The Last Days of Finn Mac Cumhal (Chapter1)

The Last Days of Finn Mac Cumhal

Chapter 1

The deliberations of the Gods.

“One hundred and eighty on the button!” Finerty shouted with delight, thumping his craw upon the bar and sending the head of his pint, -swish slop over the brim of Vesuvius, down the slopes towards Pompey.

“Zeus me bucko, that’s put the fair end to a foul wind.” he said, proclaiming to all present, that Finerty had backed the winning horse, again.

Zeus O’Donovan Rosa strolled to the dart board with a leisured step proudly patting the strained buttons stretching along the mid-line of a tumescent monument porter, and the dedicated practice of his art. Upon reaching the pie on the wall, he plucked with pink sausage fingers, three feathered darts from the well pocked sliver of the treble twenty slice.

The grace and eloquence that were brought to bear throughout this operation suggested to the patrons and management of McDonough’s public house Castleisland county Kerry, that victory had been a certainty from the outset, and the game itself a mere formality.

Without even a cursory acknowledgement to his opponent, that rudimentary decorum might demand, he returned to his table amid the sustained if not entirely restrained applause of his table-mates. The low leather stool had cooled during his brief absence and presently it submitted with a tired asthmatic wheeze as it was embraced once more by accommodating doughy backside of the man himself. Zeus took a swig from his jug, cleared his throat and continued with the story.

“Here's the rub!” Says he, as though divulging a secret of grave portent. “It was hardly Dirmuid's fault, God rest his soul.” His eyebrows, like grey and orange corals reached into the tide begged sincerity and drew them in once again.

“Sure what was he to do?” He went on, “at the end of it, even the other boyos of the Fianna told him that he had no choice but to make off with herself.” He paused and added darkly. "Make no mistake about it, Dirmuid was in the nettles in his trunks. To break his geis would make him unfit to be a member of the Fianna,and then on the other side of it, to elope with herself, his best friend's lass? Well, twas no easy business for the poor craythur, of that you can be sure, and between his honour and the love of his chief, the poor brute chose his honour, hoping against hope that the bauld Finn might pity him, and find a way up from the bottom of the ditch.

Each and all of the buckos in the Fianna had his geis, deeyasee?” The silence was not interrupted, and Zeus assumed that they all did see. Indeed immortal and all knowing as they all were, they all saw much more than they let on.

“Never to kill a goat and have drunk it’s mother’s milk," he continued. "Never to ride three times backways around the hill of Almhu, never to refuse a meal in the house of a friend, never to eat a spud and a carrot off the same plate… and so on and so forth. These contracts, if you-will, were made out for a lad at his birth, by our auld ancestors, God be good to them , the druids; tossing stones, reading ashes in the fire, leaves in the tea cup or be droppin leaves into the river. They were a kind of a deal, the way a lad might have the luck, and stay on good terms with....,” He paused and gave a respectful nod toward the sawdust upon the floor. “With them that was in the know.” He added in a rogish sort of tone that could have been taken either way. “Declare to God,” he said, “Twas a sure sign the cat was in the milk if a lad made a haymes of his geis.

"Now, to get to the bones of the thing, Dirmuid's geis was that he should never refuse to help a girl who might ask him to get her out of a spot of bother. Twas a good job that women were a bit more independent in them days, or his feet would have been worn to the knees. Any-who, on the night of the big shin-dig, Dirmuid found himself in an awful mess, when Grannia, comes a beggin, with all the tears and slobber of an auld abandoned mongrel. She begs him to help her escape from Almhu on the eve of the wedding, whispering in his ear at the dinner table, that she had no time at all for the big fella, and to make a short twist of it, she wanted gate!

Well, at first the poor wretch couldn’t help but laugh. Wasn’t he sure that she was only rubbing his ear with honey. Himself and Finn were as close as an ass and a haycock, and the idea was so preposterous that he coughed and sprayed a mouthful of holy drink all over his bacon and cabbage. Finn and the lads lookin round at him then with dirty big grins that said he was going to get it in the morning for not been able to hold his drink, and him coughing and spluttering like a rusty Ford on a frosty morning.” He paused and drained the creamy dregs from the end of his pint.

“Frosty it wasn’t in the great hall of Almhu,” he continued after a brief and almost polite little belch into the back of his paw. “With a big fire leppin in the hearth filling the air with the lovely smell of our own Irish turf, fresh from the Bog of Allen. The laughter and merriment on this most auspicious occasion danced about with unrestrained joy amid drops of music falling from the Ollamh's harp like rain in the sunshine.”

