Fionn: The Stalking Silence

Fionn: The Stalking Silence

  Short Story Prequel to the Fionn mac Cumhal Series

  BRIAN O’SULLIVAN

  IrishImbas Books

  © Copyright Brian O’Sullivan 2014

  Published by Irish Imbas Books

  ISBN: 978-0-9941062-3-0

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  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  Fionn: The Stalking Silence

  Note from the Author

  Chapter 1: Defence of Ráth Bládhma

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Other Books by Brian O’Sullivan

  Foreword:

  The following short story and its characters are based on ancient narratives from the Fenian Cycle and in particular the Macgnímartha Finn (The Boyhood Deeds of Fionn) - a twelfth century narrative that attempted to collate a number of much earlier oral tales about Fionn mac Cumhal and the Fianna. In Irish mythology, Muirne Muncháem was the mother of the legendary hero Fionn mac Cumhal.

  This particular story is a prequel to my own interpretation of the Macgnímartha Finn (the Fionn mac Cumhal series) which is actually quite a short document. The original is also quite sparse in terms of character details and background because, of course, these would already have been well known to contemporary audiences of the time. This particular story also forms the prologue for Fionn: Defence of Ráth Bládhma – Book One of the Series.

  Many of the personal and place names used from before the 12th century. For those readers who would like to know the correct pronunciation of these names, an audio glossary has been developed and is available at https://irishimbasbooks.com/ .

  I hope you enjoy the story.

  Fionn: The Stalking Silence

  The animal appeared in the afternoon, when the best of the sunshine had faded. The first indication of its presence was a shudder of movement between the distant trees, then slowly but surely, the shadows congealed to form a grey timber wolf.

  It took some time before the beast emerged into the wide clearing that separated the two sections of darkwood. There it paused, cautiously assessing the surrounding terrain as it sniffed the chilly air.

  Seated on a patch of rock at the opposite side of the clearing, Muirne Muncháem observed the predator’s arrival with a tremor. She had traversed that same space not much earlier and her footprints – two staggered lines of blunt impressions – were still visible against the otherwise virgin surface.

  Although a young woman of less than twenty summers, Muirne was close to the limit of her physical endurance. Two weeks of trekking through the Great Wild, trudging through the snow-stained forest and woodland, had sapped her of vitality. Despite her youth, the journey had been arduous, due in no small part to the weight of the child in her swollen belly.

  She’d stumbled upon the clearing around noon, halting to recover her strength and enjoy the rare sensation of sunshine upon her face. Despite the internal drive to press onwards, she’d been unable to rouse herself and had tarried, reluctant to leave the sunlight for the relentless gloom of the forest that lay before her.

  She bit her lip as she continued to watch the animal. Na mactíre – literally, “the sons of the land” – were not uncommon but few sightings had been reported for a very long time. Prior to her flight from Dún Baoiscne, Muirne had made a point of listening into any discussions concerning wolves, hoping to identify a time for travel that would increase her chances of avoiding such an encounter.

  Muirne Muncháem feared wolves. As a child, she’d spent many evenings on the palisades of Almhu, her father’s stronghold, listening as the creatures circled unseen in the darkness below. The blood curdling howls echoing out from the surrounding gloom had terrified her, despite the solid height of the tall stone walls, the fortifications patrolled by kinsmen with iron-tipped spears.

  Predators by nature, the wolves generally avoided men. Over several generations they had learned the painful lesson of sharpened metal and tended to focus their energies on easier prey: the deer, hare and other wild animals that inhabited the surrounding countryside. On occasion, they were still known to attack humans, however such attacks were mostly restricted to the weak, the isolated, the foolish or the unlucky. Two seasons earlier, a warrior travelling on horseback to Cruach had dismounted to attend to nature's call, carelessly leaving his weapon in the scabbard attached to his saddle. His grisly remains had been discovered later and the tracks indicated that the horse had bolted, leaving the man defenceless against a passing wolf pack.

  Dagán, the storyteller at Almhu, had a favourite tale of one particularly harsh winter when a starving pack of wolves had penetrated the ráth – the ringfort – where he’d lived in as a child. The animals’ desperation had driven them through the narrow gateway to attack the tethered livestock and their handlers. Although the pack had eventually been driven off, the settlement had lost two cows and one of the men died of the injuries he’d sustained.

  Muirne, too, had experienced the animals’ deadly nature. As a young girl, she’d been present when a wolf pack had set upon a group of women and children collecting winter flowers in the nearby woods.

  She remembered the attack predominantly for its ferocity. They had been chatting and laughing, passing through a pleasant glade on their way back to the fortress, when a horrific howl had halted them in their tracks. An instant later, the little glen was seething with a mass of grey-coated wolves.

  The bulk of the pack had launched themselves upon her cousin, a happy, ten year old boy who’d been running several paces ahead of the group. Surging like a wave of shadows over the terrified child, they bore him to the ground. The vicious sound of snarling and ripping flesh had, mercifully, drowned out most of his screams.

  The remainder of the wolves had launched themselves at the larger party. Panic-stricken, the women and children had dropped their baskets and scattered. As the group fled, two girls had been knocked to the ground by the pursuing animals. Several women, including her cousin’s mother, managed to escape by climbing onto the branches of the nearest trees. Helpless, a babe clutched in one arm and another younger child hanging desperately from her dress, the woman could only cling to the higher branches and scream her despair as her son was dragged into the forest and, literally, eaten alive.

  The attack would have ended even more tragically had it not been for the timely arrival of Fiacail and Torlach, two youths from another clan who’d been passing by on their way to visit Almhu. Hearing the screams, they’d rushed towards the commotion and, wielding their weapons, charged straight at the wolf-pack.

