Fionn and the Legend of the Blood Emeralds Page 3

  Saile had previously been banished for eternity from Éirinn.

  The role of humble farmer didn’t suit Saile, who was naturally quite a flashy, soft person; one who liked to boast of his wrongs and taunt his victims. The reason he was masquerading as a farmer was that he did not dare let his presence in the country be known. Saile had previously been banished for eternity from Éirinn by Fionn Mac Cumhaill – sent to the three hundred and sixty-sixth island of the cold North Seas as a punishment for attempting to blind and murder everyone in Tara. He had eventually escaped by making himself a boat from the pelts of young seals tied around driftwood.

  In all those early years of Matha’s life, Cerball – or Saile – did not dare tinker very much with spells and potions, knowing that if he accidentally revealed his true identity, the punishment would be a final one.

  Saile’s great failing was that he was given to jealousy. He rarely made room for any other feeling in his head. Even when he had used his unexplained wealth to turn his new lands and home into the best place in that valley, with food and comforts in great abundance, it tore him when anyone else had the smallest bit of good fortune. He actually wanted all good fortune for himself. It was like a knife being twisted in his belly when he heard of another man’s cow having fine twin calves. It put his eyebrows into knots of anger when neighbours saved good hay for the winter. It stung him like a wasp trapped in his tunic when a young couple on the hill overlooking his farm had a healthy child – even though he had several children of his own that he didn’t care for. Nobody could tell the pain he lived with in not being able to use his powers to undo these good fortunes or at least to balance them with very bad fortunes.

  As sure as the sun goes down in the evening, it was certain that at some point Saile’s bitterness would again overcome him.

  Matha was fifteen years old when the bony hand of Saile again reached him and this time finally shoved his life off its course, forcing him onto his frightening and lonely path.

  It started the day a small black horse arrived, seemingly from the wooded hills that overlooked their valley. She was not a pretty pony by any measure. She had a long round body supported by stumpy legs, a trailing tail, and hairy feet. Both Matha and his mother fell in love with her the minute she stuck her crooked head into their garden. Matha’s uncle came running in past her and warned them, ‘Don’t go near that animal! She’s wicked. There are people up the hill that tried to throw a rope over her to see if she could be got to do a few bits of work, and she bucked like a wild stallion and kicked them into the next field. Wicked!’

  Neither Matha nor his mother had any ears for the warning. Their hearts had already melted in the large brown eyes of the poor ugly little girl. Matha thought her the loveliest little beast. When the two of them went to talk to her, they did not look hungrily at her, assessing whether she had strength or stamina. They didn’t speak about what kind of toil a pony like her might be got to do for them. Matha’s uncle could not believe it when the pony stood still as Matha cleared the long knotted mane from in front of her eyes. Matha’s mother commented on the perfect little white star on her forehead and Matha scratched her in the places she wanted to be scratched. She apparently took a shine to them.

  The same animal that had kicked and bucked higher than two houses when anyone else had tried to tame her, stood quietly while Matha stroked her and eventually got the courage to climb on her back. With no blanket or strap, the horse remained as gentle as an old cow and Matha had only to whisper where he wanted the burly little girl to go.

  That little lump of a pony turned out to have the strength of five big draught horses. Soon they had the fine girl plough and grub their slightly better field and it didn’t knock a feather out of her. Matha tried to get her to help out on neighbouring farms as a favour to others who were very little better off than themselves, but the minute she was off their ground, she would revert to the wicked wild creature she had once been.

  With the aid of the little steedeen, Matha dragged deep trenches to drain their wetter field. Then he ploughed it deep. By the next harvest it was seen by everyone around that Matha and his mother had converted their soggy little piece of the world into the best land ever seen. They still had to work hard. But their fortunes had turned and that winter they not alone had enough to feed themselves, but had extra grain to trade. For the first time in seven years, there was extra in the pot to feed relatives and neighbours who would drop in to see them – keeping fairly wide of the pony when they approached.

  One day the chief said to Cerball, ‘You know, you’re no longer providing the best wheat to my kitchens.’

  Cerball was incensed. When he stopped jittering, he shouted at the chief, ‘Fool! I told you to give me the best of that woman’s land, not the worst. You tricked me. And you’ll pay for it.’

  ‘Easy there, friend,’ said the chief. ‘It’s not the land but the means they have of working it.’

  That evening Saile stood in one of his hilly fields overlooking Matha’s to see for himself as the little horse pulled out tree stumps without falter, clearing more of the adjoining scrubland for next year’s ploughing. He went home grumbling to himself to the point that he could think no other thoughts. ‘It is unjust. It can’t stand. Useless peasants who never tried to make anything of themselves. An easy life? Happiness? To them that did nothing to deserve it? Why should they have that pony when I don’t have one like it? It can’t hold. They don’t even know how to work that little lump of a horse, leaving it to stand idle and eating whenever it pleases. It won’t do. No sir, Saile sir. It will not do.’