“Three cheers for the Shanakey!” Finerty shouted from the bar swaying upon his stool, and raising his glass in salute. “Mighty stuff Zeus!” He called with mock sincerity, "I don't want that few bob back!"

“Ah hauld your whist Finerty! Put no more sour on them grapes” The narrator replied, nodding to the barman who had already begun to approach the offending Finerty for the issuing of his first caution of the evening.

Zeus continued. “Dirmuid, was quite certian that herself was puttin the wind up him, and he caused an uproar when he blurted out that he intended to run away with Grainne that night. Twas all taken as a roundabout sort of a compliment deeyasee. So boisterous and loud was the recoil from this remark, that it would hardly be an exaggeration to say that the walls of the great hall shook like a leaf in the wind, as the half of them knew rightly that our man was plain for the other team. Of course later on", he added with a dissappointed sigh, "when the auld Chief was following them across the belly of the land, twas that very remark that stoked the fire even harder, all been taken up in the wrong sort of way."

Herself.

With the mother in the holy place, and the sisters married off, Grainne might have ended her days as a spinster in the auldfella's house, walloping pots and mopin about with a pus on her that would turn the milk sour. The father was horrid fond of courting, and she had her work cut out for her, fetchin and minding the place, and trying to keep him on the straight and narrow.

At the end of it, when the Kerry matchmaker mooted that the Chief of the Fianna was in the small ads, sure the father and the sisters all thought it was a Trojan idea. The auldfella was mad to get rid of herself, so he could have the run of the place and have the milk-woman, the char, the chambermaid, and whoever else he liked, up in the hay without a row, or a dirty puss. Well the front door was only shut, the matchmaker squeezed into his coat sleeves and the sisters were all looking forward to 'a great day out', and all the new gear and swagger that would have to be bought for the occasion.

So they all start putting the great face on things and singing up the Finn fella as though he was the king of Siam. Grainne herself wasn’t too gone on things from the start on account of himself being an older man. But the sisters had the right answer for her, and they put it to her that if she couldn’t bring herself to love him, sure he would be away on campaigns throughout the year, and she wouldn’t be seeing too much of him around the place at all. And, they said on the sly when the auldfella wasn’t about, that if her new husband couldn’t put a grin on her jowls, the kitchen or the stables wouldn’t leave her with a cold bed. Grainne didn’t answer but she took it all in and she hoped of course that the noise and laughter of her own children, might warm her heart and perhaps in time she might come to love, or a least learn to put up with himself.

The Father, knowin nothing about love or women’s things in general (widowed early as he was) put in that the Fianna were well in with the King, and were on yearly tributes from the Chiefs. Finn’s estates and his home at Almhu held the promise of comfort and ease to the end of her days he said. They were egging her on in rare style, turning the screw and putting the great twist on Finn and Almhu, going around the place saying he was gorgeous and handsome, a real hero and rotten with money.

In the heel of the loaf, they finally got round her, she signed the forms and was packed off to Almhu the following moon. The auldfella was left to roast his chestnuts in peace, and the sisters all busy planning and organising the big wedding and looking forward to a great day and having a nose around Almhu, with all the bulls at Almhu havin a gawk at them.

Sure enough the whole plan would have gone off great guns only Grainne wasn’t a wet weekend at Almhu when she realised that she’d made an awful mistake. In fact the disappointments began to set in as soon as soon as she reached the homestead at Almhu on the royal planes of Meath. Out comes yer man to help her off the horse. It wasn’t so much that he was twice her age, or that his golden tresses were streaked with grey, or even that when he laughed, his chin wagged and flapped like a cocks wattles. She might have put up with the lot and more if it wasn’t for the chap standin beside her fiancée, Dirmuid his bestest friend. Sure enough, women is hardly any different today and as soon as she had set her eyes on the thing she couldn’t have, that was the end of it, the fly was in the soup and the maggot in the apple!

Well the sisters and the Auldfella were the cause of it, hyping Finn up to the stars from the get-go. Of course twas sure to be a big drop when she met him, she was bound to be disappointed and might be forgiven for thinking, that her new auld-fiancée had fallen outa the ugly tree, and got a wallop from every branch on the way down. And, sure enough like the fly in the soup, there was Dirmuid in Finn’s shadow a specimen of a man by all accounts. He was the same age as herself, handsome in all of his manliness, and with that auld spot on his forehead that was the ruin of any girl who might look at it for too long. And wasnt that only a torment to poor Dirmuid for he had no interest in the ladies at all. Sure Grainne couldn’t take her eyes off him, and if the truth be known, she only had the suitcase emptied when she’d convinced herself that Dirmuid was the only man for her.

