The Green Hero (18 page)

“I can tell you where he is,” gasped the Fish-hag.

“Oh, I know where he is. And I know what you must do to escape being very thoroughly chewed and eaten.” He sank his claws deeper into her hide, and shook her gently, and murmured, “Do you know?”

“Yes … yes …,” said the Hag. “At least I can guess. Please don’t eat me. I’ll do anything … anything …”

“Well, you must do exactly as I say, and not try any of your tricks.” And he bit off her tail to show he meant business. She screamed and struggled but he held her in his claws: “Be quiet,” he said. “Or I’ll lose my patience entirely, and gobble you up in a one-two-three. … And wait here and do the same for your friend, the gray rat, when he shows up. You can hold a touching reunion in my stomach.”

“No … no …,” moaned the Hag. “Don’t eat me, please don’t—just tell me what you want me to do. Above all, don’t kill him, the darling.”

“I want you to undo the spell whereby you made Finn and Hanratty swap bodies. I want them both restored to their own forms, and I want that to happen in the next three minutes.”

“It will, it will, I swear. Just lift your paw a bit, that’s a sweet dear puss. I’m suffocating.”

Back on the beach of that northern county of Eire called Ulster, Finn, still lodged in Hanratty’s body, had just eaten a meal of mutto—for the hawk had caught him a sheep. The meat lay heavily upon his stomach, and his mouth felt greasy. He was weary, weary, weary of inhabiting Hanratty’s flesh. Now that he knew who he was again he longed for his own lithe form.

Then, suddenly, he found himself changing. He was standing on the shore. Small waves were hissing in the moonlight. He felt himself growing lighter, lighter. The terrible heavy bestial stupor lifted from his brain too, and from his heart. The gnawing hunger was gone from his belly—in fact, his huge belly had gone.

He laughed with joy. He was himself again. Finn McCool. With a glad shout he dashed into the ocean and clove the ice-cold waves, welcoming the icy shock, feeling himself being scrubbed of lardy Hanrattiness—feeling all the filth and sweat of his brutish greed washing away. He came out of the water and danced on the beach. The hawk circled low and flapped her wings in time to Finn’s singing. A thicker shadow fledged out of the blackness and joined them—the tomcat. He stood on his hind legs and danced in the moonlight too.

“Welcome home!” screamed the hawk. “You did a noble job.”

“She kept her promise, the Hag,” said the cat. “But it took a wee bit of persuasion.”

“Thank you, cat! Thank you, hawk,” cried Finn.

Suddenly fatigue hit him. He fell dead asleep right there on the beach. The hawk folded her wings and slept. The cat curled up close to Finn and slept.

In the morning Finn swam again, and studied himself in a trapped bit of high tide that made a pool.

“Oh, my,” he said. “Hanratty had the loan of my body only a few months but he’s left it in terrible shape. I’m in no condition at all to fight Goll. Yet fight him I must. It’s time and high time. I must go into training immediately. Where
is
Hanratty, by the way?”

“Somewhere near,” said the hawk. “Prowling the beach, looking for food. Selling his daughter. When he resumed his body he took on its hungers. Famine is in him—even more pitiless now.”

“Well, I guess I’d better settle with him first. I’ve formed a violent dislike for the fellow. I’ll settle with his daughter too, the lovely one. Perhaps, if I serve her well, I may finish off the father too.”

Whistling happily, he went looking for the princess. A bit later Hanratty’s daughter found herself speaking to a strange young man. She was puzzled by his eyes. She couldn’t tell if they were blue or gray; they kept changing.

“How can I pay for you?” said the young man who was Finn. “You are beyond price.”

“Thank you. But a price will fetch me just the same.”

“I have no money, my dear.”

“But you look rich.”

“Just habit. Means nothing. I have no money, and never mean to make any. Nor should I expect anyone to give me any. Because I do nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Oh, well, I have done certain things. I have fought an enemy or two, broken a horse, killed a boar, made a song. … But I cannot return to these things except as a pastime. For I have sworn an oath never to make money out of what I enjoy. So I shall never be able to afford you, and must bid you farewell.”

“Seems a pity,” she said.

