RED RIDGE ARRIVED AT TARA AS FINN AND HIS MEN were making the last preparations for their departure. He appeared at the Slige Mor gates with his shield on his arm and Finn Mac Cool's name on his lips.
The sentry was suspicious. “Where did you meet him?”
“I knew him in the Burren.”
“The RÃgfénnid FÃanna doesn't come from the Burren.”
Red Ridge hesitated. RÃgfénnid FÃanna? “I don't need to see him yet, I just want Finn Mac Cool. He's a rÃgfénnid with one company and heâ”
“I knew you didn't know him,” said the sentry. Raising his voice, he called over his shoulder, “Ronan! There's an imposter here who claims to know the RÃgfénnid FÃanna! Come separate his joints, will you?”
A large redheaded man approached, grinning like a bear scenting honey. As he walked toward Red Ridge, he began bending his fingers and cracking his knuckles with a sound like bones breaking.
Red Ridge hefted his spear and stood his ground. “Finn Mac Cool will vouch for me. Send for him.”
The sentry watched him with an appraising eye. “Doesn't bluff,” he remarked aloud. “Come inside then, and we'll send for Finn. If he knows you, you might live until sundown. If not ⦔ The sentry shrugged.
The large redheaded man cracked his knuckles again and looked as disappointed as a child deprived of its ball of mutton fat smeared with honey and studded with pine nuts.
As they waited for Finn, Red Ridge stared through the open gateway. What he saw dazzled him. Numerous structures, all of them big, all of them new, walls gleaming white with limewash, every exposed timber elaborately carved with the finest craftsmanship, brilliant banners fluttering from every ridgepole, splashes of green and blue and crimson
vivid against golden thatch. Tara was colour and light, opulence and power.
Finn, the Finn I know, would never be in such a place as this, Red Ridge told himself. The wisest thing to do would be to saunter off down the road as casually as possible, right now, hoping not to feel the thud of a spear between the shoulder blades.
But before he could put action to thought, Red Ridge saw an apparition striding toward him and stayed where he was, rooted by astonishment.
The face was that of Finn Mac Cool. So was the strangely silver hair, now divided into many partings and tightly plaited, each plait fastened with a twist of dyed leather. The figure was as tall as Finn, the shoulders as improbably wide, but there the resemblance ended.
This man wore a great woollen cloak striped and speckled with yellow and green and black, and deeply fringed in red. Beneath this he appeared to have a linen tunic bleached snowy and embroidered with green knotwork. Such garments would require the weaving and sewing of many women, and Finn Mac Coolâthe Finn that Red Ridge rememberedâsurely had no such women.
The man in the striped-and-speckled cloak hurried forward, calling warmly, “Red Ridge! I was beginning to think you forgot us.”
Red Ridge struggled for words. “I never forgot. I had to stay with Iruis until the wedding, but when the wine still stood in the cups, I left him and hurried here. I ran most of the way, I think, hoping you'd still be here, or at least they'd know where you were, but ⦠I never expected ⦔ He paused and made a single gesture that included Finn and Tara and a setting beyond his powers of description. “I never expected this.”
Finn threw back his head and laughed. It was the same laugh, boyish and merry; the same Finn Mac Cool.
Even the sentry smiled, and Ronan the redheaded man.
Red Ridge began to relax.
Finn took him by the arm. “Come inside and say hello to the others, Goll and Cailte and the fÃan. They're all here with me. In a couple of days we'll be leaving; you got here just in time.”
He led Red Ridge through the gateway and into the gleaming, golden fortress. Out of the corner of his eye, Finn watched the newcomer's face and took delight in his obvious amazement.
Finn's original band gave Red Ridge a warm welcome and introduced him to the second and third nine, plus an assortment of other warriors and rÃgfénnidi who would serve the king that summer. Finn said the same to each of them. “This is a good man, this Red Ridge.”
Red Ridge glowed.
But that night as they sat by the feasting fire, he made a mistake.
Looking around expansively at his fellow fénnidi, his belly full of fat meat and his cup brimming with barley ale, he said with satisfaction, “So this is what it's like to be in the FÃanna.”
Bald Conan growled, “You aren't in the FÃanna. This is what it's like, but not for youâexcept as our guest.”
Red Ridge straightened up. “But I thoughtâ”
“You thought Finn would just take you in and say âWell done'? Hardly. You'll have to pass tests, the same as the rest of us.”
“I can learn poetry,” Red Ridge said. “It may take me a little while, but I've a good head.”
“You'll need more than that,” Donn informed him.
“I'm good with sword and spear, too.”
Cael sniggered. “Insufficient. To join the FÃanna now, you have to be able to walk on the water, fly through the air, sing through your eyes, and breathe through your eyes.”
The others burst into raucous laughter.
Reassured by it, Red Ridge said, “You're joking, of course.”
Finn, who had been listening without comment, spoke up. “He's not joking. Och, we don't have the requirements he describes, but others equally severe now. And if you want to march with us, you'll have to meet them all before we leave here. All except the poetry, I suppose; we might wait on that until you find someone to teach youâif you assure me you can learn.”
Red Ridge nodded emphatically. “1 can learn.”
Finn's eyes bored into his. “On your honour?”
Before Red Ridge could answer, Fergus Honey-Tongue warned him, “Say it only if you mean it. The honour of a fénnid these days is pledged with his life.”
The underlying grimness in Fergus's voice was a warning. Red Ridge paused, then said, “Just what does that mean?”
“What it says,” Finn told him. “A member of the FÃanna will pay for dishonour on the point of a sword. My sword. That's the rule now. If you can't accept it, don't apply.”