Well as you can imagine, the fox was in the hen-house, and things was set to get awful messy. To refuse to go ahead with the wedding would be an affront to Finn and his house, and result in a row between the Fianna and her father. On top of that Finn had spent half the dowry on drink, before he’d laid eyes on it, and Grainna’s misery was doubled by the fact that Dirmuid was clearly in love with Finn, and his feelings would never be warmed by the fire that burned within her sore heart.

The flight and the cuckold.

Late into the wedding celebrations an inebriated but light-hearted dispute arose between Ossain and Caoilte with regard to who was the stronger of the two. Finn decided that the issue should be resolved by a bout of stone throwing. Killin the two birds of entertainment, and the question at hand, with the one stone. As the lot of them were proceeding outside to observe the contest, Grannia grabs Dirmuid by the arm and out she comes with the whole lot again. She had no intention of marrying Finn, whom she described as 'gruaig liath' and 'muca drom.’ Grey-haired and pig-bellied.

Dirmuid couldn’t believe his ears. It was true that the big fella was getting on, but Finn (as far as Dirmuid was concerned) was neither unsightly nor aged in his appearance, quite the contrary in point of factm and even if he was a little round in the belly, at least there was enough there to take the damp out of the sheets on a frosty night.

At first he consoled her, taking her misgivings to be little more than the anxieties of a bride-to-be upon the eve of her wedding. He laughed warmly and assured her that the belly of his chief was a consequence of the season that was in it. Lately there had been little work done in anticipation of the big day, and man and beast alike were about the business of building up the bit of adipose for the cold months ahead. He promised her that when the hunting season came around again, vitality and the vigour of youth would return to fine physique of his friend and chief.

However, try as he might to cajole and convince, Grannia remained as obdurate as a boot in the muck. The more he tried to persuade her of how great a man her promised husband was, the greater still became her aversion to the impending nuptials. Unbeknownst to Dirmuid things were already in a shambles on account of her believing the same dose of lies she'd already heard from the father and the sisters before she was sent packing from her own house.

The more Dirmuid entreated her to reconsider her position, the greater still became her resolution that she would not conclude the bargain. The sale was lost. He was sinking deeper the more he struggled to get out, and all the while herself is staring at that auld spot on his head, thinking about love and joy and a woman's work never been done and the like. Clare to God if they had a had windows in them days she would have painted the right picture staring outa one, with a bit of soft music in the background and the raindrops beading down the glass.

Then she drops the hatchet and swears to Dirmuid that it was himself she loved, and that if he refused to help her flee from Almhu, that very night, she would take her own life. It was a pity that the dining hall had emptied and no one about to see the spectacle, sure twod have torn the heart out of a cabbage.

Well I needn’t tell you, that put the fire into himself, he was like a bull with a bellyache. And to make matters worse, she starts with the dramatics and stumbles to the floor with a clatter and a bang as he shakes himself free from her white knuckles and bawlin eyes. All the talk of ‘love’, of doin away with herself, and putting down his Chief, had put the grump on him rare style, and he stomps for the door.

Mind you, if it had have gone the other way it would have been a lovely scene altogether; a round wafer of yellow moon in all of its ambivalent splendour, shining through the open doorway as yer man was goose-steppin towards it. He was just about to go when Grainne calls to him from the flagstones in a voice that was straight as a dye and cool as a cucumber. Only for the noise and carry-on outside, you could have heard a fiver hit the ground of the big hall where she lay in all her glory. So he stops beneath the thick scorched lintel of the door, not fit to turn around on account of the huff he was in, which in them days was a great dig to someone, if you didn’t look at them and they speaking to you. With the moonlight throwin a shadow behind him and the little stars barely getting a look in, her red-eyed self pipes up to him from the floor, speakin the auld brogue, so he'd know she meant business.

"Dathrigh do Geis, mo ghra!" "Dathrigh do Geis!" Says she said with a hauntin crack in her throat that would have swallowed a boat.

He had heard enough, and off out the door he storms without even lookin back at her. It was not until he had walked some distance beyond, into the darkness when the meaning of her words became clear. Outside of the great hall the night was mild, the air still, and the earth was bathed in soft moonlight, but somebody walked across his grave, and his heart sank into despair. 'Remember your Geis my love...' said she. What in the name of God was he to do? Didn’t she have him by the smalls!

