Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Finn Mac Cool (18 page)
When the debris of the old Assembly Hall had been cleared away, Maelgenn announced that he required the heads of fourteen wild boars to be buried under the fourteen doorways of the new hall.
“Fourteen boars? Easily done!” said Finn. All in his company clamoured for the hunt, but he insisted on taking only the original band of nine with him. “Ten of us can take down any number of savage animals,” he claimed. “More men would just get in our way. With nine fénnidi and a pack of hounds, I could strip MÃd of game in nine days if I chose to.”
“I was just getting into the rhythm of this building business,” Blamec complained, more out of habit than conviction. Like the others, he was thrilled by the prospect of a boar hunt. Only Goll seemed preoccupied, his thoughts elsewhere, a faraway look in his eyes from time to time.
As they were preparing to depart, Lochan the smith approached Finn carrying three swords. “I haven't had time to forge more of these,” he said, “but if these prove successful, I'll make one for each of you.”
Finn examined one of the weapons curiously. Unlike a shortsword, it had a blade as long as his arm, and honed edges meant to cut and hack rather than to thrust and stab.
“It's an old-fashioned sword, actually,” Lochan explained, “but if
you're going after boar, this is what you want. There was a time when all warriors carried them. It's a Milesian design, a greatsword like this.”
you're going after boar, this is what you want. There was a time when all warriors carried them. It's a Milesian design, a greatsword like this.”
Finn frowned, hefting the weapon. “Too heavy,” he decided. “We travel, we don't want to be weighted down.”
Lochan was offended. “If it was good enough for the Milesian princess, it's good enough for you!”
“Take it, Finn,” said Goll in his hoarse whisper.
Finn took the sword.
He gave the second one to Goll, then hesitated over the third. His men watched him tensely, each aware that it would be prestigious to receive the last weapon. Finn looked from face to face, searchingly.
Cael grinned at him. Conan scowled. Lugaid folded his arms and looked thoughtful.
Finn considered each in turn.
“Cailte,” he said at last.
To carry the heavier swords, Lochan had fashioned sheaths fitted with bronze chapes. “You wear these scabbards like this,” he demonstrated, fastening Finn's in place at his belt. “When a manâor a boarâcomes at you, bend your leg like this ⦔ he caught Finn's leg at the knee and bent it at an angle “ ⦠so you can hold the scabbard behind your knee. Then you can draw the sword with one hand and keep your shield in front of you with the other.”
The shortswords were now worn by fastening their scabbards across the chest. In addition, the fÃan were armed with hunting javelins and an assortment of light birding spears for small game. A leather holder for the spears was worn hanging down each man's back.
“I clank when I walk,” Blamec muttered.
Lugaid asked Finn, “Are you bringing that special spear with you?”
“Cuchulain's spear?” It sounded much more impressive than saying “Fiachaid's spear.” “I am of course. I go nowhere without it, anymore than I would travel without my hounds.”
Next morning, in a dawn as crisp as a green apple, the hunting party left Tara. A number of people gathered at the Slige Asal gateway to see them go. There was a festive air. Hounds danced and yapped, men laughed and boasted about the number of animals that would be killed, their size and ferocity.
A sharp wind sprang up before the hunters were out of sight of Tara. Following Finn, they broke into a trot to keep themselves warm. Because of the severe cold of recent days, the mud of winter was frozen solid, so Finn turned off the road and headed for the nearest expanse of trees.
Entering the forest, he had an immediate sense of homecoming.
Even leafless, the great oaks seemed alive and aware. Together with the ash, yew, and hazel, they comprised the nobility of the forest. Commoners,
according to the druids, were such plants as birch and alder and willow. There was a still lower order, the so-called “slave” species, such as gorse, bog myrtle, and the bracken that was used in soapmaking and to provide potash for bleaching linen.
according to the druids, were such plants as birch and alder and willow. There was a still lower order, the so-called “slave” species, such as gorse, bog myrtle, and the bracken that was used in soapmaking and to provide potash for bleaching linen.
