At Swim-two-birds Read Free Page B

Finn.
    Surely it is Gearr mac Aonchearda, said Conán, the middle man of the three brothers from Cruach Conite, Gar MacEncarty O’Hussey from Phillipstown.
    I cannot make it, said Finn.
    Recount then for the love of God, said Conán, the Tale of the Enchanted Fort of the Sally Tree or give shanachy’s tidings of the Little Brawl at Allen.
    They go above me and around and through me, said Finn. It is true that I cannot make them.
    Oh then, said Conán, the story of the Churl in the Puce Greatcoat.
    Evil story for telling, that, said Finn, and though itself I can make it, it is surely true that I will not recount it. It is a crooked and dishonourable story that tells how Finn spoke honey-words and peace-words to a stranger who came seeking the high-rule and the high-rent of this kingdom and saying that he would play the sorrow of death and small-life on the lot of us in one single day if his wish was not given. Surely I have never heard (nor have I seen) a man come with high-deed the like of that to Erin that there was not found for him a man of his own equality. Who has heardhoney-talk from Finn before strangers, Finn that Is wind-quick, Finn that is a better man than God? Or who has seen the like of Finn or seen the living semblance of him standing in the world, Finn that could best God at ball-throw or wrestling or pig-trailing or at the honeyed discourse of sweet Irish with jewels and gold for bards, or at the listening of distant harpers in a black hole at evening? Or where is the living human man who could beat Finn at the making of generous cheese, at the spearing of ganders, at the magic of thumb-suck, at the shaving of hog-hair, or at the unleashing of long hounds from a golden thong in the full chase, sweet-fingered corn-yellow Finn, Finn that could carry an armed host from Almha to Slieve Luachra in the craw of his gut-hung knickers.
    Good for telling, said Conán.
    Who is it? said Finn.
    It is I, said Conán.
    I believe it for truth, said Finn.
    Relate further then.
    I am an Ulsterman, a Connachtman, a Greek, said Finn,
I am Cuchulainn, I am Patrick
I am Carbery-Cathead, I am Goll.
I am my own father and my son.
I am every hero from the crack of time.
Melodious is your voice, said Conán.
    Small wonder, said Finn, that Finn is without honour In the breast of a sea-blue book, Finn that is twisted and trampled and tortured for the weaving of a story-teller’s book-web. Who but a book-poet would dishonour the God-big Finn for the sake of a gap-worded story? Who could have the saint Ceallach carried off by his four acolytes and he feeble and thin from his Lent-fast, laid in the timbers of an old boat, hidden for a night in a hollow oak tree and slaughtered without mercy in the morning, his shrivelled body to be torn by a wolf and a scaldcrow and the Kite of Cluain-Eo? Who could think to turn the children of a king into white swans with the loss of their own bodies, to be swimming the two seas of Erin in snow and ice-cold rain without bards or chessboards, without their own tongues for discoursing melodious Irish, changing the fat white legs of a maiden into plumes and troubling herbody with shameful eggs? Who could put a terrible madness on the head of Sweeney for the slaughter of a single Lent-gaunt cleric; to make him live in tree-tops and roost in the middle of a yew, not a wattle to the shielding of his mad head in the middle of the wet winter, perished to the marrow without company of women or strains of harp-pluck, with no feeding but stag-food and the green branches? Who but a story-teller? Indeed, it is true that there has been ill-usage to the men of Erin from the book-poets of the world and dishonour to Finn, with no knowing the nearness of disgrace or the sorrow of death, or the hour when they may swim for swans or trot for ponies or bell for stags or croak for frogs or fester for the wounds on a man’s back.
    True for telling, said Conán.
    Conclusion of the