas replied that he wanted it for the sake of poetry, and poetry alone.

‘There is,’ said Finegas, ‘no higher art than the weaving of words.’

Years passed. But for the changing weather, every day was like the last.

Then, one cold, windy day in autumn, Finegas caught the salmon.

Finn had risen early. He went out to hunt and returned with a rabbit. He put wood on the fire, walked down to the pool and there!

Finegas was stood on the bank, his rod clasped in his hands. His eyes were bulging, his chest heaving and on the end of his rod, the salmon of wisdom was thrashing. It was so big that it might have eaten Finegas, pulled him underwater or knocked him senseless with a slap of its tail. Finn feared for his mentor. Should he help?

‘Stay back, lad!’ shouted Finegas. ‘This is between the two of us.’

Finn watched as the fish bucked and pulled. Finegas held on, giving no ground. He was like an oak; ancient, rooted, immovable.

Eventually, the salmon’s thrashing slowed. It merely flopped and then ceased even that. Finegas pulled it in.

As he did so, for just a moment, the fish looked at Finn before its eyes went still.

Finn helped Finegas lift the salmon onto the bank, laying it down on a bed of rushes. The old man cried. He reached down and stroked its scales.

‘Boy,’ he said, ‘I am tired. I will need you to cook the fish for me.’

So Finn dragged the great salmon to their nearby camp. He built up the fire and made a great spit upon which the fish would turn. When that was done, and with some difficulty, he put the fish upon the spit and sat there, turning the spit, listening to the crackle of the salmon’s sizzling flesh and the sobbing of Finegas, who still sat by the pool.

The day passed. Finn turned the spit; slowly the salmon cooked. He stared into its lifeless eyes and wondered if Finegas would miss his adversary, his muse, his friend.

The flesh of the salmon was giving off a sweet smell; it was almost cooked. Finn realised he too was mourning the ancient fish.

The sun was setting in a shower of gold. The salmon was sizzling and smelling ever more sweet.

A bubble of liquid formed upon its flesh.

It grew, and grew, and burst.

Boiling liquid flew from the bubble, and a drop of the liquid landed on Finn’s thumb.

Finn put his thumb into his mouth to cool it, touching his thumb to his tooth.

He froze.

He realised what he had done.

And he realised more than that.

Much, much more.

In that moment, like a tidal wave that covers the land and tears apart everything in its path, all knowledge was revealed to Finn. He heard the muttering of the trees and the songs of the stars. He felt the beating wings of every bird in the sky. The great beasts of the seabed gazed into his eyes; sun-fire burned in his blood. Finn knew every mind’s desire, walked every heart’s hidden roads. He witnessed the birth and death of gods.

Finn took his finger from his mouth. He was back in the forest; he was Finn again.

Should he tell Finegas about this? Best not. Finegas might be angry that he had tasted the salmon. It was an accident, after all. No need to mention it. So Finn walked the short distance from their camp to the pool, where Finegas, rose, turned, looked at him … and frowned.

His frown became a dark stare.

‘You have tasted the salmon,’ said Finegas.

‘Yes,’ said Finn.

Finegas smiled. ‘Of course you have,’ he said. ‘For the salmon was always meant for you, Finn, Son of Coull.’

Finn was stunned. ‘But … what will I do with this knowledge?’ he asked.

‘That is up to you,’ said Finegas. ‘Though I would ask that you give at least some of yourself to the making of poetry.’

‘What will you do?’ asked Finn.

‘There is nothing more for me to do,’ said Finegas. ‘Good-bye, Finn.’ And with that the old poet turned and walked away into the forest.

Finn left the camp the next morning, shouldering his pack and walking through the forest before the light came. He walked until he reached the edge of a lake, and there he sat and spoke to the dawn.

The sun is singing the world awake.

I, Finn, am the sun.

The moon has turned her back to the world;

I am the darkness that swallows her.

I am the serpents beneath the world,

Jewelled cities within their coils.

I am the man who first met death,

A thousand lifetimes ago.

The earth beneath his feet I am,

The cold breath upon his lips;

And the rolling of thunder, the beating of drums

In star-lit halls where the sidhe folk dance.

The King of Floods dreams me in his hall.

The Mother of Battles fed me to her crows.

I shall sit by this lake, until the end of all worlds,

And when all else is gone, I shall remain.

After speaking these words, Finn sat a while longer. Then he rose and headed east towards Tara, to find Goll MacMorna and claim his inheritance.

SAMHAIN AT TARA

The Hill of Tara, seat of the High King of Ireland, was ablaze with the light of a thousand fires. It was Samhain, the night when the old year meets the new, and the scene was set for a feast.

Kings and lords, druids and bards, warriors and word-weavers converged upon the great hill in Ireland’s east. In their finest array they made their way to the feasting hall, where tables groaned under the weight of meat and mead, whisky and ale. Each took their place, as near to the High King as their station allowed, and smiled as they sat down and greeted their neighbours. Yet their smiles faded quickly.

