The Coming

Deep in the tangled forest, the old hunter's shanty had been so long abandoned its existence was all but forgotten. Its thatched roof was sunken; the walls bowed under the strangle of thick creepers and vines. Yet, for all that the ancient forest had claimed and nearly consumed, an observer with the sharpest eye would have seen on this night, from deep within its hollows, the light of a tiny fire. It flickered weakly, rising and dying, giving little but a musty smoke.

In the distance, a clash of iron was followed by a cry of anguish, then silence. Startled animals scurried in the dark.

It was a night like many others, a night of death and war.

The cottage smelled of rotted cedar, wet stone, and the droplets of creatures that nested in its earthen floor. Along a stained wall lay the bones of some long-dead animal, its skull undisturbed in the place where it had fallen. The orbs of the gray sockets caught the play of shadows, giving it a look of eerie awareness. But the three women who occupied the room gave little thought to the dead, the scurries of tiny creatures, or the emptiness. They listened warily to the distant sounds of strife.

Stretched on a rag-covered cot hurriedly woven from damp vine and hemp lay Murna the Fair, daughter of Tadg. Her breathing was strained, and her pale brow glistened with effort. Her eyes periodically widened as from deep within her womb, the tides of her woman's exertions arose like the swellings of an angry sea. Murna Munchaem* was at the height of labor.

Even in the painful throes of childbirth, she was beautiful. She had bright, chestnut eyes and fine delicate features. Her pale, white skin, wreathed by ringlets of dark, moist hair, made her seem moonlike, of another world. Though her cot was crude, Murna made it seem like a feather bower, so regal was her bearing. She held herself like a queen.

For indeed, she was one.

Her attendants were two crones: the one, small, wiry, and opossum-eyed, and the other tall, thick-limbed and ample. The small one had a chestnut-shaped face with sharply pointed features, bushy eyebrows, and tiny ears that led her attention every instant, so alert were they to the slightest of sounds. She was robed in deep black. When she stepped away from the fire where she attended a small pot of boiling roots, she blended instantly with the night, seeming to disappear.

Her name was Bodhmall** of the Quicken Tree. Few knew much with any certainty about Bodhmall, yet many strange tales attended her doings. Old men who sipped at meade in dusty taverns muttered that she knew the speech of the forest. They said her's were the ways of magic and uncanny arts, that she could see into the workings of people's minds and influence their doings should she wish. In truth, Bodhmall was a druidic priestess, a keeper of ancient Celtic secrets. With ceremonies held in hallowed Stone Circles, it was whispered that the druids could evoke uncanny powers; and Bodhmall was much respected among them. Behind her back, some called her "witch," but no one dared say it openly, for Bodhmall was welcomed in the highest halls of the land, where many a king sought her counsel.

If Bodhmall was small-boned, sober, stringy, and tough; portly Liath Luachra*** was as round as a sweet drop and temperamental as a spring morning. She had large, kindly eyes like the milk cow, hair as gray as mist, cheeks as red as salmon scales, and a broad, full mouth that broke into laughter in a twinkling. She smelled of pine nuts and tree sap. She could lift a newborn calf in one arm and with the other heft a full grain sack. Dressed in loose-fitting smocks of rough spun, brightly colored linens, she seemed like a bulbous flower bent with the first dews of the morning. She was called Liath the Large, and she was a poetess and a dreamer.

To some, Liath appeared simple. She constantly hummed to herself when at work, seeming to have little mind for the affairs of others. In truth, however, Liath was an alert and clever woman, a masterful storyteller and a gifted healer who knew the signs of the seasons. She could imitate the call of the hoot owl and coo like a turtle dove. On this night, Liath, the midwife, cooed to the beautiful Murna.

"Aye dearie, it's coming faster, isn't it? And it grips you ever so fiercely. But don't push yet, lass. Oh no, not yet. It won't be long now. Soon, so very soon. You'll know when..." Liath cooed. "Listen to yourself, girl. You'll know."

Murna smiled weakly and then grimaced as a new tightening of her womb gripped her. Yet, Murna listened -to the aching of her limbs, the pounding of her heart, to the rushing of her blood; and with unexpected quickness, it happened.

Liath cried out, "Aye, girl! Now push! Push, my child! It's your baby! It's your baby!"

A single cry accompanied the baby's birth, and then Murna pressed her newborn son to her chest. She stared in near disbelief. He was so beautiful, with delicate features like hers and hair as fair as the morning sun. With the broad chest and sizable hands of his father, he promised to be tall and commanding. She smiled with pride. With his skin rosily flushed from birth, the light down of her baby's hair seemed all the whiter. "My fair-haired boy," she murmured.

She wrapped and warmed him in the folds of her hair, clutching him as if for all time and against all ill. She wept, touching his tiny fingers and stroking the fair down on his head. The boy would never know his father. Her husband, the mighty Cumhal****of the Clan of the Baiscne*****, had been murdered only a few hours before. Even now, Cumhal's assassins were searching for this child, his father's only heir. Should they find him, they would kill him instantly. Murna stared deeply into her infant's face as if to read therein the tale of a life she would never know. Before this night was out, Murna would have to give up her child to keep him safe, likely never to see him again. Exhausted, she closed her eyes to dream of a life she would never live...

