Old Friends: The Lost Tales of Fionn Mac Cumhaill Read online

  Later, Dark thought maybe he should write to Connie and tell him that Saltee was nosing around, since his mother didn’t want him visiting jail. But Dark wasn’t much for writing and Connie probably wouldn’t want to be bothered with letters when he might have bigger worries. Dark had really only seen jail on TV. He wondered if Connie was in a prison gang. He didn’t think he’d be obedient enough for that. Or if the warders were every day trying to hammer manners into him with truncheons. That wouldn’t work well either.

  That night, Dark had to get his mother to call the vet. One of the first-time calvers got into trouble. He and his mother were out holding torches and fetching buckets of warm water until near midnight as grumpy old Ned Kelly cut her open, took out the big bull calf, and stitched her up again. It wasn’t the first time, but his mother hated it more every time. She was squeamish. The reason she was a vegetarian was that she couldn’t even think about blood and here she was having to deal with this. Dark kept telling her to leave it to him. But she didn’t want to do that either, as that made her feel guilty that he was carrying too much.

  After he got washed, Dark was pleased to be going to the rath.

  The Old Man didn’t get up from the fire to ask him about his day. He just said to him, ‘ A mhic, maybe you should take that pup.’

  It looked like they’d been waiting a while, as the little red-mopped lad was hopping mad and cursing at Conán for sitting in the least draughty spot.

  The cup was brought for Dark and for the first time Etain spoke, ‘Your health, Arthur’.

  Her voice surprised him. It wasn’t small. It was warm and familiar. He nodded his thanks and drank.

  The Old Man poked the fire with a very beautiful sword that Dark had never seen him with before. Then he started talking.

  Prize Daughters

  Bressal, the king of Laigin, was a weak and useless man. But he did not know that. He believed himself appointed by gods and privately thought it was a great injustice that he wasn’t king of all Ireland, of all the world in fact. He survived only because Cormac, the high king of Éirinn, was in Tara, which was near enough to Bressal’s place in Dún Ailinne. And Cormac was a great believer in avoiding hassle. So, to prevent an outright uprising in Leigheann, he quietly managed most of the affairs of that province without Bressal knowing anything about it.

  Bressal had once been on a boat trip to visit many lands to the southeast, and from the day he came back he was never done tormenting everyone in Laigin. He had his fort done up in colours so bright that even the crows were terrified to come near. He would tell those subjects who had to toil hard every day just for survival that they were a very uncouth people; that if they were better farmers they’d be able to grow grapes and dates for his household – like the Gauls did. He also demanded that all chiefs in his area keep wine in their homes and change to wheaten bread. Some chiefs complained that Éirinn’s weather didn’t ripen wheat well and that traders looked for too much good wool and leather in return for small flasks of wine. Most didn’t even bother to argue. They just kept small quantities of wine and wheaten flour available for the rare event that Bressal actually visited them.

  Bressal’s worst excesses were with his own daughters. He had heard somewhere of a king in Cornobha setting up sporting events with his daughter’s ‘hand in marriage’ as one of the prizes. Bressal thought that if this was what kings abroad were doing, then surely kings in Éire should get with the times. He had three daughters, whom he didn’t love greatly, because he was so fond of himself that he had very little love left over.

  On the evening that this idea struck him (Bressal never arose from bed before mid-afternoon), he sent his lackey, Fergal, to call the girls to the great hall.

  They arrived in the hall and waited several hours for their father to get there. Bressal always made people wait for him, even if it meant sitting outside the door, as he believed that nobody of any importance ever arrived on time. His daughters were cross, but also curious, as the only times their father had ever spoken directly to them had been to shout at them.

  When he burst through the doors, he waited for his daughters to bow before he spoke. He looked them over for a while and then turned to Fergal, saying, ‘Do you think they’ll do?’

  ‘Oh’, said Fergal, grinning and rubbing his little twisted hands together, ‘I’d say they’ll do very nicely.’

