Chapter the second

It was a quiet throng that watched as the young man rose. He wiped the blood from his mouth, ignoring the flow from the side of his head down his face and neck. The English crew had since fled the scene, hoping to avoid the fate of the black and tans. An older man in the crowd muttered, "You oughtn't to have done that. They'll be on us for sure."

The crowd murmured assent, it wasn't a pleasant thing to be on the wrong side of the black and tans. Their wrath was well know in this part of Belfast. The young man spat out blood and a piece of a tooth, "Do you not see it? We have them."

He was answered with silence, no one saw how they had the advantage over anyone. It had been far too long that the people here were driven into the ground under English boots. The province of Northern Ireland was only free in name, in all ways that mattered it was a protectorate of the Crown, with a governor appointed by the House of Lords. The plight of the Irish people here was a dire one indeed, they were the lowest class of citizens. They couldn't vote, demonstrate or bear arms. All that people in Belfast did from the day they were born was live so as to be invisible to the police and the state. When men felt brave they gathered around fireplaces in dark houses to tell the stories of old, of times when giants roamed the earth and kept Ireland free and safe. This was the reason there was no answer, every soul present felt what he meant, but none dared to consciously acknowledge it.

The young man spat again, "We have finally got the bastards right where we want them! Can't you see how this all plays out?" Again there was silence.

"Dammit all, am I the only one present who can look ahead and see what's about to happen? There is instability in the government, pressure is being applied from outside to force them to treat us better, and we have proven tonight that we have the ability to stand up for ourselves."

The young man's voice rose with passion and his brogue rolled off of his tongue into the darkest twilight of the streets. He spoke of the ancient ones, the warriors that had owned this land. He repeated over and over that this was the time for action. The crowd was beginning to grow visibly supportive when the same old man who had condemned him earlier asked, "What's your name, lad?"

The young man looked at him, "Don't you know me?"

The old man responded, "I don't know you. Where are you from?"

With a smile the young man stated, "If you knew me, you would know from whence I come," the young man popped a thumb in his mouth, then continued, "Michael Dunhill from Carrickfergus."

The old man raised an eyebrow, "That's a good parlor trick."

The young man placed his thumb in his mouth again, then went down the front row of the crowd, calling each by name and birthplace. County Down, County Antrim, County Armagh and County Londonderry. With each name he reeled off another man in the line began to nod his head. With each name the thumb went back in his mouth, only to be removed again for recitation of the next.

When he had finished he turned back to the old man and asked, "Have you seen enough? Or ought I to do the next row as well?"

The old man nodded, "That'll do, it's plain that your thumb does a lot of telling. But your tongue hasn't told us your name yet."

Another voice in the crowd piped up, "Isn't it plain? Only one man ever could know that much just by sucking his thumb. He's the great Finn McCuil!"

Instead of a cheer, a silence dropped on the crowd. All eyes were focused on the young man in front of them. Old Michael Dunhill's voice quivered as he asked, "How old are you, lad."

The young man smiled, "Would you believe me if I told you?"

Another murmur ran through the crowd. Surely this must be he, who else could fight like him, he's not tall enough, he fights well enough, he sounds like he's older than he looks, the thumb, the thumb, the thumb. What other hero in history has had such a definitive trait?

"We have to go," the young man said, "They'll be back on us soon enough, we need to find a place to lay quiet for a time. Then we'll come back out and teach them who's island they're on."

A cheer rose up from the crowd. How could they not? The legendary hero had returned to free them from the English. It was all the young man could do to calm them. He selected from their midst six men, all of whom had fought fiercely inside the pub. And so they went, the fate of a nation resting on the shoulders of seven men.