Final Days

One year later. It was a quiet morning, unhurried and thoughtful. A bright sun warmed Finn's back as he bent to the spring and began to wash the dishes and implements from his breakfast. As was his habit, Fingal had arisen long before dawn (Finn sometimes wondered if the old man slept at all), eaten, and disappeared into the forest. He would not return until late afternoon if he followed his usual course. Together, they would make supper from roots and herbs the hermit collected, vegetables from the garden, and anything Finn might happen to snare in the day's hunt. 

Raising his hand to shield his eyes, Finn squinted up at the sun, newly glimpsing through the trees. The early calls of the forest, so recently echoing and lonely, were now building into the busy chatter of a full day. A butterfly winged its way, tripping and light, about Finn's head before passing on into the dense green.

It promised to be a peaceful day.

He'd been wrestling with his choice for some time. When Finn mused about it, considering the decision he had come to, it was surprising that the day should seem peaceful.

Late the previous evening, he decided this would be his last day with Fingal.

It was time to go.

He'd been here a year to the day and hungered to be on his way. First, he would have his daily visit to the Salmon. He had yet to tell the druid; he would save that for later. He wanted nothing to ruin that time.

The Salmon.

Finn felt the familiar stab of sorrow in his chest.

Living with the old hermit had been challenging. Even now, Finn found it hard to imagine a more trying, eccentric, and belligerent mule of a human being than Fingal the Mouse. In the first few months, they sometimes went days barely speaking a word to one another, seemingly only if the druid had something to complain about. The Son of Cumhal picked up a wooden spoon from among those lying on the rock beside him.

"Spotlessly clean."

That was the very phrase that ignited their first full-on argument. Despite his personal dishevelment, Fingal was fanatic about the cleanliness and tidiness of his home. Although Finn was quite neat as a rule (Bodhmall and Liath had often praised him for such), with Fingal, orderliness took on an entirely new and extreme meaning. They struggled for weeks over the hermit's exaggerated house rules, with the old druid constantly picking at how Finn cleaned the dishes, made his bed, or tidied the hut. Finally, Finn realized that arguing with the old man was useless. The hermit had seemingly lost all sense of reason long ago. Many was the night Finn fell asleep swearing to himself he would be gone with the dawn, that he could not possibly abide another instant of life with the vexing hermit. Yet, morning would come again, and somehow, he remained.

Not that Finn hadn't eventually, in his way, grown somewhat fond of the old druid. The youth looked admiringly at the wooden spoon in his hand. He recalled how patiently the old man had carved it for him the day after Finn's arrival. He remembered the curl of shavings peeling gracefully with each stroke of his knife. Fingal had shown such care as he tenderly smoothed and polished it, rubbing it with oils until it shined with a deep luster. A year later, though nicked and dulled with much use, it was always instantly comfortable in Finn's grip. Placing it with the others on the stone, the youth sighed and bent to pick up all the 'now spotlessly clean' dishes and carry them to the hut.

Once Finn had learned to tolerate (if not fully accept) the old hermit's eccentricities, they eventually found their way to a wordlessly negotiated peace. In his way, Fingal proved an amiable enough companion. The druid was a master storyteller with a seemingly endless wealth of tales from ancient times. He not only wove into his storytelling the rhythmic cadence and intonations of an accomplished bard, but he always revealed to Finn the veiled gems of wisdom and teaching insights hidden within the tales. Finn had come to respect the wealth of the old hermit's knowledge. He understood now why the curious druid, however trying in some respects, had once been welcomed in the highest halls of the land.

Once the dishes were put away in their respective nooks, the Son of Cumhal picked up his calf-high leggings and set about lacing them. He recalled a time in the dead of winter when he and the old hermit had been trapped inside their shelter for two days by a fierce snowstorm. The old man abruptly announced he would make new shoes for Finn. "To pass the time," the hermit mumbled, "and for no other reason." Finn smiled at the memory. Even then, he knew it wasn't the truth. But as he thought about it, this was perhaps the beginning of their odd friendship.

The welcome change between them had started several weeks before with an unexpected crisis.

Fingal, as usual, had gone off early one morning after doing all of his strange contortions in the field outside their hut. "Meditative Postures," he called them. To Finn's way of thinking, Fingal's "meditative postures" were anything but. A more bizarre progression of the most bewildering mix of strange contortions, weird breathing exercises, and eerie intonations young Finn could not imagine. But hours later, when the time for Fingal's return came and went, Finn grew worried. Dusk and foul weather were rapidly threatening. They were having cabbage stew that night, Fingal's favorite. It didn't make any sense for the old man to be late. Finn set off in search of him.

