The Green Hero (7 page)

The tomcat bounded in wearing scorched fur, angry, its eyes spitting green fire, and leaped upon Finn’s shoulder to be comforted.

The great gray falcon flew in, feathers singed, squawking a huge oath of vengeance upon everything that moved beneath the sky, and sat on Finn’s other shoulder. She and the tom were inseparable now. She had left Goll, and belonged to Finn.

And Finn, observing them, smiled to himself, remembering what the harp had told him—that he would have to take a bird and break a spell of the McMorna before they would be allowed to fight each other to the death.

T
HE NEXT MORNING FINN
lay asleep after his adventure with the Lady of the Winter Burning. As he slept, the High King spoke secretly to Goll McMorna.

“Our young friend has done what no man of us could do,” said the king. “I am put under heavy bonds of obligation.”

“Softly,” said Goll. “He has done well so far—even very well perhaps—but his victories have been deeds of magic, not might. While I do not belittle this unsavory aptitude, still I cannot help associating it with witches and wizards and Druids and such rather than with men of high courage and good mettle.”

“All very well,” said the king. “But winning is winning and losing is losing. I have done both and I know. Only failure needs explanation. Success is its own argument. This boy has weathered the Dread Coming and saved Tara from burning. He has earned any gift within my power. Undoubtedly he will claim his father’s place, which you now hold.”

“He has earned any gift within
your
power,” said Goll, “but the chieftainship of the Fianna is not yours to give. Do not forget that the Fianna is a band of unique warriors, the most skillful in all the green world, and that their chief must be the best among them. Even to become the least of this band—an honor sought by every lad in Eire—the candidate, buried to the waist, and armed only with hazel stick and wicker shield, must be able to defend himself against the attack of nine warriors fully armed. Next, having defeated the nine warriors, and pulled himself from the hole, he must braid up his hair and run like a fox with the Fianna in full cry after him. Through all the woods and fields of Eire must he run, from sea to sea. And, if he is caught, or if a twig snaps under his foot, or one strand of his hair be disarrayed in its shining braid, then that lad has failed and will never be admitted to our number. Several other small tasks he is set: to jump from a standing position over a stick held level with his brow; to run full-speed carrying sword, shield, and spear under that same stick held at the height of his knee; to run barefoot over a field of nettles; to step full upon one, and receive the thorn driven into his foot without outcry or murmur of pain, then, hopping, and without losing speed, to remove that thorn from his foot, and so proceed over the field. Until our lad can perform these trifles he will be less than the least of us, let alone qualified to be our chief. Magic alone won’t do it, nor a gift of song, nor a trick of words. By weapons we live, by the death of our enemies do we prosper, by spear-shock, sword-thrust, mail-denting blow of fist, by kick that can shatter walls. By stealth of dagger, swiftness of arrow, blunt argument of club—and, above all, by that delight in battle which can transform the bloodiest encounter into pleasant hours, the meatiest murder into food for jest. Without this transforming joy in carnage, which is the warrior’s magic, without it, I say, O King, the lad will never be our chief. He may have it, but he has to prove it.”

The king stroked his beard. He called his Druids to council. Long they sat, and the tapers burned, and the fireplaces were blazing against the chill of night before the king was ready to receive Finn.

When the boy came into the throne room he was greeted by a great shout of welcome. All the court and its ladies pressed about him. The men buffeted him with blows of congratulation; the ladies put their perfumed arms about him and bestowed upon him the kiss of victory. By the time he stood before the throne he was rosy with pleasure. The very shadows seemed to be dancing in celebration, and the world and its ways sat very sweet upon him.

The king rose and came down from his throne, a sign of high courtesy.

“You have brought us safely through the Winter Burning. We at Tara, appointed by the gods to guide the destinies of Eire, do thank you. Through us all the people of our domain thank you. Now, Finn McCool, you must know that this deed has put us under Bond of Obligation. You may ask whatever lies in my power to bestow.”

“Great King, kind host, I am grateful for your words. There is nothing I would claim save that which I would have asked my father had he lived—the chieftainship of the Fianna.”