  ‘Do for what?’ snapped Deirdre, the youngest and hottest-tempered of the three. Her face reddened.

  ‘Don’t you speak to the king in that tone, young one,’ whined Fergal, shaking his finger at Deirdre.

  ‘Don’t point at her,’ said the quiet and very serious middle sister, Anúna. Fergal was scared of Anúna. He knew her reputation. She may have been quiet, but when she was angered she was fearless and ferocious. Fergal had no intention of inviting a shower of her infamous kicks and he stepped back to the other side of the king.

  ‘What do you mean, Father?’ said Niamh, the oldest daughter and the only one who was always respectful to her father, no matter how badly he behaved.

  He didn’t even bother to respond. He continued talking to his weasel servant as though the women were not in the room.

  ‘So, do you think we’ll get princes and gentry coming to the competition?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ grinned Fergal again, looking Deirdre up and down. ‘Sure, I might even take part myself.’

  Without saying anything further, the king and Fergal swept out of the hall, leaving the daughters very confused and worried.

  They didn’t have long to wait before finding out exactly what was going on.

  The king was so excited by his idea that he talked about it to a visiting chief that very evening. He had declared that he’d have three competitions – sword-fighting, spear-throwing and wrestling. King Bressal was drunk and boastful.

  ‘It will be an event to show everyone in Éire that I am a king of international standing.’

  ‘Grand news, indeed,’ said the chief.

  ‘We’ll have a high class of foreign princes and great noblemen in the competition, as happens in more civilised countries.’

  ‘That should be very exciting for us all, I’m sure,’ responded the chief politely.

  ‘And glory be to the name of Bressal, the winner of each competition shall walk off with a daughter to marry and produce his children!’ shouted the king.

  The chief was so shocked that he didn’t know what to say. He certainly couldn’t have told Bressal what he really thought for fear of losing his lands and having his family left with nothing. But he told two of the servants and asked them to warn the women and to tell them that they should flee, as it sounded as if Bressal was quite serious.

  When the girls heard, they were very upset. But they didn’t doubt the Chief ’s account. Deirdre and Anúna were certain that the only way to avoid a terrible fate was to leave the castle the very next morning. They were adventurous people and had made lots of friends in houses great and small around Laigin. They had learned over time that all their father’s stories about his glory and popularity were false. As people came to trust them it became clear to them that few people thought better of their father than the girls did themselves. Many could see what a vain and stupid man he was. So the younger women knew they had many houses where they could hide safely without fear of anyone telling their father where they were. The eldest daughter, Niamh, was a different matter.

  She was such a simple and kind-hearted person that she was unable to see anything other than good intentions in any person, even her father. Even though she was now thirty-three years old, she had never ventured beyond the castle walls to mix with other people. Not because she hadn’t wanted to, but because she didn’t think it would be right to break her father’s strict rules. She couldn’t bear to hear him shouting angrily at her and threatening to hit her. She decided, despite her sisters’ pleadings, that she would not run away. She really believed that her father would calm down and realise how such rash plans would hurt
them.

  The next morning, the younger women again tried their best to persuade Niamh to come with them to safety, but to no avail. The parting was the saddest moment in all of their lives since the death of their beloved mother when they were young girls.

  When he found out what had happened, the king took his anger out on Niamh and locked her in a hole in the ground. He decided to go ahead with the competitions but for just one prize. He couldn’t be rid of her soon enough, he said.

  And sure enough, within days, word was put out that Niamh, first daughter of Bressal, King of Laigin, was to be the grand prize in a sporting and fighting competition to be held in Athy. Niamh was ill with fear and desolation. Word traveled abroad and soon chancers and scoundrels of every sort were arriving. They had all heard of fairy tales and were claiming to be Prince This and Sir That. Most of them were wearing ridiculously-coloured regalia and armour that was too heavy for them: most unsuited for the muddy roadways and forest paths of Éirinn.