“A great pity. In fact, I don’t quite know how I’m going to bear the pity of it because the more I look at you the more beautiful you are, and the harder it is for me to say farewell. Nevertheless, I have no more money now than when I began that sentence. All I can suggest is that you offer yourself to me free, then I’m sure we could come to some arrangement.”

“I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“I need the money.”

“What for? Why do you need it more than I do? Can either of us buy anything more than we are offering each other?”

“I need it for my father, that man over there.”

“He allows you to sell yourself?”

“He encourages it.”

“Beautiful daughter like you—I don’t see how he can bear to part with you for love or money. Is he really your father?”

“Yes.”

“What a wild desperate look he has, to be sure. I have no money to give him, but I have promises. I think he should believe them. Desperation feeds on promises.”

“They’ll never feed him. He needs more solid fare than that.”

“Well—no harm in trying.”

Finn strolled over to Hanratty, and said:

“Good day, sir. Your charming daughter and I have been trying to strike a bargain. I would gladly give all I have for her—which would be easy because I have nothing.”

“I don’t do business with paupers,” growled Hanratty. “Get out!”

“Ah, you won’t want to be sending me away before hearing what I have to say. For I do have prospects, you know. My parents are very rich, and both are on the point of death. Tomorrow should see them safely—I mean unfortunately—on their funeral pyres. Let me have the girl tonight, and tomorrow you shall have your money. Plus a bonus for prompt delivery.”

Hanratty stared at the young man. Then he called his daughter aside and spoke to her in whispers—insofar as he could squeeze his great raw voice into a whisper. He told her what Finn had said.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know, Father.”

“Would you believe him, if you were I?”

“If I were you, I should not have to believe him. I should not be selling my daughter.”

“Never mind that. Don’t start that now. Do you think he’ll come up with the money?”

“I know nothing about him.”

“He promises a big extra fee if I trust him.”

“No doubt.”

“You don’t think he’s to be trusted?”

“What do we have to risk, after all? Under the circumstances your merchandise remains intact. I shall return to you whether he pays or not.”

“Yes—but we may waste a whole day. And food is getting very low. I can’t waste a day. If you don’t trust him we’ll find another buyer.”

“Perhaps I’d better go with him. It’s the only way to find out. If he seems unable to pay, or unwilling, why then I will change my shape straightaway, and come home to you. And only a few hours will be lost. It’s worth the risk.”

“I suppose so. All right, young fellow!” Hanratty shouted. “She’s yours. But I expect to see the color of your gold tomorrow or you’ll wish we had never met. I am no man to fool with.”

“Indeed not, sir. By tomorrow you shall have all that’s coming to you.”

Finn took her to a hut in the hills. She looked around swiftly, seeing what windows there were, how big the chimney was—for the exits determined the shape of her transformations. But her appraisal was not cool this time. He was standing too close. Moving very swiftly and softly he took her into his arms. She immediately turned herself into a cat, a large white one. But she was still in his arms. Calmly he sat down on the bench in front of the fire and held her on his lap—too tightly for escape, not enough for pain—held her, and tickled her under the chin, and stroked her fur the right way from nose to tail, muttering softly: “What a lovely little animal you are.” And to her horror, she felt her eyes closing, heard herself beginning to purr.

And even as he was stroking her, she turned herself into a porcupine. She heard him gasp with pain, felt his grip loosen, and she began to slip away.

“Pretty sharp,” he said. He flipped her over, and seized her where there were no quills. And held her, speaking softly.

“Let’s see what else you can do,” he whispered.

She turned into a crow, but he held her by the wing and admired her feathers. She turned into a snake. He held her about the middle and told her how beautiful her eyes were, how gracefully she entered a room. Through all her changes he kept holding her and would not let her go. And she realized she would have to become something that could kill him, and changed herself into a she-bear.

He bowed to her, smiling, and said: “Shall we dance?”

She grunted and took him into her fatal hug. She crushed him against her, feeling the glad bestial strength surge, wanting to break him and forage among his bloody bones; and suddenly she understood her father, understood the wild greed, and how you need to take into yourself what you desire.