  The sudden appearance of the boys took the wolves by surprise. Startled, the attack had wavered as the animals withdrew in momentary disarray. Fiacail howled at the top of his voice as he swung his axe in vicious, humming arcs. His companion, meanwhile, took the opportunity to grab the two fallen girls, who were screaming in pain and bleeding profusely from lacerations to their arms and legs.

  The taller boy had hoisted the children up to the women in the safety of the trees then quickly clambered after them, calling to his friend to follow his example. By then, however, the pack had reassessed the situation. Realising that this new threat was not as intimidating as originally supposed, they began to advance once more.

  The majority of the wolves
returned to feast on the remains of Muirne’s unfortunate cousin, now little more than an unrecognisable pile of gore and bone between the distant trees. Three of the larger animals, however, converged on Fiacail, hemming him into an open space beside a deep gully that cut him off from the safety of the trees.

  Everyone watched helplessly as the boy was pressed backwards. Whirling the axe to keep the snarling animals at bay, he backtracked slowly, keeping his head as he tested the ground behind with his heel before placing his weight on it. Suddenly, the nearest wolf lunged for him but the boy managed to sidestep the attack, swirling the axe to strike the beast in the ribs with the blunt edge of the blade. It yelped as it landed heavily, stumbling and twisting around to snarl at its opponent.

  The two other wolves growled menacingly, gnashing their teeth as they circled for the next attack. The remainder of the pack, having devoured what remained of their initial victim, also drew close, aligning with their fellows to circle around and test the boy’s exposed side.

  Fiacail was saved only by the arrival of a party of warriors from Almhu. One of the girls, miraculously, had made it to the edge of the forest and encountered a group of men returning from the hunt. The warriors arrived at a run, javelins and clubs in hand. Realizing that they were outnumbered, the wolves had simply disappeared, absorbed back into the shadows of the surrounding trees. Nothing remained of their presence apart from the bloody remains of Muirne’s cousin and the wails of terrified women and children spilling from the trees like the juice of bitter fruit.

  Since that event, Muirne had never lost her dread of the animals and it had only been her desperation that allowed her to overcome her fear and set out on this perilous journey through the Great Wild.

  ‘Malach,’ she muttered quietly to herself, then paused to wonder at why she’d drawn on the name of her deceased cousin.

  An unconscious prayer perhaps.

  Or a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  She released a long breath and tightened her grip on the ash staff she’d used as support during her journey. Just beyond the distant tree line, the wolf paused, nuzzling the ground as it sniffed the earth.

  It follows my spoor.

  She stiffened, her hand automatically dropping to her stomach, as though to reassure the swollen belly. It was an unconscious reaction, an instinctive maternal response.

  The wolf halted abruptly, somehow sensing it was under scrutiny. Raising its head, it stared directly across the flat in Muirne’s direction and, even at that distance, she could sense its pitiless evaluation. An icy bead of fear trickled down her spine as her eyes scanned the distant trees for other signs of movement. If the animal was part of a pack, she would have little chance of surviving the encounter. The thought provoked a tremor of despair that she fought to overcome.

  Fight. Fight for your child.

  If the animal was a lone wolf, ejected from a pack, it would be more cautious without the support of the others and, therefore, less likely to attack. If she kept her head she and her baby could avoid a confrontation and come out alive.

  Across the snow, the creature had not moved but continued its cold assessment. Muirne stood and raised her staff, brandishing its full length above her head. Apart from a small iron dagger, it was her only weapon and a poor one at that. From a distance, however, the slender pole would have the appearance of a spear. If she was able to maintain the illusion of an armed and capable opponent, the wolf would likely keep its distance. If it saw through the deception, identified her for what she truly was: a lone, terrified girl – it would not hesitate to come for her.

  Turning her back on the animal, she gathered several handfuls of snow and coated the exposed patch of rock she’d been sitting on. When the rock was completely covered, she pulled on a fur hat and mittens and strapped a bulging leather satchel across her back. A moment later, she started on the rough trail up the incline leading to the trees high on the hill above her.

  Moving slowly, she forced herself to maintain a steady pace, to disguise any indication of the fear bubbling up inside her. Burdened by the weight of her stomach, however, she was distressed to find how heavily she was breathing by the time she’d reached the tree line. Over the past weeks, she’d grown accustomed to the increasing weight of her belly but it was a dangerous restriction at a time when she could afford no such vulnerability.

  Halting at the tree line, she turned to look back at the clearing and a queasy sensation curdled in her stomach. Much smaller from this height, the figure of the wolf was still clearly visible as it traversed the clearing. Slowly, cautiously, but advancing nevertheless.

  Alarmed, she plunged forward into the forest, the high, closely packed trunks immediately filtering the sunlight and swathing her in shadow. After the brilliance of the sun on the expanse of white snow, the sombre environment of the forest was claustrophobic, the eerie silence sinister and unnerving. As she shuffled through the brittle scrub and briars, she imagined evil faces in the twisted bark and branches but comforted herself with the fact that, at least, the ground beneath the canopy was free of snow and relatively easy to traverse.

  She maintained an uphill path through the trees, in the direction of a gap in the crest that she’d spotted from the clearing. As she climbed, an occasional easing or thinning of the trees permitted her to see the undulating forest spread out around her as far as the eye could see, the smooth green mantle broken in places by individual clearings and waterways. Off to the west, the mass of the Sliabh Bládhma mountains was tantalisingly closer than the last time she’d seen it. Working her way around them she would reach the serpentine weaving of a broad river. One of the tributaries feeding this waterway, she’d been informed, originated from the valley where Ráth Bládhma was located. Another day’s walk at least.

  Shivering, she bowed her head and trudged onwards, a solitary figure engulfed by the immensity of the forest.