The buzz of voices fell away. Laughter ceased. Every belted man and every green-clad lady turned eyes away from Finn to look upon Goll McMorna, who stood, as always, at the king’s right hand. The silence thickened.

Goll McMorna spoke in a quiet, pleasant voice. “That which you ask is not in the king’s power to give. The Fianna is a band of uniquely endowed and uniquely trained fighting men who have banded together by their own free choice. They make their own rules, select their own chief, and serve what king they will. It is a long road to the chieftainship. First you must become a member of the band, and to do that you must perform those initiation rites which so many have failed. Then you must so acquit yourself in battle and in council that each Fenian would have you for his leader, and no other. Finally, you must dispose of the existing chief—who happens to be myself.”

Finn bowed courteously, and said:

“When I was a babe in my bullhide cradle, O Goll, I was lulled to sleep not by nursery rhymes but by war songs of the Fenians. Yes, I heard my father sing. He put all the initiation rites to rhyme, and all the battles. And when I finally fell asleep it was to dream of these things and myself doing them. As for the feats of qualification, I can perform all, I believe, except fending off the onslaught of nine warriors and myself buried to the waist. But when I come to my full growth I hope to be able to do that also. Then, having been accepted into the Fianna, all else shall happen as happen may. And if my youth be crowned by the great honor of killing you, O killer of my father and valuable tutor of myself, perhaps indeed will I assume my place under the sign of glory.”

“There is a further thing I should mention,” said Goll McMorna. “No man may enter the Fianna until he settles all unpaid debts—not only those owed by himself, but those his father may have incurred.”

“I have no such debts,” said Finn.

“You have inherited a few—nine of them, in fact.”

Then Finn, teased at last out of his temper, raised his voice in challenge. “If there be any man here with unsettled claim against my father, let him stand forth now, and I shall erase either debt or creditor.”

“Softly,” said Goll. “I will explain these debts. There is a rule of the Fianna that says no request for aid may go unanswered, especially if it means a fight against odds. Whenever anyone comes a-crying about oppressor or foe or monster too fearsome for ordinary man to handle, why then we are pleased to attend to the matter at no fee. Now, according to our rule, that obligation is incurred personally by the chief himself. He may dispatch any man he pleases upon this errand, but he himself owes the deed until it is done. As it happened, there were some requests unfulfilled when your father met his abrupt demise, and for one reason or another certain of these deeds are still undone. You, Finn, as your father’s heir, are responsible. I, as chief of the Fianna, proclaim now that no man of us will discharge any of these tasks, but will, in all generosity, allow you your chance to show what you can do. Until these deeds are done you cannot qualify for membership in our band.”

Finn looked about. The huge hall which had been so warm, so full of friends, now seemed a cold, empty place. The faces which had been all admiration and smiles were now the blank ones you see in time of trouble. He looked at the king. The old face was like a stone now with a mossy beard. He looked at Goll, whose hawk face was split by a smile of malice.

He said: “I have been ignorant of these things.”

“It was an obscure rule,” said Goll, “never invoked until now, to be sure, but everything must begin somewhere, must it not?”

“What are these deeds I owe?”

“They make an interesting list,” said Goll.

He handed Finn a scroll; the lad unrolled it.

“Read them aloud,” said Goll. “I’m sure everyone wishes to hear what projects will attract your valiant efforts in the years that lie ahead.”

Finn read the words of the scroll so that all might hear.

THE LION OF LOUTH

THE BLUE SWORD

THE IRON STAG

HOULIHAN’S BARN

THE MARES OF MUNSTER

THE FIRE-BULL

THE APPLES OF ARLA

THE WITCH-DOG OF WEIR

THE BOAR OF BALLINOE.

When he had finished reading, Finn stared Goll full in the face and said in a loud clear voice:

“Paying those debts will keep me busy a long while. I’m sure you regret as much as I do that our mortal combat must be postponed.”