In the strengthening winter gloom, it took the youth several hours to finally track the old man down. He found him lying unconscious at the bottom of a ravine. He'd lost his footing and fallen. He was scraped and cut in several places, and his right knee was swollen to twice its normal size. After Finn was finally able to arouse him, through no small effort, he half carried him back to their hut. Luckily, he had not broken the leg, only severely sprained the knee. The skies spilled violent storms that night as Fingal lay in a deep fever. It was two days before the fever broke and several weeks before Fingal could get up and about again.

After that, things began to change between Finn and the old man. Perhaps it was gratitude on the hermit's part, or maybe Fingal realized during those weeks that it was solely Finn's care that kept him alive. Whatever it was, the old man softened and became less edgy. They even began to talk most evenings. Usually, the conversation was about plants and herbs, for Fingal was an avid authority on growing things. He knew the most extraordinary facts about obscure roots, mushrooms, and leafy green things, not just those growing in Erin but other lands. In a few rare cases, Finn could add to Fingal's knowledge by telling him of plants that Bodhmall had instructed him in little-known uses of, which Fingal was keen to learn.

The one subject Finn knew never to bring up was the Salmon of Knowledge.

The Salmon. Again, that stab of sadness in his heart.

Deep down, Finn knew why he had stayed and persisted in tolerating the hermit's grumpy hospitality and trying ways.

The Salmon of Knowledge.

They were the real issue, the actual parting.

Having laced on his footwear, Finn arose, took one last gaze about the camp to ensure all was neat and in order, and set off. In no rush, he meandered along the well-worn path. This was his last visit with the otherworldly creatures, and he wished to savor every moment.

The Salmon. They were indeed a painful subject for both him and the old druid.

At various times throughout the past year, Finn chanced upon bits and pieces of some new, failed fish trap Fingal had devised; its broken disregard was clear evidence that Fingal had never given up on his stubborn pursuit of the Salmon. Finn worried about the druid succeeding in his quest; how would Finn feel if the old man caught one of the mystic salmon? With time, however, it became clear to Finn that if the Salmon didn't want to be caught, they wouldn't be. These were no ordinary creatures subject to the physical laws of mortal seas but mythic beings of legend, answering to mysterious commandments all their own.

The youth took three quick steps and leaped for a tree branch high above his head, caught it quickly, and did several quick chin-ups before dropping lithely to the ground. Each morning on his walk to visit the Salmon, this had been his ritual, to leap for that branch. Only a few weeks back, he could reach it for the first time. He knew he'd grown six inches since last spring from this and the extra length he'd sewn into his pant legs.

Each in their way, Fingal and Finn shared a deep but different pain about the salmon.

To the druid, The Salmon of Knowledge were a link to mysteries of some unseen world he longed to know but could never fully grasp, a source to some mysterious enlightenment about the hidden natures of all things; elusive, distant, and unobtainable.

For Finn, the Salmon of Knowledge were never the age-old desire of sages and scholars, never the keys to unlock secret wisdom or even objects of unearthly wonder. For this orphaned youth of only eight summers, whose father had been murdered, who lost his mother, whom himself lived every conscious moment in mortal danger, the Salmon of Knowledge were far from some immortal and rarified creatures or visiting gods from another world.

For Finn, they were so much simpler.

They made him happy.

On those peaceful banks of the Pool of the Wood, the young Son of Cumhal found the only place he felt alone, safe enough, to become –if even for a moment– a child again.

Finn told the Salmon of Knowledge his stories.

In the whole of that year, Finn talked of nothing more complex than caterpillars that turned to butterflies, injured furry animals nursed to health, storms, rainbows silent across the landscape, and secret grottos full of mushrooms and floral wonders.

Finn missed Bodhmall and Liath terribly. It helped ease his loneliness to tell the salmon stories about his childhood years, how he'd been raised and taught, and the great many tales recounted to him. Finally, when Finn had seemingly spilled out the whole of his life to The Five Mystic Fish at last, hesitantly, he even told them of the murder of his father by the Clan of Morna and how one day he hoped to avenge him.