If there had been such a thing as a smoke in them days he would have sucked the life out of a fag on the spot. After a while sulkin about in gloomy thought, he joined the rest of them on the other side of the hill. In the midst of all the revelry, he managed to have a quiet word and get a bit of guidance from his auld pals Caoilte and Ossain, who could give him no joy and in despair they too agreed that he had no choice but to honour his Geis, and help the quare one to get out of Dodge. Bad and all as things were, the lads assured him they would speak with Finn, and try to assuage the rage that would inevitably follow their flight.

When the guests returned indoors from the merriment, and began to dance to the jigs a reels that were peelin off the Ollamh’s harp, Dirmuid took herself by the hand as if to dance, and without a word between them the pair slipped out of the great hall and made for the stables. In the short and long of it the story might have ended there, had he given her the parsnip she'd been hankering after, but Dirmuid was an honourable man. He decided that he would head west and cross the Shannon, as fast as a well banged schliter. He would return herself to her father as soon as he could, and let her do what she wanted after that. He didn’t speak a word to her, but threw her over the back of his horse like a four stone bag of spuds. He set his heels to the mare and they galloped out of the stables like a gust of fresh air, away across the moonlit fields. That was the start of it, a dirty big mess by all accounts and a woman at the back of it all, again. Tis a wonder any of us has mothers at all!

The Pursuit

It was some time before Finn or his company noticed the absentees. Though several of the Fianna knew of the elopement, none had the courage to approach the Chief himself with the news. At a pause in the music Finn called for Grannia, and a drawn out silence descended upon the gathering, interrupted only by little whispers here and there, like crickets on a warm still night. The final notes from the Ollamh's harp quivered for a moment before they flitted about the great hall, in search of a hiding place and then all was silent.

For a moment the warrior prince was confused. His wiry eyebrows came together like two caterpillars on a stick, and the skin on his forehead folded like the furrows of a freshly ploughed field. Amid an eerie silence he cast his gaze across the surface of the lake and his grey eyes sparkled with the stirrings of understanding. He placed his thumb between his lips³and the worst imaginable indignity was paraded before his mind with carnival splendour.

The sympathetic looks of his companions seemed at once to be sneering at him, and for the briefest moment he felt ashamed of himself; an older man to have taken a mere girl as a bride. His grey hair, round belly and the loose, brown pocked skin over his broad sinewy hands, became unsightly disfigurements affirming his senescence. The wealth and opulence of his surroundings; the great hall the trophies hung upon the lime-washed walls, and the finery of his guests, all conspired to grin at his folly and he felt his impotence acutely. He was past his prime, a has-been, spending the inflated currency of bygone days, a tired old man whom Grannia had been justified in despising.

However this despair and deprecating introspection was unfortnately short lived and it was put to bed as soon as his anger got out the other side of it. He rose from the table and cast aside the shroud of senility and weakness, towering above the gathering in all his angry splendour he let a roar out of him, first for his sword, and then for his horse. By jingo, there was going to be hell to pay!

Ossain was the first to plead with his father and try to explain the awful predicament that Dirmuid had found himself in. Caoilte too, begged Finn not to be rash, to think the matter over; but anger and drink were on the boil, and Finn felt that his friends and even his son might inwardly condone the terrible insult he had received on the eve of his wedding. He made an awful scene as he hurried angrily from the dinning hall, calling to his scurrying servants, all the while not quiite certain who to trust and who exactly to blame. His hounds Bran and Sceoling would catch the scent of the traitor, and the capricious woman who had turned him into the laughing stock of the nation. Outside the great hall he shouted the Dord Fian, and the warriors had no choice but to leave their soup, their hay, and the embrace of their lovers to unite behind their chief.

Fortunately for Dirmuid, as the warrior troop set out from Almhu the half of them were full to the gills with drink and a great deal of time was spent falling off horses and going about in circles before order could be brought to bear and the pursuit begun in earnest. As they left the fort of Almhu and made for the Royla Plains of Meath, many of the more sober warriors tried hard to convince Finn of Dirmuid's innocence, making much of the signs and symbols Dirmuid had left in his wake, in the hope of impressing upon his chief, that he had respected the questionable chastity of his charge. However, try as they might the cement had dried, and Finn was in no form to speak on the subject of reconciliation.

Along their travels anger and jealously clouded his vision and this at least prevented him from noticing the dogs barking firecly and plainively on the the occasiona when Ossain or Caoilte would direct the troop towards the longer road or the crooked path so as to let Dirmuid slip away unnoticed. They all hoped that after a few days travelling Finn’s anger would cool and that he might be brought around to a better and more rational view of things.

