In the ‘Fionn mac Cumhaill Series’ of books, there’s little love lost between the woman warrior Liath Luachra and Muirne Muncháem, mother of Fionn mac Cumhaill. This little scene from FIONN: The Adversary demonstrates how they have to work to get along to survive the hazards of the Great Wild.
On the southern bank of the river, the warrior Liath Luachra sat contemplating her reflection. The still pool, located to the side of a slow-flowing inlet, mirrored her haggard expression with unsettling accuracy. Her face was gaunt, her eyes framed by black rings, the high cheekbones sharpened by the shaded hollows beneath. The physical evidence from the toll of days of hard running and combat was impossible to ignore. Of more concern however was the worrying sense her internal resilience had also diminished, withered not only by the gruelling journey but the loss of Bodhmhall and Demne.
Her eyes turned to regard the coursing river with a mixture of bitterness and trepidation. A fast-flowing stretch of surging white water, just the sight of it was still enough to make her shiver. Less than a day earlier, she’d barely managed to crawl from its liquid grasp, half-drowned and at the limit of her endurance. Stretched exhausted on the sandy bank, she’d wanted nothing more than to lie there and sleep. Instead, she’d somehow forced herself to her feet and stumbled downriver, combing the bank for Bodhmhall and her nephew.
Several hundred paces later, numb with fatigue, she’d crawled into a cluster of fern inside the treeline, curled into a damp ball and promptly passed out. Later that afternoon, when she’d come to her senses, she felt stiff and cold and far from recovered. Staring up at patches of sky through the breaks in the forest canopy, she could tell from the grey quality of the light that nightfall was closing in. Despite feeling every bruise, every individual cut, scratch and strained muscle, she’d pushed herself off the ground and started searching again.
By the time dusk seeped in, she’d still found no sign of Bodhmhall or Demne although she did locate Muirne Muncháem and Gleor Red Hand. The Lamraighe couple had washed up together on a short mud flat over a thousand paces downriver from where she’d collapsed. Despite the gentle incline up to more solid ground however, they hadn’t progressed beyond the water’s edge.
Gleor, unconscious, had an ashen pallor that matched the hue of his greying beard. The Lamraighe leader’s face bore numerous cuts and bruises and she could see washed out bloodstains on his tunic, although she was unable to tell if they were his.
Muirne – the Flower of Almhu – normally a woman obsessed with her appearance, was sitting dismally in the mud beside him, caked in sludge and filth. Marks in the surface of the mud bank revealed how her attempts to shift her husband towards the bank had been stymied by the stocky weight of his body.
The two women had stared bleakly at one other for several heartbeats, their expressions lacking any warmth. Without a word, the Grey One had abruptly turned her gaze away and started off downriver. Muirne’s despairing pleas had trailed her until, finally, she’d halted and turned sharply to retrace her steps.
Cursing under her breath, she’d helped the Flower of Almhu drag the insensible Gleor up onto the bank and into a small clearing several paces inside the trees. Using her sword – miraculously, still in its scabbard – Liath Luachra had cut some saplings and constructed a rough lean-to in which they’d placed the comatose old man.
Not a single word was exchanged over the entire period the two women worked together. Holding the Lamraighe couple responsible for their predicament, Liath Luachra bore no love for either of them and knew the feeling was mutual. Despite this, when the shelter was complete, she’d crawled inside to sleep beside them, too tired to question why she’d returned to help them.
Too tired to do anything but sleep.