“In childhood I used to think of myself as a silver birch tree,” Finn confided to Cailte as they slowed to a walk. “But I don't anymore.”
“You don't?”
“I am an ash tree,” said Finn Mac Cool.
Cailte raised one quizzical eyebrow but made no comment.
Ten men walked through the forest with the total silence of long training. But for one of them, it was impossible to walk for very long without saying something. Fergus Honey-Tongue softly recited, “The full property of each clan includes the kindling from their woodlands, the cooking material from their woodlands, the nutgathering of their woodlands, wood to supply the frame for every cart they require, spear shafts and yokes and horse goads and timber for the carriage of corpses.”
Finn turned to him. “What's that?”
“Brehon Law, of course. Every member of a clan is entitled to an equal share of their woodlands. But it must be exactly equal. I grew up on the edge of a forest of yew and holly, so we learned the law as soon as we were old enough to start gathering kindling. Surely you did too, Finn.”
“I did of course,” Finn said firmly.
As they walked on, he recited Fergus's words silently to himself until they were memorized, adding to his store of knowledge.
Goll said, almost wistfully, “There are apple trees beyond my fort.”
Suddenly Finn recalled Goll's words: “How pleasant it is, after Samhain, to retire to your own fort with your own woman!”
But when the Samhain Assembly had ended, and Finn had decided to keep his men at Tara, Goll had never complained, never said a word. However much he might have longed to go home, his FÃanna discipline had overridden the desire.
Finn moved closer to Goll Mac Morna. “Once the new Assembly Hall is up,” he said softly to the one-eyed man, “the heaviest construction will be done. I think you could go then, and winter in your own place.”
Goll's head snapped around. He gave Finn a piercing look. “Why do you want to be rid ot me?”
“I don't! I just thought
“I'm one of the nine,” Coll said abruptly. “They stay, I stay.”
“Ssshhh,” hissed Donn, raising one hand.
They froze.
The grunting was distant but unmistakable. Wild boar. Ten men grinned as one.
Finn cast an anxious glance at Bran and Sceolaun. The hunting party had brought a small pack of hounds with them in addition to Finn's pair, hut the others were experienced dogs accustomed to wild boar, which were notoriously unpredictable. Bran and Sceolaun were very young. Finn did not want them to get excited and rush in with eager abandon, getting killed before they could learn the game.
He made a short, sharp signal with his hand, bidding his hounds stay close beside him no matter what happened.
The other hounds had now got wind of the boar and were beginning to fan out through the woods. Finn and his men advanced cautiously. He beckoned to Goll and Cailte to join him in the lead.
Hush-footed, they drifted like snow through the forest. Behind them, Cael whispered mischievously to Blamec, “I can hear you clanking,” and was rewarded with an angry glare.
Suddenly one of the hounds gave voice in the forest. At once there was the sound of something crashing through underbrush, then a wild, insane squealing followed by an agonized yelp.
Finn ran forward, the others hot on his heels. He carried his javelin upright to clear the closely packed trees, the joint of his wrist flexing so he could alter the angle of the spear at any moment and throw it.
There was a noise like thunder coming toward him, a roaring in the forest like a great gale approaching.
Another cry of pain from a hound.
Beside Finn, Sceolaun answered with an eager whining. “Stay!” he commanded.
A massive boar burst from the undergrowth, running at an angle to Finn. Its rounded back was covered with coarse bristles; its curving yellow tusks were smeared with blood.
Finn hurled his javelin at one tiny, malevolent eye, but the boar was astonishingly agile. It skittered sideways. The spear flew past its head to embed itself, shaft vibrating, in the earth.
Bringing his left arm forward to cover his lower torso with his shield, Finn hooked his scabbard with his leg as Lochan had demonstrated and drew his new sword one-handed. He did not think even this sword could sever the spinal column of a boar, protected as it was by layers of hide and tendon and muscle. But when the boar bolted past him, he could deliver a powerful hacking blow that would begin the process of weakening the creature for the kill.