The Boar of Bulben

After three days of restless travel Dirmuid and Grainne arrived at the bay of Sligo far to the north west of Almhu. There, an abundance of shellfish were to be had, and after filling their bellies they sought refuge in the shadow of the nearby mountain. The forest and the lakes about Ben Bulben offered safe hiding and from there they could easily make the passage north to Grainne’s home in Ulster. The lands about were wild and desolate, there were few inhabitants, as a consequence of numerous De Dannan mounds, and the accounts of wild boars that roamed about the lowlands, hungry for a lamb, a wolf, or a fat child. The bogs too were known to shift in the night and many's the sober traveller had been swallied whole on account of putting the wrong foot before Apart for the men who came to the bay to harvest the shellfish when the season was in it there were few visitors to that beautiful but rather barren land.

If you ask me, the storyteller digressed, following a hearty swill from his measure. It was, no different to many places today, horrid nice to look at on a good day, but you’d be hard pressed to find a bit of clay that would carry a spud, and that was the main reason why the local people weren’t tripping over each other for the want of a plot or a paddock or footin the sod .

Well, by the time the pair had reached the slopes of the mountain Finn and his company were not far behind them, but thanks to the interference of Dirmud's friends, the dogs lost the scent once again and the Fianna spent much of the day tramping about the marshland, unwinding the hope that Finn might tire of the pursuit and they might return home to what was left of the drink at Almhu.

The next morning morning Dirmuid strayed from the relative safety of the woods where he and Grannia had been camped, and travelled for some distance upon the, southern-slopes of the mountain in search of game. He had speared a hare and was about to descend towards the woods once more when he halted before a movement in the thicket before him. He raised his spear, but was reluctant to throw it for fear that one of his estranged companions might be in hiding there. That moment of hesitation was to cost him dearly, for when the branches before him parted, they revealed the bristling snout panting and, rushing headlong towards him, slashing the undergrowth between them with two dirty yellow horns.

Dirmuid cast his spear deep into the side of the beast, but still the creature rushed towards him. He tumbled backways, pulling his knife from his belt but the boar was on top of him. The pair became locked in a deadly embrace kicking a hail of muck and dirt up into the air with a ferocious squealing that frightened the daylights outa birds and beasts for miles around. All the while the big brute of a boar gashed at Dirmuid’s chest and stomach with its pointed yellow tusks as the poor craythur burried his knife deep into its bloodied leather hide again and again.

His strength soon began to fail and when finally the great boar slumped to the ground grunting it’s last steamy breath, Dirmuid could hardly stand. He swayed unsteady upon his feet as his vision became dulled and the blood encrusted knife fell from his limp fingers. The world became a dim grey and his only thoughts were of having dishonoured his dear friend. He fell not far from where the creature lay with the sorrow in his heart numbing the pain of his many wounds.

Bran and Sceoling no longer sniffed about the bog for Dirmuid's scent for they alone of the party had heard the squeals of the great boar, from so far away. Earlier in the day the warriors had been moving slowly, often retracing their steps as the hounds would loose and then regain the scent on the far side of some pond or lake. Suddenly and simultaneously they paused motionless with ears erect, petrified for the briefest moment before they began to bound towards the source of the squeels.

By the time Dirmuid’s companions arrived at the clearing the awful carnage was complete. The mighty boar lay motionless upon the earth, Dirmuid's spear sticking from its side like the shaft of an abandoned pitchfork protruding from a cock of hay. The creature's tusks were smeared with blood, and the fine grey hairs of its under-belly seemed unnatural, painted as they were with pink and violet from the many strokes of Dirmuid's blade.

Beside the creatures twitching limbs lay Dirmuid's bloodied and partially disembowelled body. His friends rushed towards him as Finn pushed aside the tawny brush and entered into the clearing. Caoilte quickly determined that although Dirmuid was as still and as white as death, the life was still in him. More warriors arrived and upon the realisation that a solitary leaf clung to the boughs of hope, they turned to the chief; for only he had the power to turn the boat and wrest Dirmuid's waning life from the jaws of death.

Finn had the gift of healing, and any man who received a draught of water from his hands would be cured of his wounds, regardless of their severity. However, the healing draught would only rouse the living, and it was of no use to one who had already passed on to the other side. It was for this reason that the warriors of the Fianna looked anxiously to Finn to save the life of their friend. Indeed at the sorry sight of Dirmuid with the dust about him muddied black with blood, Finn was moved to pity. Ossain called to his father, telling him that he had passed a spring, on the way to the clearing. He led Finn through the woods to where the water bubbled from ground as though escaping a wound in the crust of the earth. Finn knelt and filled the cup of his hands with a life saving draught, and together they hurried back towards the clearing.