The High King stood. The feasters stood. The High King drank, the feasters drank and the feast was under way. Bright harp notes sung through the air, knives cut through meat and cups clashed together. Yet every jest and merry song rang false, and babes in their mothers’ arms howled like wolves.

The guards on the gate spied a figure on the road. He drew close, and they saw that though he was young, there was nobility in his bearing and wisdom in his blue eyes. Though they did not know him, they let him pass, and watched him until he was out of sight. There was something about this young man.

The young man, of course, was Finn, who had come to claim his inheritance.

Finn entered the feasting hall and walked through the throng until he stood by the High King’s table.

The High King looked up. His eyes met Finn’s.

‘Who are you?’ asked the King.

‘My name is Finn, Son of Coull,’ said Finn.

‘Son of Coull?’

‘Yes.’

The King looked at Finn a while longer. He looked at the men sat on either side of him. Then he took a horn of mead and put it in Finn’s hand.

‘You are welcome,’ he said. A seat was found for Finn, and placed at the King’s side.

Finn sat, sipped his mead and looked around.

Sat on the far side of the King was a giant warrior. His hair was long and curled, his muscles strained at the confines of his clothes and he was regarding Finn intently, with a single eye.

This man was surely Goll MacMorna. The warrior who overthrew Finn’s father; but not before Coull took his eye.

Sat on the far side of Goll was another mountain of a man. This one was bald; his face was ugly and surly, yet curiously comical.

This was surely Conan MacMorna, Goll’s brother.

Another warrior sat at the King’s table. This one was not so much a mountain as a tall tree, or even a rod of lightning. His hair was grey and his features sharp, as if shaped by the scouring of the wind. He was smiling gently at Finn.

This was surely Caoilte, his father’s friend and the fastest runner of the Fianna.

Finn attended to his fare. He pretended not to notice the looks passing between Goll and Conan. Clearly Finn’s appearance had been a great surprise to them, and clearly they did not know what to do about it.

The feast went on until its fire began to fade, at which time Finn put a question to the King.

‘Sire,’ he said, ‘this is a magnificent feast. Though I am inexperienced in feasting, I am sure no better feast will be given anywhere in Ireland tonight. Even if it were, those present would not be in the company of the High King. Why, then, does the company seem ill at ease?’

‘You have a keen eye, Son of Coull,’ said the King. ‘I will tell you why. The company are mournful for the Samhain feast at Tara is cursed.

‘Each year, a fairy man comes from Sidhe Finnachaidh to this feast. The first we know of his presence is the sound of his harp, that cuts through all other sounds; and that is the last we know of his presence. For at the sound of his harp, all fall asleep as fast as the kestrel plummets.’

‘And what happens then?’ asked Finn.

‘Then,’ said the King, ‘he sets the feasting hall afire. We awaken only when the flames lick our boots. The air fills with screams as we try to escape, and not all succeed. Yet still we come here to feast each year, for it will not be said that the great men and women of Ireland are cowards.’

‘That is a terrible fate,’ said Finn.

‘It is,’ said the King, ‘and so I make this proclamation.’ He rose to his feet and raised his voice; the hall quickly fell silent. ‘I proclaim that whoever delivers us from the man of the sidhe,’ and here he glanced quickly at Finn, ‘will have his inheritance, be it big or small.’

Finn rose to his feet.

‘That person is me,’ he said. ‘I will deliver you from the fairy man of Sidhe Finnachaidh.’

There was uproar at this. All vied to see who had spoken; many scoffed when they saw the young man who made such a claim. Others, though, remarked on his resemblance to Coull.

While the hubbub went on, a warrior approached Finn.

‘I can see you are Coull’s son,’ said the warrior. ‘I will help you defeat the fairy man. Take this.’ He handed Finn a spear. ‘When you hear his music, touch the spear to your forehead. When you have him in sight, strike him down with it.’

Finn thanked the warrior, who gave his name as Fiacha. He left the hall, spear in hand.

Finn walked among the houses and storehouses of Tara. It was deepest night now. The air was sharp and the stars bright. Finn guessed that the fairy man was near.

Beneath an oak tree Finn sat down to wait.

He waited.

Soon, Finn heard the sweet sound of a harp being struck.

So wonderfully did the fairy man play that for a moment Finn almost allowed himself to listen. Instead he took the spear and put its tip to his forehead – and not a moment too soon. For his eyelids were already drooping, his head nodding to the soft caress of the sidhe man’s music.

Finn fell asleep.

It was the shortest sleep he ever took. The spear’s tip struck his brow, his head snapped back and Finn rose, ready for the hunt.

Down darkened pathways Finn trod until he turned a corner and spied the fairy man. Gleefully the little sidhe strode this way and that way, chuckling and chirping to himself as he played. He did not notice Finn.

Finn followed him all the way to the feasting hall.

Outside the doors, the fairy man stopped and began to pluck a new tune. Finn wept at its beauty while inside the hall, the carousing gave way to murmuring, then silence.

The fairy man ceased his plucking. He hoisted his harp over his shoulder.