  He turned over and over in his mind all kinds of schemes to trick Matha’s mother out of the little pony. On more than one occasion, the use of a spell crept into his mind. But he managed to contain himself. He tried to talk calmly to himself: ‘No magic needed here, Saile sir. Harmless fools who have never even travelled as far as the hills behind their cabins would easily be dealt with by a well-walked fox like you, sir. No need to risk magic. Though it would be easy. Blow them up like seals. Or set their straw roof alight with lightning. Or cover them in worms that eat through to their bones. But no. I must not.’

  He settled on something simpler. He went down to their cabin one evening and offered to buy the horse.

  He spoke very sweetly to Matha’s mother. ‘A lovely lady like yourself deserves rest and ease. You wouldn’t need that little old pony or to be working those bad fields at all if I had my way. I would happily supply you with all the milk and grain you need. And I’ll give that string of a lad of yours well-paid employment on my land. All I need in return is that little bockety lump of a pony. You’d have no more trouble with it.’

  That was a good offer. It was more than the biggest draught horse was worth. But Matha knew his mother wouldn’t be tempted by it. They did not even need to talk to each other about it. They both appreciated the generosity that the still nameless pony had shown to them. They both knew that she was more their friend than their property – she was not theirs to give and, even if she had been, his mother would have starved rather than let an animal of hers into the hands of a man she suspected was capable of cruelty.

  Matha’s mother said, ‘And isn’t it lovely for me to receive such fine compliments from you?’

  ‘No more than are deserved,’ said Cerball.

  ‘But surprising,’ she added, still smiling softly, ‘to hear such sweet words from a man who took my family land and has been farming it for seven years without bidding me the smallest greeting in all that time.’

  Cerball’s face soured. He stormed out, stopping to dribble a green spit onto their doorstep. Next he went to the chief. There he claimed that Matha’s mother had reached an agreement with him to swap the horse for two bags of wheat, but that Matha had reneged on the deal. The feeble chief didn’t doubt Cerball’s word, as he was still hoping for more gifts. He said, ‘Oh well now, we can’t have that. That chap Matha is not old enough to make or break agreements with honoura
ble men.’

  ‘That is what I thought,’ agreed Cerball.

  The chief sent two of his men to take the pony away by force. There was no way Matha or his mother could stop the men. They were too strong to tackle and besides, they apologised for the work they had been sent to do. The mare went quietly enough down the boreen with the two men. But then she started a slight bucking that developed into well-targeted kicking. She turned very suddenly and with a flick of a hind leg she cracked all the face bones of the unfortunate man who had been leading her. The other ran off. She sauntered back home.

  All of this was starting to give Cerball a tight pain in his stomach. He knew this luck that had come to Matha and his mother was something far out of the ordinary. His sharp nose smelled a rich vein of power behind it. It was the kind of great fortune that came to only a few people anywhere in the world, and even then maybe only once in a long lifetime. He simply could no longer swallow down the poison that kept bubbling from his gut, filling his mouth and nose with the bitterest fluids. He was no longer debating whether to go back to his old ways. He was already decided. He was going to strip this awkward boy of his insolence and the peasant woman of her false pride.

  His thoughts had moved on to wondering how hard he could strike without unmasking himself. His delight would be to directly inflict painful death on the boy, who he was increasingly suspicious of, and to inflict such misery on the woman that she would go on her knees begging his help. Help that he would of course have to politely refuse. Their dying thoughts would be filled with pathetic respect for him. And the pony would then come trotting to its rightful owner. ‘No Matha, no problem,’ he kept mumbling. But Saile was not an entirely rash man. He knew that word of revenge so fine and swift might spread beyond the valley and bring unwanted attention on him. Instead he decided to concoct a less obvious spell: a geis that would take longer to work but which would have the same effect in the end.

  He went to the secret pit beneath his home. There he hid wares of his ancient art. He sat in that dark hole for three days and three nights canting and throwing ash in the air. The words he kept repeating were, ‘I, great Saile, drain the enthusiasm from the black horse. Every drop. And hide it in the seven furthest fields of the country where no ordinary peasant could ever find it. And with that, I, great Saile, will not only restore the natural misery to that cabin but make that woman’s lot seven times worse than it was before, so that she will wake up every morning with only one wish: that she had gratefully accepted the generosity of Cerball the farmer. And every evening before she sleeps she will cry for her boy. The boy will develop a restlessness that he cannot scratch. He will leave her to wander like a fool into the forests. There he will be eaten by the wolves.’

  Over and over, rocking and inhaling the ash.

  Nobody heard him but Maire Fada and she thought nothing of it at first. She was used to hearing him mumbling to himself as she glided silently over the treetops on her way to the river.

  But sure enough, as the canting started the fine little horse in the neighbouring farm showed her first ever signs of weariness. She was out pulling a light cart with a few onions in the back when Matha noticed her head droop. Matha didn’t understand it, as the same lady could have pulled a load one hundred times the size, without effort. He took her from the yoke immediately and let her out to the grass in the sunny laneway. The ailment only got worse. Matha brought her favourite sticky weeds from the hedge. She ate them and became even more wobbly on her big flat feet.

  After three days and three nights the horse was no more than a shadow of herself. It took her all her energy to stand up and after a few minutes she would lie down again.