By the time they reached the clearing however, his auld squint got the better of him, the anger festered once again like a dirty sore. He gazed down upon Dirmuid's ashen face and it seemed to reflect his own age and ugliness. Poisoned recollections of the elopement rushed into his consciousness on a swell of bitterness rising from the pit of his stomach.

Wasn’t he the fool to be helping the one who had made a thick of him? Bringing back to life the very traitor he'd been scouring the land for? Torn by jealously derided by vanity, he spilled the life saving drops onto the dust.

The warriors of the Fianna let out a moan of despair, for none would oppose their Chief. Ossian at last called out to his father, his voice full with grief, to have pity on their friend and companion. Almost immediately his bitterness passed like a cloud across the face of the moon. Finn felt the sting of Ossian’s words and he ran to the spring once again. His movements were uncertain as though floundering in the midst of a daze. He prevaricated and muttered to himself as one who had taken leave of his senses. He returned with another draught leaking from between his fingers. owever before he let the drops fall upon Dirmuid’s parched lips he was haunted again by that same bitterness, and he opened is hands spilling the water upon the ground.

The soldiers of the Fianna were leppin, the insult Finn had suffered through Dirmuid's elopement, was no less than that which he brought upon himself with this faltering between the spring and the dying body their companion.

The Warrior Prince was blind to the world about him. He could merely watch and feel that bubbling cauldron, boiling and spilling its contents into his mind.

Three times he returned to the spring, and upon the third occasion he had finally determined to overcome his anger. But by then it was too late, and when he finally let the crystal drops fall upon Dirmuid's face, the spirit of the 'love spot' had already passed into the custody of the waiting Dannan spirit who stood nearby, unseen to all watchin on with disapproval. Realising that all was lost and overcome by grief and the torment within his heart Finn knelt by Dirmuid’s body and sobbed aloud:

Cen ainius

In gnim I do-rigenius

An ro carus ro craidius

Ni chela:

Ba hesium mo chrideserc

Cia no carainn cachchena

Deilm ndega

rothethainn mo chridese;

ro-fess, nicon bia cena.

Aengus Og

Of all the immortals it was Aengus Og, the Dagda’s own son, who took a particular interest in the affairs of the Fianna. Aengus had been fond of both Finn and Dirmuid, and it was he who had waited at the clearing on the day of Dirmuids’s demise. He ushered the warrior’s spirit through the air eastwards across the land to his own mound at the bend of the Boyne, where the two would converse through the long hours of day, upon poetry, politics, nature, the price of drink, politics, ecumenical matters, and all things dear to the heart of the Gael.

Aengus had watched Finn's carry-on, his runin between Dirmuid and the spring like a headless chicken. He related the story of the day's events to the immortal elders amongst whom Finn had once found favour.

The elders were not impressed and in keeping with a most ancient and respected Irish tradition a tribunal of enquiry was established on the spot, in order to get to the bottom of the thing. After some time and lengthy disocourse on the matter the all importnt 'terms of reference' were finally agreed upon. Certain members of the tribunal vehemently condemned the warrior Prince; and to give the deliberations a flavour of fairness, certain others advocated the warrior’s side. The enquiry solicited accounts from various parties, and examined the matter from all possible angles, standpoints, views and perspectives.

Several times during heated deliberations, the Dagda himself was compelled to appeal for calm, rapping his gavel violently upon the polished ledge of his lectern, for the debates often became riotous and, on more than one occasion seemed on the verge of a melee. I 'm told be them that know, that the shouting and roaring down below during this debate was felt above as the only earthquake the islanders have experienced from that day to this.

Several times the meeting had to be adjourned prematurely and re-opened later in the day when passions had cooled somewhat. Expert opinions were sought, historical precedents examined, and individual Dannans were called upon to relate personal experiences of both credible and incredible relevance.

The minutes of the meetings were recorded meticulously. Respites were concluded in a timely fashion, and finally, after several reconsiderations, and the going over of facts from the very beginning; the De Dannan elders unanimously decided that Finn Mac Cumhal should pay a fitting price for his behaviour.

Some years were to pass before the punishment of the Gods was to come to its fruition and when it did arrive, it was only the Druids themselves who could declare the antecedent causes of the terrible misfortune.

The beginning of the end

After Dirmuid's death, Grannia, grief-stricken and heartbroken was returned to her father the King of Ulster, who flew into a rage when he learned of the manner in which his daughter had been treated by the Fianna. Though not powerful enough to defeat them himself, the old King was determined that he would be avenged, and he began to scheme and plot for the downfall of the warrior troop.

