The Coming of Finn

Chapter I

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.