Now this remark of Finn’s was as good as accusing Goll of cowardice before all the court—which is the way Finn wanted him to take it. And the lad rejoiced to see his enemy’s face flush purple and his coiled red hair spit flame. But Goll did not lose control. He took a deep breath, and said:

“We do not wish to be ungenerous. Therefore, by consent of the Fianna you will be allowed to return to Tara and challenge me for the chieftainship after completing but three of these labors, the remaining debts to be paid in the years of your full manhood, if, by some miracle, you live to see them.”

“Any three?” said Finn.

“Any three. They are all beyond your strength, I fear. So choose what three you will. And, if you should succeed, come back to Tara, young Finn, and you and I will fight in single combat for the leadership of the Fianna which I killed your father to gain, and stand ready to do as much for the son.”

“Thank you, Goll,” said Finn. “I trust I shall know how to repay your generosity when the time comes. Thank you, King, for your hospitality. Thank you all, sirs and ladies, for wit and beauty and courtesy. Farewell now. I will return after doing the third deed.”

So saying, he left the throne room, and the castle.

F
INN SET OUT FROM
Tara on the coldest day in memory. The trees were clothed in ice, and a single sheet of ice stretched as far as he could see. A flight of wild geese, honking like hounds, froze solid in mid-flight and fell into the bay without losing its V-shape, making a great splash that froze into a net of ice as the boy watched, amazed.

He was surprised at himself too. For here he was driven from the comforts of Tara, from its blazing fireplaces and roasting meats and warm-breathed perfumed ladies, out into this flaying wind to seek out the most fearsome creatures whose names were ever whispered—and instead of being miserable, he was bursting with wild joy. The weak sunlight fractured off the icy trees in a dance of light. He saw fiery splinters of blue, purple, red, green, yellow, white, blue, paler blue, storm-pink lilac, and the purples of wrath—the crystal trees bore fire-fruit where the sun touched them. And bending in the wind and shaking their boughs, they made a tinkling ice-music for light to dance by.

He did not feel the cold. He was clad in fur of wolf and bear he had killed himself, and he was busy trying to decide which adventure to seek first. The order of things is very important when you are moving among the brute order of events—which is always—and if you seek the aid of magic, then the sequence of words and numbers is also most meaningful. He decided to consult the Salmon of Knowledge.

He could not, of course, consult the actual Salmon himself, who lay locked in unknown leagues of ice deep under some mountain stream, so he did what the Salmon had told him to do in such an event—he bit the thumb which he had burned when cooking the Loutish Trout according to recipe. He bit his thumb, and said:

Salmon, Salmon, I bite my thumb.

Speak ye forth, be not dumb.

Come to me this day of ice

With fish-mouth words of wise advice.

As he spoke, the words themselves froze in the air and fell to earth, rearranging their letters and spelling out new words. This is what he read:

Yes of foe

Always no.

In such a test

first is worst

last is best.

“Thank you, Salmon,” said Finn aloud. Then to himself: “Now, what can he mean?”

He read the verse and read it again. But still it made no sense. “I can’t ask him, either,” said Finn to himself. “He will never repeat himself nor ever explain. He teaches that the best part of wisdom is unriddling things for yourself. I did pretty well at such puzzles when I was under his tutelage, but my wits have grown rusty, I fear, at Tara. Still, I
must
make myself understand. For ignorance, upon the start of such a journey, is death’s own darkness.”

He stared at the words again, and stared and stared, sunk upon his haunches, feeling the very marrow of his bones freeze as the wind screamed.

Finn heard something. He whirled about and looked back toward the castle and saw a remarkable sight—Dagda’s harp flying after him. Its strings were tightened by the cold, and it sang as it flew:

Farewell Tara’s halls

Its weaponed walls.

I journey long

to aid your song.

“Would you be coming with me then?” asked Finn in wonder. “O Harp of Dagda, will you accompany this homeless lad upon a scroll of deeds?”

The harp answered:

Who fingers my strings

full sweetly sings

of colored shadows, truthful lies,

of the fears of the brave

and the folly of the wise.

“Ah, you rhyme after my own heart!” cried Finn. “Unriddle me this verse then.”