The Fianna returned to Almhu their faith in their Chief undermined to such an extent that several of the warriors began to look for alternative employments. In the years that followed, there began an almost imperceptible deterioration in the esteem which the Fianna had hitherto been afforded by most of their countrymen. Over time and with the help of the invidious machinations of the King of Ulster; several of the provincial kings came to resent the yearly tributes demanded by the Fianna. The Ulster king eventually secured the support of several of the provincial kings, and he refused to pay. All but the King of Connacht supported him in an act that was sure to result in open conflict.

To make matters worse, an ancient and internal feud erupted between the two dominant clans of the Fianna; the Clan Bascna and the Clan Morna.

The divisions within and the contentions without, were not to the extent that a peaceable resolution was inconceivable. However, since the death of Dirmuid it seemed to some of the warriors that the good sense of their Chief had been polluted, that his prowess and even his wits were being dulled by this sombre brooding.

Finn’s melancholy, if it could be called that, was far from the insanity that had driven King Sweeny to the trees, and most of his troops remained loyal, however he had become dark and morose, to the point that he paid little attention to the divisions that had begun to divide the rank and file of his troops.

Most of his companions believed that in time Finn would recover from his grief; that he would atone for his misdeeds, and seek to make peace with the Gods, and with King of Ulster, whom they knew was scheming against him. With the passage of time the hopes of his companions might have been realised but those slender cracks began to open and gape at one another, before the warrior prince was to suspect their ominous presence.

In those years the unity of the Fianna and even the authority of the High King began to fray and come apart at the seams. Clouds were ever-present, seasons became uncertain and war became inevitable. The provincial kings aligned themselves with the clan Morna who had split from the Fianna. Finn and his remaining followers were to meet their antagonists on the plains of Moytura, where the last great stand of the Fianna was to take place.

Grannia could not have given her heart to Finn as she had given it to another and neither could Finn devote his heart to the impending conflict, as it was given over to despair and weighted down with regret.

The battle was fiercely contested and in the early hours it seemed that indecision might visit catastrophe upon the Fianna. Unlike previous struggles, the warrior prince took no pleasure in commanding his warriors. He was plagued by an alien uncertainty that cost him the advantage on several occasions. Yet the Fianna had never known defeat under his leadership and after much bloodshed and heavy losses upon both sides, they slowly began to reclaim the battlefield. Their enemies began to retreat west of Moytura where they regrouped for a final onslaught.

By the close of the day the king of Ulster was slain, along with many of Finn's former companions of the Clan Morna. Men were made of hardy stuff in them days, and the courage of their enemies did not waver as they charged at the Fianna, once more. The air was filled with the clang and clatter of swords, the whinny of horses, and shouts of men in anger and agony. Twas a horrible sight to behold at any hour of the day; the ground soaked in a slurry of mud and butchery, with the carcasses of horses and men littered about the plains like spuds in a stew.

The Fianna held their ground and at the end of it the Clan Morna and their allies abandoned all hope of success. But as the last of them were fleeing the battlefield Finn, turning to call the Dord Fian to his companions, was struck from behind with a spear, one of several cast by the retreating host.

He fell from his horse, and the shaft was snapped in two as he hit the ground, its slender blade driven deeper into his back. When he opened his eyes he had no puff left in him at all and was in a bad way altogether. He lay upon the earth for some moments before the others noticed that he had fallen. Their enemies were routed and the remaining warriors were in pursuit across the plains.

Ossain was the first to reach his father's side and he tried with his bare hands to stem the flow of blood. When some of the others finally arrived with water he filled the cup of his father's hand and bade him drink, that he might heal himself.

A grey pallor veiled the Chief’s countenance as Ossain directed the trickle of water from the palm of a limp hand. Suddenly the wounds that seemed to cover his body, began to oppose and heal themselves. Other warriors arrived and to the tearful delight of all present Finn’s blood ceased to flow. When the shaft of spear was removed from his back the gaping also closed and the crisp hues of a setting sun began to flush the warriors skin once more.

Yet the joy of the victorious company was plentyworn by the death and bloodshed that was all about them, and only whispered prayers of thanks could be heard from the quietly weeping troop of tired and broken warriors.

Although they had been victorious at Gabhra, the Fianna had been severely chastised, so much so that they would never again be the dominant military force in the land. With heavy hearts they carried their Chief and the bodies of the dead and wounded away from the battlefield.

