Finn Mac Cool

I The red stag broke cover unexpectedly. Finn and his hounds were taken by surprise. The two dogs froze, waiting for his command. He had one glimpse into huge liquid eyes, pleading eyes; then the stag bounded away down the mountain, belling a warning. Light from the westering sun burnished the deer's russet coat. North beyond Galway Bay, thick, pale clouds sagged with the weight of approaching winter. Sleet hissed on the wind. Hot with life, the stag flickered like flame across a cold grey landscape. "Red deer, red deer," Finn murmured, immobilized by beauty. A poem rose in him like spring water. Shouts exploded behind him. "Stag, a big one!" "Get it!" "Kill it! Kill it!" Men boiled past Finn, waving their spears and howling their hunger. His instincts briefly merged with theirs. His fingers tightened on the shaft of his spear, his muscles contracted for heft and hurl. But the poem stopped him. The poem, growing in him. "Hold where you are!" he cried. The two young hounds, Bran and Sceolaun, whined, but stood. The men found it harder to obey. Momentum had already carried them past him. They were hunters and a stag was running. But they were also warriors of theFianna, and he was the new leader of their particularfianof nine. He called himself Finn Mac Cool. Planting their spears on the slope to brace themselves, thefennidiwatched with regret as the deer leaped from one limestone outcropping to another. When it disappeared from sight, their eyes turned toward Finn. "You let a fine fat stag get away," accused Conan Maol, Conan the Hairless. "And us starving." Dark, slender Cailte added, "I could have run him down and eaten the entire animal myself." "You could have done," Finn said amiably. "But then he'd be gone, all that grace and beauty destroyed. And you'd just be hungry again tomorrow. A creature that splendid can serve a better purpose surely than swelling your belly." His men exchanged glances. They were beginning to recognize a certain cadence when it crept into the speech of their newly appointedrigfennid. Fionn son of Cuhal was a dedicated hunter. But when the impulse to poetry seized him, everything else must wait. His band had already learned that much about him. With a last wistful glance after the lost deer, they formed a circle around their leader, crossed their legs, and sat. The ground was cold. They ignored discomfort. Finn remained standing. His eyes were turned northward. The jagged peaks of the Twelve Bens were dimly visible across the bay, disappearing into lowering clouds, but Finn was not looking at the mountains anyway. In his mind, he was watching the red stag run. His expression grew dreamy and faraway. His hair was as pale as winter sunlight, his eyes as clear as water. But when he was ready to speak, his voice would be deep and sure. Bran and Sceolaun sniffed out the bed in the bracken where the deer had lain. Some of the animal's warmth lingered in the flattened ferns. Circling three times, the hounds remade the bed to suit themselves and curled up together. Sceolaun rested her muzzle on her crossed forepaws, but her companion's head was propped across her back so Bran could keep watchful eyes on Finn. The cry of wild geese rang through the sky. Looking up, Finn saw black wings carving lines in silver space. He nodded. The poem was complete. He recited, Here's my tale. Stag cries, winter snarls, summer dies. High and cold the wind. Low and dull the sun, and brief its run. Strong surge the seas. InLlywelyn, Morgan is the author of 'Finn Mac Cool' with ISBN 9780312877378 and ISBN 0312877374.