The Wood of the Turning Timbers

By late morning, young Finn had reached the northern boundary of the mysterious Wood of the Turning Timbers. To see the dark forest close up was ominous and awe-inspiring. Its trees, aged and huge, were weighted with billows of tangled moss and moist with lichen and fern. Here and there, a brightly colored toadstool poked from the bowel of some tree; there was an occasional flitting of some winged creature and perhaps a slim needle or two of sunlight to pierce the endless gloom, but outside of this, everything was dense, quiet and unmoving. There was no gradual development of more significant trees and thicker green; the boundary of the wood was eerily distinct and abrupt. On one side were open and sunlit glens; on the other, nothing but grim silhouettes in an ancient and shadowy stillness. Finn sighed deeply, placed his hand securely on the hilt of his sword, and ventured forward.

The deeper he penetrated the forest, the more alive and oppressive it became. Strange twists of branches and hoary throws of moss gave the trees an eerie and almost human-like appearance. Finn glanced involuntarily over his shoulder several times, sure he was being watched. Were there not eyes peering from that burl of tree knots? Was there not a slender form gazing from the hollows of the far dimness? But for all he might wander and search, there was no one to be found.

Years of rigorous training with Bodhmall had taught Finn that whenever he traveled in a strange and unknown place, he should leave a clear trail behind him by occasionally snapping a bit of branch as he walked. Shortly before midday, he came upon his course of broken limbs, revealing that the previous full hour of travel had only brought him more or less to where he had begun.

He'd gone in a circle.

Finn could hardly believe his eyes. He was within meters of the exact spot he'd initially entered the wood. He felt ashamed and foolish. Bound and determined to avoid making the same mistake twice, he carefully took new bearings. Tightly girding his sash, he set off anew.

It was more than an hour later before he found he'd done it again, traveling a different circle from a slightly different direction, but plain as could be, there were his footprints and the marked trail once more. Furious, he swung wildly at a thicket of branches. Twice in a row! Surely there was some explanation, a deceptive land lay or a confusing tree growth pattern? Whatever it was, one fact was certain; he would not be so tricked a third time.

He could not see the sun, but occasional pinholes in the canopy allowed just enough light to give him a fair idea of its location. Resolved to ignore everything by which he would typically orient himself, the darker sides of the trees and hills, the hourly turn of the leaves, and the general movement of the animal paths, Finn decided to align himself solely by the direction of this light. By keeping its brightest rays slightly off his left shoulder, no matter the change in terrain, he could be assured of a course due south.

Traveling in such a purposeful fashion made Finn's route through the wildwood tiring and difficult. Instead of skirting tangles and thickets as was his custom, he bore right through them. Instead of avoiding the dense and marshy places, they held and slowed him. It was, thus, a grueling and frustrating time of travel. Yet, despite all his painstaking care, he soon discovered he'd been returned to the place he'd begun!

If anger had stirred in the bosom of Finn when once and twice over, he was turned about by this eerie wood, dark wariness now took hold. Could mortal cause have deceived him even a third time this day, or was there not something unearthly about this wood, something alive and possessed of will?

"Enchantment!" Finn surmised. From Liath, he had often heard tales of such; Liath, who, in a hushed and guarded voice, would speak of the things of magic and mystery. She had talked of grottos wherein if a man wandered and blinked twice, he'd miss an entire night and return of day. She spoke of hollows haunted by siren-like voices which could lure the lone hunter entrapping him in a spell from which only a druid's knowledge could free him.

Was this forest such a place?

Finn glared defiantly. He was unafraid of magic. With narrowed eyes, he exclaimed, "You would elude me, would you?" And then, in a low, threatening voice, "Not so...not so...."

Yet for all his bravado, his words fell like dry leaves upon the vastness of the place, seeming brittle and still, and no closer had they brought him to the solving of its mystery.

Looking about uncertainly, the youth slumped upon a low stone. He kicked at the earth, wondering idly whether he was the first to have come to this place? Had the old druid, Fingal, once sat upon this very stone? If so, if the old man had passed this way, had he felt much the same as Finn did now?

In the gloom and dismal twilight of the forest, Finn slumped lower and lower. Uncertainty and defeat had begun to creep into his bones. He became aware of a malaise taking hold of him, pulling him down in its dispiriting grasp. His spirits continued to sink, a sense of defeat slipping into his bones. He seemed to grow tired, yearning for sleep even as he slumped lower in his seat.

"No!" he finally called out, stirring against the fatigue. "I must fight this!" One thing was apparent; it was unwise to sit any longer. He must do something and do it quickly.

Peering into the dark reaches of the wood, Finn's eye chanced to fall upon a massive boulder in the far distance, taller by half than a full-grown adult, with a broad flat prominence squarely facing the forest's interior. Fighting determinedly at the heavy weighting of his spirits, the Son of Cumhal arose and made determinedly for this rock. Upon gaining its base, he took up a palm-sized stone, sharp on one edge, and he scratched a large circle quartered by a cross into the boulder's moist green surface.

"A good target," thought Finn, stepping back to eye his handiwork. He reached into his satchel, brought forth his sling, gathered a handful of starter stones, and stood readied to begin the practice of one of the feats of arms Bodhmall had taught him.

It was a simple enough solution to Finn's way of thinking. If he couldn't as yet solve the mystery of the enchanted wood, he might as well ignore it!

Bodhmall had called the exercise the Feat of the Eye Without Turning. He was to imagine the target– the circle quartered by a cross – to be a menacing beast or foe he could not overcome. While making a hasty retreat by zigzagging from tree to cover, he would worry the imaginary adversary with rapid volleys from his sling.

Only one rule lay upon the exercise. Never, no matter what were Finn's eyes to stray from the target. To hold to this rule meant running without looking, leaping without waiting, and falling back without turning, all guided by the merest peripheral sense of his surroundings given to him by the very corners of his vision.

It was no small feat, indeed.

Feet braced wide, Finn slowed his breath, calmed his mind, and crouched low for the start. In the blink of an instant, he was on his way. Bolting, springing, and twisting, first this way, then that, from cover to tree, from tree to rock, he dipped and bounded furiously, letting fly with volley after volley of stones hastily snatched on the run. The target was soon nicked and peppered from bursting rock, Finn taking joy in the strength of his arm and the fierceness and freedom of his aim. What was behind him he could not see, or what was before him, he did not care. He vaulted by the merest sense of the earth and ducked at the blur of a tree limb at the corner of his eye. Target, sling, stone, and movement had become one thing. He had a mind for nothing else. All his concentration was on the thrill of stone after stone plummeting from their long arcs to crack within that quartered circle.

But in the last, even his joy could not defy the gathering strain on his limbs. Sweating and panting heavily, his body began to give way. His movements wearied, his throws became weaker, and his aim more erratic. When he could humanly push no farther, Finn drew back for one final, all but hopeless attempt to span a distance his eye could now barely measure. Coiling the last of his strength into his legs and lower back, stretching his arm to the limit of its reach, he reared that one final inch, and then...