It was generally felt that Finn would wake after he had recovered his strength, however the expectations of his companions were in vain. Indeed, he had recovered fully from his wounds, vitality coloured his skin and the pulse of life bounded within, yet he did not stir, and his companions could do nothing to rouse him from his slumber.

Hours burned into days, and the days melted into seasons, still their slumbering chief did not arise and go. The many and often imaginative efforts of his companions were utterly ineffective; the shaking, prodding, shouting; the banging of drums, the application of still water procured from deepest and blackest of wells, the incantations of his druids and even the ear close baying of his beloved hounds, were all to no avail.

For a year and a day the Fianna watched over the motionless body of their Chief. Then at last through the burning of green twigs and pouring of blessed water onto the hot ashes, the Druids deciphered what immortals had decreed. But the word from below was not good… and the half of them would have preferred to have heard the worst. The Gods had unanimously declared that Finn Mac Cumhal would never again see the faces of his companions, nor would he walk amongst them once more as their proud and illustrious leader. As a punishment for his vengeance and his vanity, the De Dannan immortals had declared that Finn would sleep until each and all of his people had followed Dirmuid into the kingdom of shadows. No more would he walk beneath bended bow, nor feel the meadows beneath his feet. Never again would he ride across the plains of Almhu, calling the Dord Fian, to hear it answered by the baying of his hounds and the shouts of his companions.

And that wasn’t the worst of the Draconian decree. For as long the memory of his great deeds lived; the warrior Prince would sleep. For a thousand years, or ten thousand years, for however long it would take to be forgotten. He would neither hunt, feast nor fish until the winds of time had washed his memory from the hearts and minds of his people. Such was the punishment of the Gods.

You can imagine yourself the awful sight of a quarry of grown men, fine strapping lads of the auld stock, solid lumps of pig iron… all bursting out into tears at the news. Twas contagious, after hearing the news every man jack and Jake of them was bawling his eyes out, snivelling and slobbering onto top of the shoulders of the one next to him. Then after they had given over the bawling the half of them wouldn’t believe the druids, but sure enough after a few more moons of waiting, the last of the doubting Deborahs came to accept the fate of their chief. The Fianna were united in grief and felt that Finn was as dead as a door nail. Few could imagine that the sun could smile upon a day when the warrior’s great deeds would be forgotten by his people. The sky would become black and empty, the firmament would be littered with the remnants of fallen stars, time would have given out like a spent donkey, and the immortals would have fled the world below before Finn would be forgotten

With salted tears of holy sorry they carried his body to Ben Bulben, near to the clearing where Dirmuid had fallen. There, upon the reticent slopes they found a cave, and after sacred fires had been burned within and the place had been sanctified by their druids, Finn’s body was carefully deposited inside upon a broad flat stone.

All about him were placed those provisions which he might need upon the impossibility of his awakening. The sleeping Prince was decked up to the nines like one of the Pharaohs. His spear and his sword were placed by his side, large earthen vessels filled with hardened black bread, dried fish and salted meats, were stacked about the walls of that gloomy cavern. The Fianna included caskets of seeds, bows, arrowheads and even two clay pots filled with ingots of gold, in the unlikely event that such currencies might have a value beyond the grave.

Although they had been severely chastised at the battle of Gabhra, the Fianna endowed the tomb of their somnolent chief with every necessity should the day arrive. The strongest of the warriors pushed an enormous boulder before the mouth of the cave, and the spells and incantations of the druids rendered it invisible to all but the immortals themselves. Upon a nearby outcrop of stone the Druids carved out a poem that has long since faded but I’ told it went something like this:

Cursed by fate to sleep until

no longer memory’s heart does fill

to rise the day your deeds forgotten

And wisdom's seeds be black and rotten

Know you Finn, that should you waken,

The Gods of Erin have been forsaken.

No longer Dannan's blessings share,

The end of time is in the air.

If you should walk the soil of Erin,

Then soil be dust and dust be heaven.

There be no hills nor glens to wander.

There be no time for you to squander.

Grieve not dear Prince and you alone,

For all that's dear to thee is gone.

the land about you is but a vault,

It’s filled with dust and bones.

Banba's back is but a graveyard,

Her mountains are it's tombstones.

Brave sons and daughters are no more,

and death's pale demons wander

Take up your sword and pierce your side,

Join us, in our eternal slumber.

“Bravo!”Finerty shouted from the bar. Zeus ignored the interjection and chose instead to pluck his empty glass from the table and stare, distractedly into the rusty dregs.

“So there you have it” he said, tapping the heel of the glass upon the marble so as to draw attention to the fact that it had been empty for far too long.