  She ate everything Matha and his mother brought, but it gave her no strength. She looked at them with weary pleading eyes. They didn’t know what to do. They consulted every handy woman and animal expert in the locality. Matha received all sorts of herbs to feed the creature. He was taught prayers and cants to say repeatedly over her. None of it made her better and he was sure that some made her worse.

  They went back to doing all the farm work by hand. But now they were poorer than ever before because as well as feeding themselves and their cow of little milk, they were of course feeding the pony. And she had developed a bottomless hunger. Matha’s mother was puzzled. She said, ‘I’ve never before seen a person to develop a greater love for food when they are sick.’

  In the end Matha’s mother was forced to go to work in the house of the chief just so that she could get a small share of the leftovers from his table for her and Matha to eat. The chief took away their remaining land, all except the small strip of ground that nothing but bog cotton grew on. That was where the ailing horse resided. The land that they had drained and ploughed was given to Cerball who came to supervise as his men put his markers out. He looked down from his hooded chariot where his enormous cat sat beside him. He grinned broadly at Matha, saying, ‘I was sorry to hear that your luck ran out, boy. That’s the way with luck. It always runs out and if you are riding it, you fail. Whatever will you do next, I wonder?’

  Of course, Saile knew better than Matha what the answer to that question was. The reason for his grin was that he knew Matha would shortly be overcome by the need to leave. And that the long-toothed protectors of the woodlands could then be relied on to finish Saile’s work. Saile would wait a little time before curing the pony who would be forever grateful to him and work tirelessly for him forevermore. And if the pony was not grateful, then he would at least have the pleasure of slitting its throat.

  But despite being very pleased, Saile was still not completely satisfied. He had forgotten that the greatest satisfaction of doing a bad deed was in having people know you did it. People who did good seemed to get extra pleasure from remaining unknown. It was not so with doing bad. He remembered how fine he had felt in the old days when people saw his power and looked at him in a new way. He loved the frightened sneaky admiring looks from people who swore they hated him. He would have liked the people of this valley to know that he alone was responsible for the fall in the fortunes of Matha’s family. At the very least he would have liked to let Matha know that it was he who had broken him and his mother down.

  But he still could not risk exposing his identity. Instead, to humour himself further, Saile put out the rumour that Matha and his mother had overworked and underfed the black horse till it was no longer able to stand up.

  This made Matha suddenly less popular. People were fond of horses and thought that cruelty towards them was a black mark on a person. Some said, ‘Ah yes, that young lad fell into good luck too young and too easy. He’ll learn that anything that comes too easy in this life will always have a cost later.’

  Others said, ‘I said it all along. He made some dark sacrifice to get that magical horse. But the magic ran out. And now look at them, worse off than ever! The horse is just gone back to being the same broken wreck it was when he first put his spell on it.’

  With every passing day, Matha became more unhappy at his situation. He did not understand what was happening. He started wishing he had never seen the pony. They would have been so much better never to have had any good luck than to have it for a while and then have it whipped away. He knew he should stay. He knew his place was with his mother. But he had developed a terrible unease that he could not explain. He could not sit down for a minute. He kept walking around and thinking and thinking. He couldn’t sleep at night. He had a buzzing feeling in his stomach all the time. The only thing that eased it was walking.

  He resolved then that he had no purpose in this valley of misery or even in this world until he had somehow figured out how to fix this wrong. He often heard a voice whispering to him that there was nothing left for him here, with his mother working day and night and the land gone. He took it into his head that the whispers were coming from the helpless pony; that she was appealing to him to go away and find a cure.

  He entrusted young Caoimhín, his cousin, to attend to the horse
every day and to do any chores that could be done to help his mother. Then he set out from home with no idea of where to go and no idea of what a long journey lay before him, determined to come back only when he had figured out how to set things right. Little did he know, as he was thinking these thoughts, that he was fulfilling the next part of Saile’s curse.

  Matha didn’t even know enough about the outside country to stop and think about the dangers facing a young fellow like him travelling alone. Of course there were other ramblers on the paths and chariot ways, but not even grown men would travel unfamiliar ground without reliable company and suitable weapons. It wasn’t that Matha was particularly foolish. But so anxious was he to travel away that whenever a thought of danger entered his head he dismissed it, telling himself quite mistakenly that what was before him could not be any worse than what was behind him.

  Matha had one small piece of luck – that Maire Fada was the one who had heard the canting of the magician. She is a notoriously difficult lady to get information out of, if asked for it. But she is very good at gathering and storing it.

  As Maire had gone along her way in the dark early winter evening, gliding down to the little river in the valley below, thinking only of how pleasant it would be to get a little trout inside her tummy before the moon rose, she knew there was something odd about the canting. She had never heard before of a farmer who would sit in a black hole in the ground, covered over with a few boughs and a bit of straw, making appeals to deities. In her experience, farmers knew right well that they might ask once and if their prayer wasn’t granted on the first ask they may as well go and sing for it. They knew that Daghda and the others would only be laughing at them if they continued pleading. A good God though he may be most of the time, he was never a gombán and had no sympathy for whining, flattery, penances or repetition.