  The actual competitions were not even worth reporting. Fergal was the main organiser and he understood nothing about sports or contests. But he knew that Bressal wouldn’t care as long as there was a big platform for him to sit on, lots of banners bearing the coat of arms he had made up for himself and a pompous ceremony for him to preside over.

  The sword, spear and wrestling competitions were performed in a muddy field away from the main platform. For those interested in such events, they were a great disappointment. None of Éirinn’s best warriors took part. They knew that Mac Cumhaill would not have approved. Mac Cumhaill himself was across the seas to the north at the time, helping a friend to deal with a troublesome serpent.

  The competitions were squalid and chaotic, with all three contests eventually rolling into one big brawl. The various princes and noblemen ended up wrestling around in the muck, like the low-minded curs they really were, kicking and biting each other in their greed to abduct a woman whose name they couldn’t even pronounce.

  After about an hour, there was only one man standing up; though he was so short it was hard to tell that he was on his feet. Nobody knew much about this man. He had only appeared in town the day before the contest. Though some of the princes and noblemen had taken to mocking him, he had not risen to the provocation and had spoken to nobody. He had no sword, no spear and no armour other than the thick black hair that surrounded his arms and chest. He had been a very aggressive fighter. When the brawl had descended, he had worked his way through every part of it, delivering sturdy blows of a thick black stick to any of the participants who didn’t run away from him.

  ‘Any man here who believes that he is the winner, stand up now and talk to me,’ came a deep, slow voice from the hairy runt. Large, wild eyes looked out from his head. There was absolute silence for a while, as most of the great ‘noblemen’ on the ground decided that playing dead was their best option.

  Eventually, one man fumbled to his feet. This tall, blond fellow had been prancing around Athy in the weeks before the contest, proclaiming himself the prince of Lithuania and the certain winner of the princess’s hand in marriage.

  ‘Ahem, my good little chap,’ said the ‘prince’, trying to drum up his most haughty voice, ‘I believe that I should point out that this is a competition for men of honour and high station. Not for midget farm hands or stable boys or whatever it is you do. I’ll give you a couple of gold coins here if you’ll be so good as to take yourself off to tend to my horses.’

  The short barrel-man barely moved a muscle. He raised his stick, maybe just a fraction, and perhaps there was a slight movement that looked as if he was considering taking a step in the arrogant man’s direction. But the wildness in the little man’s eyes was probably enough. The Lithuanian prince’s courage deserted him and he dropped his elegant sword and ran like the wind in an easterly direction away from Athy.

  Nobody else had anything to say.

  Neither Fergal nor Bressal was at all happy about the outcome. They had hoped they’d be shipping Niamh off to one of the grand houses of Europe, providing the king with an excuse to go there on regular trips on the pretence of visiting his dear daughter. However, none of their guards were up to a contest with the barrel-man. And both of them were quite scared by the very look of him. In the end, Bressal decided that the best thing to do was to get the whole thing over as quickly as possible so they could get the dangerous little man away from there.

  When the little man was brought around to the victory stadium, a sigh of horror went around the crowd. Niamh herself was quiet. She had done her crying. To her, it didn’t matter what the winner looked like. Anyone who was prepared to take her away without knowing her or caring what she thought about him was just as horrible whether he was a prince in fine clothes or a beggar in rags.

  Bressal called the little man up onto the platform. He asked him what his name was.

  ‘Barli,’ grunted the man, without bowing or doing any of the usual things that he had been told Bressal expected of visitors. He clearly didn’t like the king any more than he seemed to like anyone else around the place.

  The king laughed politely, trying to gloss over the little man’s roughness.

  He asked, ‘Ahem, and what kingdom will my daughter be marrying into, Mr Barli?’

  ‘Kingdom my backside,’ growled Barli. ‘Can we finish this? I need to head off before nightfall.’

  A murmur of laughter went around the crowd.

  The king fumbled angrily. He pulled Niamh by the hand, and said, ‘Here! At least it’s one less mouth to feed. Begone with both of you and if I don’t ever see either of you again it won’t trouble me a bit.’