In his year with Fingal, Finn had not forgotten what awaited him in the peopled world—in fact, time had only redoubled his unease. Most of Finn's days were spent in fierce training at feats of arms, conditioning, and strengthening his body. He drove himself mercilessly, attacking his tasks with unchecked ferocity. In his mind, the targets against which he threw himself were the very murderers of his father he would one day have to face in flesh and blood.

He was a fugitive, hunted and utterly alone.

Once, mid-training, Finn looked up to discover the hermit studying him from the forest's depths. Their eyes met even as they had that day when the boy first saw all of the druid's failed fish traps. Again they said nothing to each other, but Finn knew from the look in the old man's eyes that if he did speak, he would have had much to say. Instead, they kept silent, respecting the other's dark secrets.

For their part, the Salmon never wavered or gave any sign they understood him. They waited and watched.

Finn visited at the same time every day and only stayed one hour. Aware of the boy's ritual, he hoped Fingal would pay his visits to the Salmon at other times when the youth was not around –although, to the best of Finn's knowledge, the hermit rarely went near the place–. Each day was a repeat of the previous. In some mysterious way, the fish always knew of the boy's approach. Even as he drew near the pool, they had already begun to arise from the depths, just as they had that first day; five brilliant orbs of radiance, enthralling and eerily still.

After greeting the fish, Finn sat on his favorite stone on the bank. After that, unafraid, the Salmon would approach within arm's reach. Finn would immediately begin to talk, rambling and chattering with unchecked boyish abandon for the whole hour. Finally, when his self-appointed time ended, he arose and bid them farewell. "Tomorrow," he'd promise and then pass on his way. In all of that year, he had never come upon the druid, nor was his sacred solitude with the Salmon disturbed.

Until today.

Rounding the final bend of the forest path, eager to see his friends, Finn instead came upon the lone figure of Fingal huddled dejectedly on the banks of the pool.

Finn's first reaction upon seeing the hermit was a flush of hot anger.

How could he?

This was Finn's last day.

It wasn't fair!

For an instant, Finn wondered whether he might not explode into a fit, but then, curiously, something checked him. Perhaps the bent and huddled posture of the hermit or the seeming weighty manner in which his head hung low to his chest made Finn hesitate. The druid had yet to notice Finn. Stepping cautiously closer, the youth caught sight of the side of the druid's face. Never could Finn have imagined a more downcast and abject human being.

"Fingal..." he broke the silence, barely realizing he'd done so. "Fingal, what is it? What's wrong?"

The druid seemed to stir as if from a dream. He looked up at the boy as if at a total stranger, not seeming to know who he was. "Fingal, speak to me!" the youth demanded, moving to his side and touching his shoulder.

This seemed to penetrate the old man's daze. "Ah, Deimne..." he whispered.

Finn knelt at his side. "What is it, Fingal?"

"The Salmon..." he breathed quietly, "the salmon..."

For a moment, Finn panicked; whirled about. Had something happened to the Five? Could they have been hurt in some way? But no, even now, the fish were surfacing from the pool's depths, and each was whole and sound. Bewildered, Finn looked back at Fingal. The rise of the Salmon seemed to have stirred him for a moment, even perplexing him. But only for an instant. He slumped even deeper into his misery.

"Fingal! What is it? What about the Salmon?"

"It is finished, Deimne..." he muttered. "It is over. Their light, their light grows brighter..."

"What do you mean finished? What about their light? What li---"

Finn turned upon the pool again. He realized that the glow of the Salmon's scales had greatly intensified since yesterday. Finn nearly had to shield his eyes against the brightness. Spinning on Fingal, he grasped the old man and turned him about. "Fingal!" he pleaded, "What about their light? What does it mean?"

It seemed to take an interminably long time for the druid to speak finally. When he did so, he pursed his lips as if the words were sour in passing through them. "It means..." he said, "the Salmon are leaving, Deimne. Their time is up."

"Lea--v--?" Finn stumbled.

"That's right, lad." the druid replied angrily, "Someone comes. That is the meaning of their brightness. They glow for the one who approaches, one who will catch and eat one of them. And then... the others...the others will depart. It's over, Deimne. Do you understand? Even now, there is one who comes..."

"No..." Finn heard himself moan, Fingal's words cracking like brittle ice in the depths of his mind. "That can't be...How do you...? Are you...Are you sure, Fingal?"

But the druid did not need to answer. Finn could see from the look in his eyes that what he said he knew to be true. As if the weight of his body snapped his very bones within him, Finn slumped in a clatter beside the druid, as abject a picture as the very one he'd found.