But the boar did not run past him. With an adroit change of direction, it charged straight at him, squealing with manic fury. Finn gave a desperate swing of his sword, but with the animal coming toward him head-on, it did little damage.
The boar struck Finn's shield with such force the hard yew wood split
down the middle and one half fell away. Another leap and the boar would tear Finn's belly open. Finn staggered backward, lost his balance. fell.
down the middle and one half fell away. Another leap and the boar would tear Finn's belly open. Finn staggered backward, lost his balance. fell.
The boar was on top of him.
Bran hurtled forward. The hound did not make the mistake of trying for the spine at the base of the skull. Instead, the agile dog slid along the beast's side, dived, and ripped its genitals from its body.
The boar screamed like a human. Finn twisted and managed to wriggle out from under as a geyser of blood erupted from the severed femoral artery.
As he was getting to his feet, Bran leaped forward to clamp relentless jaws behind the boar's ear, grinding down, down, seeking the kill. The huge hound shook its head and growled as if worrying a giant rat. The boar swayed, made a strangled, choking sound. Blood began to stream from its nostrils. Its forelegs buckled.
The fénnidi attacked from every side.
Goll and Cailte were already swinging their swords so wildly Finn could not get in a blow, and he swore at them both impartially. The other fénnidi were hurling their spears into the boar with shouts of glee.
Slowly, almost decorously, the great beast toppled onto its side. Unseen organs gurgled. Slender legs thrashed convulsively.
Panting, the men ceased their attack and stepped back to allow a noble adversary to die with dignity.
At last the boar lay still, a monstrous mountain of cooling meat.
Monster â¦
Finn remembered the idiot with the torch. Bran had fought for him that day tooâand had surely saved his life on Black Head.
He crouched down beside his dog. Bran was pungent with the rank smell of wild blood. It dripped from the hound's coarse coat. Finn ran his hands along muscular flanks and across the white belly to assure himself his dog was uninjured; then he threw his arms around Bran's neck, blood and all. “Was there ever such a deed or such a dog?” he murmured.
Whining softly, Sceolaun crowded close for her share of the affection.
Cailte was examining the dead boar. “Look at all this meat!” His belly rumbled; his companions laughed.
“It's heads we came for,” said Blamec.
“But we have to take the meat back too. We can't leave it here for the wolves. The haunch is the champion's portion!”
“I can stay here,” Conan volunteered, “and guard this carcass while you hunt for the others. Cailte's right, we can't let the wolves get it, and we can't carry it with us and hunt too.” As he spoke he was already
seating himself on the ground beside the dead boar and making himself comfortable with the energy a lazy man brings to such a task.
seating himself on the ground beside the dead boar and making himself comfortable with the energy a lazy man brings to such a task.
“That's not a bad idea,” Finn admitted. “We'll bring the others here as we kill them and you can guard the lot.”
“I'm glad this one didn't kill you,” Goll told Finn. “It would have been a great nuisance having to carry your body back to Tara slung on a pole, along with fourteen wild boars.”
Finn laughed. “I'm glad you won't have that inconvenience!”
The forest was teeming with wild game. By the time the dim forest light faded, they had slain more animals than they needed. Fifteen carcasses were piled beside the reclining Conan Maol.
“We'll camp here tonight,” Finn decided, “and go hack to Tara in the morning.”
It was partly a selfish decision. He wanted to stay in the forest.
Finn's body still tingled with the elation of being one with the forest again. The fragrance of earth and leaf mould was in his nostrils. He wanted to sleep pillowed on a tree root and feel the night alive around him.
As they gathered their bedding materials, he remarked to Cailte, “My favourite sleep music is the cackling of wild ducks on the Lake of the Three Narrows, the scolding of the blackbird of Derrycairn, and the lowing of cows in the Valley of Thrushes.”
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