  There were many tears from the servants and castle guards as their beloved Niamh was put on the back of the great black horse, behind Barli.

  Barli turned to make sure that Niamh was safely on board. He made her put her hands around him so she wouldn’t fall off. He was seen to pat her hand and some noticed that he didn’t do so roughly. And then the horse took them off faster than any steed the people there had ever seen so that in minutes they were gone from view and onlookers differed as to which direction they had taken.

  A great pall of shame fell over the castle. In the following days, many of the servants and guards started leaving. Of all the horrible ways that Bressal had behaved in the past, for most people this was the worst thing that had ever happened in the Athy castle. Neither Bressal nor Fergal saw anything wrong with the whole thing. But Fergal was smarter than Bressal and he soon realised that they had underestimated the anger of people.

  When he heard that the two younger sisters had ridden with friends to Tara to demand action from the high king, Fergal realised that the whole episode mightn’t turn out well for Bressal. He too packed his bags and sneaked out of the castle one afternoon while Bressal was still sleeping, leaving only Bressal and a couple of his toady nephews in Athy.

  When Cormac, the high king, heard the full story from Deirdre and Anúna he was incensed. He felt guilty for not having found out more about the big event that Bressal had been organising. He felt very bad for not having put a stop to Bressal’s bad behaviour long ago. He sent for Mac Cumhaill, who returned from serpent-hunting a day later to hear the whole sorry tale.

  In the meantime, Fergal arrived at Tara, claiming to be enraged about what had happened to poor Niamh and asking to be made a humble servant of Cormac. Fortunately, the sisters had already told Cormac all about Fergal’s part in the competitions and in Bressal’s other mischief. And unfortunately for Fergal, Cormac was not as easily flattered by the slippery Fergal as Bressal had been.

  ‘Oh, I’ve made my mistakes in working for such a weak king as Bressal, Your Highness,’ he said insinuatingly, ‘but believe me, all I’ve wanted all my life is to serve you.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Cormac.

  ‘Oh, yes, all my life, I say. I’ve waited for a chance to serve the greatest king on earth. The greatest king in the universe, O Cormac.’

  He bowed
low.

  ‘If I was the greatest king, I would never have allowed Bressal to inflict such cruelty on his daughters.’

  ‘Oh, but how could you have known, O Great One? You have such weighty matters on your mind.’

  ‘Get up, you git,’ said Cormac, bored now. ‘Your first task is to tell Fionn all you know about Barli.’

  ‘Oh, willingly, willingly, Sire,’ said Fergal, red with embarrassment as everyone laughed at him getting up from his knees.

  ‘And then,’ said Cormac, ‘since you say that all your life you’ve wished to serve me, I’ll grant your wish. For all the rest of your life you will serve. Get to the outer enclosure and serve my daughter’s donkey and make it your concern every time he fancies some food, has a sniffle or feels an uneasy temper, just as you did for so long with Bressal.’

  The information that Mac Cumhaill got from Fergal was of little use. In fact, he got little useful information from anyone. All he seemed to have was a description, a name and excited tales of a very fleet horse.

  At the back of his mind, the name and description troubled Mac Cumhaill. He felt that somehow he should know who this Barli was.

  Mac Cumhaill asked Dreoilín for help.

  ‘Sorry Fionn,’ the old man said. ‘If you needed me to put a spell on a known person or to give you special powers against him, I might be able to help. But if we don’t know what part of the country or the world he comes from or went to, it is very difficult for me to do anything useful.’

  Mac Cumhaill tried to use his thumb of knowledge for some inspiration as to where to start looking, but not a single idea came into his head. This made his men very worried because often when the thumb was most lacking in inspiration, there were other magical forces at work.

  Mac Cumhaill had his men moving out from Athy, stopping at every village in every direction, asking people whether the huge, black steed had passed through. Mac Cumhaill reckoned he would have had to stop somewhere to tend his horse, and even if people hadn’t seen him stopping, then surely somebody somewhere must have seen him passing through.