"Awaken child..." Bodhmall whispered. "Awaken..."

Startled, Murna clutched her baby, peering frantically about the room. Slowly, she recognized the place and the women who attended her. Outside the window, the morning star blinked lazily on the horizon.

"Oh... Bodhmall." she sighed. "The time... is it so soon upon me?"

Bodhmall's silence told the whole tale.

Murna turned her sad eyes upon the beautiful son she had so soon brought into the world. Then, with a sigh of courageous resolve, she lifted the baby to the arms of the druidess. Bodhmall immediately crossed to the door where Liath was packed and readied for the long journey ahead. Cautiously, they began to ease the door open.

But Murna called out a final time, "Bodhmall?"

"Yes, my daughter?" the druidess hesitated. She had been afraid of this moment. Would the mother break? Would she not have the strength to do what must be done?

"A moment, good Bodhmall. Bring my son back to me. "

Bodhmall glanced at Liath, uncertain. But Murna understood Bodhmall's heart. "Fear not, Bodhmall. I know I cannot forestall the course of what must be. But I would give something to my son, something of me that he might carry on his journey."

Bodhmall breathed a silent sigh of relief. She crossed, placed the tiny bundle in Murna's arms, and rejoined her waiting friend.

Determination filled the features of the Daughter of Tadg as, for a final time, she turned sad eyes upon this son she had given life. "He's a fair boy, is he not, my Bodhmall?

"Aye, child," the druidess rejoined quietly. "A bonny lad, he is, as fair as the morning sky."

Lifting her son until the pale sliver of dawn from the cottage's eastern window just kissed his tiny features, Murna, the queen, intoned in a commanding voice, "So be it then! Thus, would I name thee! I, Murna, Daughter of Tadg, of the lineage of Lugh, who was named the Long Arm, do call upon thee, Bodhmall, Daughter of Senshin, Priestess of Alba, and thee, Liath Luachra, Liath the Stalwart, Daughter of Menlin, to bear witness to the naming day of this, my child, the blood of my blood, and flesh of my flesh!

"Child of mine, heir of my soul, upon the murder of the father that sired thee, he who was Lord over all the Fianna, Protectorate of the Land and in betoken to the heritage which lies marked both within and without thee, I name thee Finn****** Mac Cumhal, heir to the Dord Fian."

Liath started wide eyed as the name was bestowed upon the infant, glancing in surprise at Bodhmall. A look of wonder came into her eyes. The wiry keeper of ancient and forgotten tales was aware of the significance of this naming. "The prophecy!" she murmured, too low for Murna to hear, "The coming of Finn..."

The druidess turned to her regent, her eyes mysterious and pensive as she answered formally. "It shall be so from this moment on, my lady." She intoned. "Upon my bond as Steward of the Ancient Way, standing surety for the safety and wellbeing of your son, it is your Finn whom we will carry in our arms."

Murna paused for a final instant, gazing upon her child before lifting him to the druidess. Unable to contain her heartbreak, the grieving mother's voice broke as she commanded, "Take him, good women, and quickly! Care for him as I would..."

Murna's sorrow weighed heavily on the two, but they had little choice. Her late husband's enemies would soon find Murna, but with the baby vanished by pathways unknown, Cumhal's murderers would be bound to return the mother safely to her father.

There was no such haven for this child.

The old women would disappear with him into the heart of the unpeopled places, into distant, trackless wildwoods far beyond the rule of men, where hopefully, for a time at least, he would be raised in secret, his only chance for life.

Warily, Bodhmall paused at the doorway, listening intently to the sounds in the dimness while Liath readied the baby. The large woman was well prepared. Several nights earlier, she had come upon a wolf in the forest dying from an arrow in its chest. She had put the poor beast out of its misery with a sharp knife. Before covering it with brambles, however, she gutted it and removed its bladder. This, Liath had filled with milk from a wild forest goat fresh with young. Cinching one bladder opening, she held the other to the boy. He hungrily began to feed from the makeshift teat. So it was that Finn's first meal was from the forest's wildness and the wolves' strength. With the infant made quiet for their escape, the two old women looked briefly to his mother and stepped soundlessly into the night. An instant later, not even the slightest breath of their passage could be heard in the forests.

This recounts the birth of Finn, the greatest of ancient Erin's champions.

What follows is his tale...

Footnotes

*Murna Munchaem (pronounced Mur-na Moon-keim

**Bodhmall (pronounced Baud-Mal)

***Liath Luchra (pronounced Leea-Lukra)

****Cumhal (pronounced Coowel)

*****Baiscne (Pronounced Bae-is-Knee) meaning large tree or stalwart. This the ancestral name of one of the most powerful Old Irish clans of legend

******Finn is the ancient Gaelic word for fair or fair-haired. Mac Cumhal (pronounced Mac Coowel) means son of Cumhal (the name of Finn's father).