She hugged Finn closer, and saw her arms growing pale. Felt all her decisions slipping away inside, all her changes dissolving. And now it was he who was crushing her. She was clinging to him—in her own form—a bearskin swinging from her wet shoulders. She looked up at him.

“Where did I get this fur coat?” she murmured.

“I gave it to you,” he said. “It belonged to a bear I killed. It looks better on you.”

“Do you think I’m beautiful?”

“Well, I think, all told, this is your best disguise.”

“Do you love me?”

“I’ve always liked variety. Have we finished our charades for this evening?”

“Yes. …”

The next morning Hanratty waited and waited, but his daughter did not come. He went to the beach. A gull dipped, and he thought it must be she—but it screamed and flew away. A fish leaped and he thought it must be she, but it didn’t come up again. All day he waited, and she did not come. He spent his last coins on food, and raged with hunger all night thinking she must surely come the next day. But she did not.

He was mad with hunger. He felt that unless he had a huge meal immediately he would seize a child off the road and eat it. He had no money left, and nothing to sell except his battle-axe. So he traded it to a farmer for a thin cow—and killed her with a blow of his fist in the next field, and ate her raw—horns, hoofs, and all. He went back to the beach. His daughter did not come.

Hanratty waded out and tried to catch a fish with his hands. He almost caught a large one, but it slipped through. He roared with disappointment and shook his fist at it. He saw the balled meaty hand moving in front of his face—and his other hand moved by itself, lashed out, caught the fist, and pulled it to his mouth as it struggled like a little animal. But he held it still, and bit off his thumb. It was tough and gristly, but he ate it with great relish, gaining strength from the food, and greed from the strength—and before he knew it he had snapped off all the fingers of one hand. Then he ate the fingers off his other hand. He looked at the bleeding stumps and thought dully: “Now I won’t be able to hold my food properly.” And, still ravenous, he ate his left arm up to the elbow.

He squatted on the beach. Hunger burned more savagely than ever. He was drunk on the smell of his own blood, but he felt an odd dazed comfort; he no longer had to seek food—it was right there for him now until the end of time. And, squatting there, grunting, slavering, he slowly devoured himself, stretching his neck until it was as long as a serpent’s and he could reach all the farthest parts of himself. He ate steadily—until all that was left was his mouth, which smiled greedily and swallowed itself.

It was dawn now. The gulls were screaming, trying to wake the fish. An old Hag with ashy hair and bloody lips stood on the beach where the king had been. She cackled once, rose into the air, and flew away through the dodging gulls.

At the hut in the hills, Hanratty’s daughter and young Finn McCool had risen early too, being very hungry, and were eating breakfast on the bench in front of the fire.

N
OW FINN SOUGHT GOLL
McMorna to challenge him for the chieftainship of the Fianna. He journeyed across Meath, harp slung. It was a blue smoky fall day. The cat stalked after through the grass; the hawk circled low. They neared Tara, castle of the High King, where Goll also dwelt, and Finn watched eagerly for the first sight of its white stone walls and its roof, striped crimson and blue. But no castle appeared. They had come to a wall of fog, but not like any fog they had known; it did not move upon the wind, nor rise, nor thin away. When they tried to pass through they did not bump into anything solid, but simply lost the power of movement until they stepped back.

“What is it?” cried Finn.

“Nothingness grown solid,” said the harp. “A clot of that which is not barring that which is. Different forms of not-ness mixed, perhaps—invisibility, silence, denial—who knows what angry gods build with. Beyond it lies Tara, or where Tara used to be.”

“You think this the work of angry gods?”

“Or playful ones. They’re equally dangerous.”

“What do we do? How do we pass?”

“Hard questions. We cannot seek their answer in ordinary places. Say a verse—quickly! Touch me and sing!”

Finn touched the harpstrings, and sang:

Harp on tree,

Hawk to sea,

Cat makes three.

“I read it like this,” said the harp. “You must hang me on a tree. The winds will come telling what they see when they blow over Meath. And you must send the falcon flying to question the fowls of air. Set the creepy cat crawling in the underbrush, seeking rats and such as live in holes and burrows, going in and out and are filthy and have information. We shall gather the news and bring it back.”

“Away with you, friends!” cried Finn. “And I shall study this puzzling wall more closely.”