Red Ridge licked grease from his fingers and gazed at the others through slitted eyes. Their faces glowed in the firelight; their eyes glittered with the promise of adventures to come.
More than anything in his life, he wanted to be one of them.
Meeting Finn's eyes, he said, “On my honour I will learn and do whatever is required of me. My honour rests on the point of your sword.”
Finn smiled.
That night Red Ridge slept on the cold earth outside the walls of the stable that had been rebuilt to garrison Finn's company. No more than
two spear lengths separated him from them. Two spear lengths, and the most demanding challenge of his young life.
It began at sunrise, with Blamec shaking him by the shoulder and complaining, “I don't see why I have to be the one to make you show a leg. I'd as soon be sleeping myself. Wake up and throw off your cloak, you're wanted down below.”
Down below was the training ground, which was already lined, Red Ridge noticed to his discomfiture, with spectators. The testing of prospective members of Finn's FÃanna was considered an event not to be missed.
Finn, dressed in a checkered cloak this time and looking more imposing than ever, as if his youth was already slipping from him, met Red Ridge at the head of the training ground. In a ringing voice, he said, “If you would join the FÃanna, you must accept four injunctions.
“The first: you will never receive property with or through a wife, but choose her solely for her qualities.
“The second: you will never offer violence to any woman.
“The third: you will never refuse to give anyone anything you possess if they are in need of it.
“The fourth: you will never flee from less than nine armed warriors.”
Red Ridge had listened carefully, and he nodded as each prohibition was given. They did not seem too hard to accept. But then Finn continued.
“Before you can be counted as one of the FÃanna, your nearest kinfolk must guarantee that they will never seek revenge should you be killed in battle. If someone does you an injury, you may avenge yourself while you live, but no one else can do it for you if you die.” As he spoke these words, Finn covertly watched Goll Mac Morna. By now, Goll had heard this same speech quite a few times and accepted it. His features were relaxed, his one good eye calm, unsuspecting.
Finn went on. “No man shall be counted as one of the FÃanna until he can recite twelve epics to prove he knows the history of this land. As these conditions require time to fulfill, and as we have discussed before, we plan to march soon. So I shall give you until Samhain to fulfill them. But if at that time you have not done so, you will be expelled from our number and may not try to enter the FÃanna again.”
Red Ridge nodded respectfully, though he was finding it hard to reconcile this stern authoritarian with the spellbinding storyteller he had met atop Black Head. This Finn was a warrior to his spine; dominant, demanding. The dreamy boy who had captured Red Ridge with words and magic seemed someone else entirely.
But whoever he was, the Connacht man longed with all his being to be numbered among Finn's FÃanna.
When he was shown the trench and its purpose explained, however, he had momentary doubts.
Finn ordered Red Ridge into the trench and then the original nine attacked him as if he were a mortal enemy, running toward him yelling, hurling their spears, making every effort to kill him. He defended himself as best he could with shield and staff, moving faster than he had ever done in his life. When the attack ended abruptly and he found himself still alive, he expected to be congratulated.
Instead, he was plunged headlong into the next test. “Plait your hair tightly,” Finn ordered. “Then we take you to the wood beyond Tara. We give you a standing start of the distance of one tree. Run as fast as you can, for we will be pursuing you. If we catch you, we wound you. If you are wounded, you fail the test.”
“If one plait of your hair is loosened by being snagged on a branch, you fail,” said Cailte.
Goll added, “You fail if your hands tremble.”
And from Lugaid, “You fail if you break a single fallen branch with your foot as you run your course.”
“You must avoid your pursuers with visible courage and pass through the wood without disturbing a twig in your flight,” Fergus Honey-Tongue concluded.
Aghast, Red Ridge stared at the fÃan. “You've all done this?”
“We have,” Madan said smugly. “Now it's your turn. Of course you could leave right now and go back to Connacht ⦠and never know if you could have done it or not.”
But Red Ridge's fingers were already busily plaiting his hair.
They took him to the edge of the forest, gave him the briefest of head starts, and set off after him. What followed was the most harrowing experience of Red Ridge's life so far. Once again they seemed determined to kill him, hurling spears and hewing the air with swords. In addition to avoiding them, he had to duck and dodge, break no dead branches on the ground, be touched by no twigs on the trees. He had to run with all his strength and concentrate with all his mind, run and run and â¦
He burst from the woods to find himself on the grassy plain of Mid, still running, his heart pounding under his ribs. He reached up to feel his hair.
The plaits were not disturbed.
He slowed to a trot, turned, and went back. They waited for him at the edge of the wood. But there were still no congratulations.
“Do you see this tree?” Finn enquired, indicating a gnarled oak twisted by centuries into a series of grotesque gestures. “Now you must leap over this branch that's as high as your head, then turn at once and
duck beneath this branch that's as low as your knees. Touch neither with your body.”
Wearing a look of grim, slightly wild-eyed determination, Red Ridge took a running jump at the first branch, hurtled over it, then turned and ducked under the second. He thought it might just have grazed his shoulders, but he could not be sure. As he straightened up, he looked at Finn.
Finn looked impassively back. “Now drive this into the heel of your bare foot without flinching,” he said, holding out his hand. On his extended palm was a single gleaming thorn, long and dark and sharp.
“You protested that, I recall,” Madan muttered to Blamec.
“He protested everything,” Conan reminded them. “But he did it anyway.”
Red Ridge drew a deep breath, bent his right leg at the knee, reached down and drove the thorn into his heel. With all the willpower he possessed, he refrained from flinching.